Release Me

Yesterday was supposed to be a day of closure.

It was supposed to be the closing of one door and the opening of another.

Instead, it was a day filled with waiting, anxiousness, confusion and more delay.

The door remains ajar.

We got to court at 10:00 a.m. to meet with the State's attorney. She wanted to brief us on the questions that she would be asking us when we took the stand. Questions like, "What were the boys like when they first got placed with you?" and "What are some things you do together as a family?" and "Why do you want to adopt the boys?"

Simple questions, really.

We had been told the case was a slam dunk.

The day before, the State had brought their case against mom and dad. The judge sided with the State.

We were told on Tuesday that mom had been devastated (dad was a no-show), but had held together her emotions.

I do not think I would've been so strong.

When they called court into session at 11:30 a.m., we piled into the small court room along with two other foster parents involved in our case, mom, our caseworker and her supervisor, our kids' therapist, our kids' attorney, mom's attorney and the State attorney. All non-parties and witnesses (us) were quickly dismissed and relegated to the courtroom waiting area, as we are not privy to trial testimony outside of our own.

The first witness they called was the therapist. She was in there for an hour and came out looking battered and worn down. All she could say, and was allowed to say, really, was "It's a lot."

Then the court dismissed for lunch. After only one witness.

We went to lunch with the other foster parents, whom we've grown close to over the last 15 months. They have been raising our boys' little sisters and are in the same boat as us. It was nice to chat about things other than the case, knowing we'd have to testify later that day.

We returned from lunch and the next witness to be called was the foster agency case supervisor. She was our direct caseworker from April-September of 2014, so she had to testify about that period. Witnesses are not allowed to discuss their testimony with other witnesses, but we know that she was asked about the kids' visitation with their mom, their relationship with us, their health and well-being, mom's progress on service plans, etc. She was also in there for an hour, coming out looking exhausted. Apparently there were a lot of power plays and objections from both sides of the fence.

I wasn't nervous. I was actually anxious for my turn. To tell our story and to finally have a voice after all this time.

Only is wasn't to be.

While the supervisor was testifying, other people and attorneys began filing into the waiting area for our court room.

Immediately my heart sunk.

As it turns out, some "clerical error," (according to the judge) resulted in our courtroom and our judge being double-booked that day. Effective at 2:30 p.m., our case had to take the back burner while our judge reviewed brand new, emergency cases because State law dictates that when a child is removed from their home, the court has 24 hours to review the case and assign temporary custody, whether that be with a relative or with a foster parent or group home. For some reason, there were many of these cases yesterday and our judge got stuck hearing them all.

Our case never resumed.

At 4:30 p.m. we were pulled into the courtroom and told that our case had to be continued. We were angry and frustrated. Our court date had been scheduled since September 2014, and we had taken off work and waited 7 hours to testify! How could they do this? The unfairness was too much for this pregnant lady to handle. But then the worst news....The next open day on the calendar to hear our case was May 6th. A full 3 months away.

Another devastating blow.

My mind could not fathom how this was possible or allowable.

Our kids were removed from their parents three years ago. Three years! They deserve permanence and justice and security. And we deserve to be heard.

To say we were angry is an understatement.

There were many apologies; "It's outside of our control." "We're just as frustrated as you." "We wish this wasn't the case." Blah blah blah.

I assured them that there was no way possible that they were as frustrated as us, for these are my children. This is not my job.

We left the court defeated, frustrated, angry and sad.

On the way home I tried to get Rocky to think of some positive things in life that we could focus on, to lift our spirits and give us hope; Neither one of us really wanted to be encouraged. We were too upset.

But I had to try. I couldn't pass all these negative emotions onto the baby, and I certainly did not want to go home in a horrible mood and inadvertently take it on the boys. So I began listing things, anything really, that we could think about instead. It helped a little, but not really. Though I wasn't fuming anymore by the time we got home, I was physically, emotionally and spiritually spent. I could've gone right to bed had it not been for our sons needing help with homework and wanting to tell us about their day. And it was all Rocky could do to not scoop them up and kiss them every 5 minutes, trying to heal his broken heart.

It was a hard night.

It's still hard this morning.

I have to keep reminding myself that nothing has changed. The boys are still ours, we didn't lose the case, and we have so much to look forward to. The baby is due in 6 weeks, we're healthy, employed, insured, and the boys are happy and doing well in school. Our marriage is solid and we have tremendous support from family and friends.

We know we're blessed.

But man....I wish I understood why God didn't answer our prayers.

All night I kept asking, "Who's prayer did you answer, God? Because it wasn't ours."

It's in my sinful nature to blame God; It makes sense to me because He's the one who is really in control.

Why didn't He end this yesterday?

Why is this dragging out so long?

Why? Why? Why?

I'm trying to have hope; See the good, cling to other answered prayers.

But it's hard when the waves of defeat are so heavy, and the sound of doubt and fear so loud.

What choice do I have but to keep praying, "Please, God. Let it be finished."

Sounds Like Hallelujah

Last night we had the opportunity to participate in a community meeting regarding a local zoning change that would have negatively (in our opinion) impacted our immediate neighborhood.

I'll admit...We were fired up, but skeptical that we would be able to trust our Alderman (the city elected politician presiding over our ward) to act in the best interest of his constituents. We'd never dealt with him, and to be honest, he isn't even our Alderman. (We live on a dividing line between the wards, so we really weren't familiar with him or his politics at all.)

We showed up at 6:30 p.m. with our kids and friends in tow and were pleasantly surprised to discover about 80 other residents at the meeting who had come to voice their concerns and ask questions about the zoning change and proposed project. Suffice it to say that we were impressed with the turnout, especially given the very short notice for the meeting.

I cannot tell you how neat it was to look around that elementary school cafeteria and see so many different people, men and women and children, ranging in age from in-utero to 95! And talk about diversity! Just about every nationality was represented, as well as singles, marrieds, same-sex couples, business owners, foster parents, community leaders, etc.. I immediately felt a kinship with my neighbors that I had not experienced before. We were a community, and regardless of the outcome, we were in this together.

I'll spare you the details and skip to the ending: Not one person there spoke out in favor of the proposed change and development project. The entire community was against it and vowed to fight together if it moved forward. Elderly couples and veterans who have lived in the neighborhood for more than 50 years braced themselves on their canes and walkers to say, "No! Absolutely not! We do not want this!" Pregnant women (myself included) spoke passionately about how this development would change the face of our neighborhood and negate the very reason we chose to move there. Community activists and business owners talked about how the project would not benefit the neighborhood at all, but would instead line the pockets of the large developer who was proposing it. Concern after valid concern was voiced to claps, cheers and agreements from the rest of the audience. And at the end of the evening, the Alderman stated that he had heard us loud and clear and that he would not be approving the zoning change.

We had done it.

We had stood together and we had won.

It made me feel proud, and patriotic, and warm and fuzzy about our new community.

We got to meet our neighbors afterwards and even exchanged information with another foster family whose son, as it turns out, went to summer camp with our boys! Rocky even connected with the Alderman (who will become our Alderman in February) and invited him to one of our Sunday Suppers. All in all, the night was a huge success, and we left feeling victorious and full of love for our neighborhood and all the people in it.

But today it got me thinking....

Why don't we see this in our churches?

Don't get me wrong; I love my church and the people in it (well, most of them, most of the time), but I never feel what I felt last night when I'm at church on Sunday.

It doesn't feel like we're a team.

It doesn't feel like we're united for a cause.

It doesn't make me feel excited and passionate and connected to something bigger than myself.

Why is that?

Clearly I'm guilty of being a part of this problem. I bring my own baggage, put up my own walls, refuse to budge on things that matter to me that might not be that crucial to the big picture.

Why is it that as a culture we always join forces to fight a battle, but we never unite just to live life together?

Last night after the meeting we left excited to keep in touch with the neighbors we'd talked to, and vowed to get together when the weather warmed up, promising to "see each other soon." But the reality is, we all then went home and shut our doors and over time, the excitement and camaraderie we felt last night might wear off.

If we don't fan the flame.

I think that's what's missing from our churches, or at least what I perceive to be missing (and again, I take the blame for my own part in that.)

What happens when we don't even have an ember to stoke the passion we once felt? What happens to our hearts and souls and minds when we let that flame be snuffed out by division and sin and selfishness and self-interest and my-way-is-the-right-way? How do we turn the tide?

I don't have the answer, because for me, it's all about passion and unity.

But how do you unify when you're passionate about different things?

Why am I more passionate about causes than I am about Christ?

This is a real problem.

I need to get to work and figure out where that fire went and take it back.

I think, only then, can I inject my own little bit of passion back into the church and hope others catch on fire.

It sure would help if white churches were more diverse and animated...like my community meeting.

Just saying...

Can I get an "Amen?"

Boys Don't Cry

Baby boy is due exactly 7 weeks from tomorrow.

In 7 weeks (give or take) we will be caring for a newborn and juggling our boys in a new way of life.

It is overwhelming to think about everything I'm supposed to be doing in the next few weeks, knowing that really, he can come at any time, and ultimately, I can never prepare for this huge life change. How does anyone ever prepare to care for another human being so fragile, so vulnerable, so small that they literally depend on you for everything?

These last few days have been difficult at home. Our big boy has been acting out, which feels weird to say because it's not like he's throwing tantrums, or yelling, or destroying things, or even raising his voice or crying. He's just making bad choice after bad choice and then dropping the mic and walking offstage. We're trying to get to the bottom of it, but sometimes answers from a 7-year old are frustrating and no help at all.

How do you argue with the honesty of, "Because I wanted to?"

As parents, we want a logical response. "I did A because B made me upset." But with children, you just don't get that luxury very often. Logic and rationale are not strong qualities for young children.

I can always somewhat predict when a storm will start to brew. Usually, it's leading up to an event, or "trigger," as we call them. Even if our boy doesn't understand and connect the dots, we can assume (usually correctly) that he will exhibit some kind of meltdown either behaviorally or emotionally that causes him to check out, shut down, close off.

This time around, I think it's our upcoming court date.

A few weeks ago I sat him down and told him that we would be going to court soon, along with his mommy, and a judge would decide where he and his brother would live forever. I explained in age-appropriate terms what kinds of things the judge would look at, and questions we might be asked, and told him that no matter what, both mommies and daddies would always love him and that none of this was his fault. He asked a lot of questions and was emotionally calm and seemed to understand.

But then two weeks later, it's Bad Choice Boulevard.

No warning, no explanation, no remorse or regret.

Just matter-of-fact I-did-it-because-I-wanted-to.

When you're the adult in this situation, you want to say, "No, you did it because you're angry and you don't think it's ok to feel your feelings and you feel guilty about being mad at your parents so instead, you act our your anger and solidify the lie that you believe about yourself being the cause of all of this."

But that won't do.

And he would never admit it anyway.

And then some days, like yesterday, his words will start flowing like a fountain of life and I avoid eye contact, and only feign half interest because I'm afraid if I act like I'm listening too hard that he will stop talking. And I don't want that.

So I preoccupy myself, and nod, and "uh huh," and "oh really?" and let him talk, and talk, and talk, until he's ready to say how he really feels.

And that's when he says it.

"I want to stay here."

And it's too good to be true, and even though he doesn't have a say and he may just be saying what he thinks I want to hear, it's enough to make my heart break and swell at the same time.

What does it take for a 7-year old to say he'd rather live with surrogate parents that his own flesh and blood?

It's too much to think about, really.

But in that moment, in that 15-minute span of lucidity and wisdom beyond his years, he recognized where he feels safe and where he knows he's loved and where is community and future lie, and he spoke the words aloud like a prayer.

And I lifted his words up to the heavens and prayed, God, let it be so.

A Kiss to Build a Dream On

This morning while riding the train I got quite nostalgic thinking about Rocky and I's courtship, how long ago it seems and yet how my heart feels like it was yesterday that we shared our first kiss. It's odd, but every time this baby moves I think about how he was only made possible because his daddy asked me out on a date. (A date I almost didn't go on, but nevermind that...)

I am so grateful for the life God has given me.

Today I am 32 weeks pregnant with baby boy. For 32 weeks I have worried, prayed, laughed, sang, smiled and of course, rubbed my belly. I am so in love with being pregnant and even more in love with this baby in my belly. Of course I miss having a waist and being able to pivot (PIVOT!). Sure getting out of bed is harder and it's becoming impossible to tie my shoes. I've gone up a few bra sizes (bras aren't cheap!) and have become clumsy and forgetful, and yeah, severe heartburn and extreme pregnancy hormones are a thing.

But man...

Being pregnant is awesome.

I know I've said a million times that I didn't ever think it was something I would get to do, and so for that alone I am so thankful. But even outside of that, even if I took reproduction for granted (which I do not), the experience of growing a baby is just so neat. I love it so much that I allow it to break my heart for all the millions of women who might never get to do this. I remember being in that camp...and I still grieve for them. I still pray for them. I know God works miracles...I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with them hoping the miracle will be theirs.

But back to that kiss.

That first date led to many more dates and about a month later, to our first kiss.

And boy was it a doozy! (Just imagine me fanning myself and blushing.)

He was all I wanted in a man PLUS a good kisser? Was I in for it, or what?

That kiss was the beginning of so many dreams, for me and for us as a couple. Dreams about marriage, and ministry and family. About hopes too precious to say out loud, and fears that went deeper than I ever knew. That kiss both awakened me, and slayed me, because I knew I was done for. That was it. Ruined.

He had my heart.

This man, who I had so wrongly thought for so long was a non-committal goofball, had captured me and planted in me dreams that I never let myself dream before. And God has allowed so many of those dreams to come true through my marriage to Rocky. A wonderful marriage built on love, respect and teamwork, an active ministry at church and with our children through foster care, and now a baby on the way.

Blessed does not begin to cover it.

As I count down to baby's due date, I am overwhelmed with pride and love that his daddy will love him fiercely, protect and provide for him, and shepherd him to love Jesus, just like he already does for our boys. Just like he does for me.

And for that, well, as if I didn't already love him beyond words, I will love him even more.

Thank you for all the dreams your love has allowed me to dream. I love you. -N.

Push

Being a parent involves saying so. many. words.

Sometimes I wonder why God made introverts at all. It seems like the whole world is full of talkers, noise-makers, sound-causers.

It's enough to fry my senses.

And then I wonder even further, why did God make introvert mothers?

Last night, while watching the Golden Globes, a girlfriend referred to Fifty Shades of Grey as "mommy porn."

I had to disagree.

"Mommy porn" to me is a silent room where no one is calling out, "Mommy?" every 5 seconds.

Parents coach their babies and hope that their first words will be "mommy" or "mama" or "dada," and when that word finally escapes your child's lips it feels like overwhelming joy. Like the Grinch must have felt when his heart grew 3 sizes. It's the best feeling, and the novelty of it lasts a while, I'll admit.

But then.

"Mommy" can start to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Please don't misunderstand; I love my kids and I love being their mom.

But the constant "mommy" calling, never-ending stream of random questions, and non-stop chatter can be overwhelming for this loves-her-quiet-and-her-personal-space mama.

Yes, laugh now.

We all know I"m growing a tiny human who will shred every last bit of quiet in this house to smithereens.

And personal space? Ha! I may as well say adios to that now.

I guess I'm just trying to wrap my head around more noise, more mess, more imperfect, more of my sin coming to the surface.

Kids need.

Kids need a lot.

Kids need a lot all the time.

This is why so many say that becoming a parent has been the greatest sanctification process of their lives. It really does take all of you, and it will not satisfied with a mediocre offering.

The thing is, even knowing this, even feeling how I feel some days (exhausted, overwhelmed, frustrated, anxious, over-stimulated), I would still do it all over again.

That crazy, biological, innate, inexplainable love you have for your child conquers all the things that bug the hell out of you. The "Mommy?s,"the pee on the toilet seat, the mountain of laundry (of clothes that aren't even dirty but got thrown in the hamper due to laziness), the everyday spills of beverages and meals, the destruction of my once-nice things, the constant talking-sounds-noises coming from my children...I can keep going, but you get the point...I would still do it again. (I would still find all these things annoying, too).

I know that I am both called and privileged to be a mother. I know the lives He has entrusted me with are precious. I know that He has equipped me to do this job, even when I get the urge to run and hide in my room or cry because why won't they stop talking to me? I know I'm not a cookie-cutter, pinteresty mom packing bento boxes for my kids' lunches and coordinating celebrity-level birthday parties for all their friends; I'll never be that mom. I don't even have the energy to consider trying to be that mom. I certainly don't have all the words it would take.

But I am an advocate. And a defender. And a loud voice where there are too many hushed whispers.

And that's who my kids need me to be.

Sure, we still snuggle on the couch and sip hot chocolate and read story books and have tickle fights; we do all those things that mamas and sons do. And they need that, too. And I'll be that for them, too.

But sometimes, this mommy likes to remember when she wasn't one; When she and her husband would steal off to San Diego on a whim and stay in a hotel on the beach, or drive up the central coast of California and go wine tasting, or jet off on a plane to some new destination...That, my friends, is mommy porn.

And when I've had my fill of reminiscing about life B.C. (before children), I take a deep breath, pick up the laundry basket, grab a roll of toilet paper under my arm, and get back to work.

C'est la vie.

Unwritten

It's 2015.

What a weird number.

Even living in it, it seems like some sci-fi futuristic year where a machine should make my meals and a robot maid should clean my house.

And yet, life is the same as usual.

Looking back over 2014 (because isn't that what you're supposed to do at the beginning of a new year?), I feel exhausted!

Rest was not a big theme in our lives last year. We bought a house and started renovating it, began hosting more get-togethers, dinners and out-of-town guests, became landlords to two sets of tenant-friends, grew a baby, saw both kids enter school full-time, refinanced said house, and nursed about 1,000 (it seems) colds, fevers and allergy attacks.

And that's not even counting all the foster care-related stuff.

2014 was full blessing, but also full of busy.

This busyness culminated in our entire household getting sick the week of Christmas; colds that Rocky and I are still trying to kick. It was an interesting way to cap off the year...

Meanwhile, my floors need to be cleaned, the stairs haven't been vacuumed or swept in months (what's the point when there's constant drywall dust from ongoing construction?), my refrigerator and pantry are disgusting, our bathrooms are consistently covered with filth from dirty little hands and toothpaste explosions, and every room in the house has doubled as storage since we are in the full-blown stages of nesting renovations.

Today a friend asked me, "How are you keeping your sanity?"

Honestly, I'm just too tired and maybe even too lazy to lose my sanity.

The thing is, I have an awesome husband who is both my friend and my partner. I don't need to stress or nag about the things he's working on because I know he's working on them. And bonus, he's working on them for me. I don't need to get anxious about everything coming together on time or about the house not being as clean as it was pre-kids because - NEWSFLASH - it's never going to be that way again.

Sure, I can be annoyed by the fact that sweeping has become obsolete because my formerly-fabulous banana leaf dining room chairs have become so destroyed by my kids that they consistently shed fibers like they've been attacked by a wild animal. And I can get frustrated by the (seeming) fact that no one picks up after themselves in common areas, leaving me to perform a room sweep before I go to bed every night. And yes, I can fume about the fact that my kids have broken more clothes hangers and non-toy items playing with them as if they were toys that I can even count...but what's the point?

Having kids has taught me a lot about the things I value.

I wish I could say with some wisdom and humility that they've opened my eyes and made me a more patient, loving, live-in-the-moment person, but sadly, that's not where I'm going.

I still really want the clean house, and functional furniture, and not to step in toothpaste when I get up to pee in the middle of the night.

I want to sleep in (if the baby will let me), and drink coffee in bed on the weekends and go on a spontaneous date with my husband without having to entertain, or make plans for someone else to entertain, my children.

I'm selfish. I admit it.

Having kids just makes selfishness more obvious.

I don't want to be selfish, mind you.

But it's a reality.

And I know I'm in for a rude awakening once baby boy arrives and I literally have to move myself from the back burner to that nasty, greasy crevice between the back of the oven and the kitchen wall. I know that I have seen nothing yet when it comes to dying to self, humility, exhaustion, desperation.

Truthfully, I'm kind of scerred.

You should pray for me, because I know that pretty soon I will be stepping in worse things than toothpaste.

Still, new years hold so much promise, don't they?

The blank slate, the unwritten pages, the anything-is-possible air.

Who knew that in 2014 we would conceive our miracle baby?

Who knew that in 2014 we would see the tide shifting for our boys towards permanency with our family?

Who knew that in 2014 we would witness miracles in our families? Healings, reconciliations, redemption stories?

2015 will hold all of those things, too, and maybe more.

Maybe Rocky will get a new job that he loves.

Maybe we will adopt our boys.

Maybe one of our siblings will get engaged or married.

Maybe someone in our family will come to Christ.

Maybe there will be an unexpected death, or loss, or tragedy that shakes our faith to the core.

Maybe 2015 will be challenging and not nearly as positive as 2014.

But isn't that life? We just don't know what's coming next.

Which is why, all this to say, that I need to learn how to better live in the moment. To be open to anything.

Every year, bloggers in the blogosphere (that's a thing) choose a word (kind of like a resolution) that they hope will embody the year. I never participate (1) Because I'm not a "blogger," and (2) Aforementioned laziness.

This year, though, with so much changing in our lives, I feel compelled to choose a word. To have a word, like a mantra, to fall back on when I start to get anxious, or nervous, or stressed.

The word I've chosen is OPEN.

I want to be open this year. Open to new friendships, to a different lifestyle, to my family's ever-changing needs, to this city's people, to the God I serve.

I want to live freely and peacefully in a state of openness that will lead to a healthier me, for both myself and my family.

I want to believe that His yoke is easy, and His burden light, and that I don't have to carry around all this should've, would've, could've that most moms live with everyday.

I want to enjoy the people God has placed in my life without conditions and expectations.

I want to be content in every circumstance.

I'm going to start this year being open to everything and up for anything.*

Join me?

*Except skydiving and sushi, Rocky Stone.

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.