Amazing Grace (How Sweet the Sound)

I didn't want little boys.

When we were filling out all the paperwork to become foster parents I knew I didn't want little boys.

I wanted siblings, sure. I envisioned a boy and a girl, probably because I grew up with a little brother. It's not the gender that I was opposed to, specifically. It was the "little." I wanted older, hard-to-place kids. Kids that weren't "cute" anymore, who maybe were misunderstood or hard to reach. (What I really wanted was a baby, but I knew we were not equipped for that yet and I was determined to try for one on my own). I knew myself. I wanted babies or older kids. No in-betweeners.

When we got that call that Monday morning from our foster agency and the voice on the other end of the phone said, "We have four siblings; two little girls and two little boys. Can you take either pair?" all I could feel was adrenaline, and sadness for these kids, but mostly adrenaline. It was happening. They had called us. These kids needed a home. But how should we decide between the boys or the girls?

Age.

We chose the older kids. The boys.

They were older by a small margin that made becoming instant parents to two kids seem more manageable.

They were still little and we were ill-prepared to care for them.

But we moved, and breathed, and slept little those first few days and weeks. We found a jagged rhythm that mostly worked. There was one step forward and two steps back. Some days there were leaps back. Days where Rocky and I would look at each other with sheer exhaustion, and sometimes even regret.

They were so little. So traumatized. They needed so much. And we were spent.

And sometimes they hated us, and sometimes, we didn't like them very much either.

And it's taken me almost two years to admit that.

To admit that to myself, and to others. Maybe even to God.

You know what has finally allowed me to say that?

Having Owen.

Having Owen has made me realize that it's completely normal to sometimes not like your children (and it's not because I've felt that way with Owen...yet). I wasn't sure, initially, if I had so much trouble with feeling the way I did because it was accompanied by guilt (They were foster kids, after all. How could I judge them for acting out and saying hurtful things?) or because it just didn't seem likely that a mother could love her children in one moment and then not be able to stand the sight of them in the next.

Some days with the boys felt like I was trapped in a prison that I had built for myself. How could I ask to be freed of the thing I had pursued unabashedly?

Having Owen opened my eyes, and heart, to the complexity and depth of a mother's love for her child(ren). It made it okay for me to trudge through the muddiness of my feelings for the boys. It made me realize, now 4 months postpartum, how much I really do love them.

It has been such a relief for that love to be confirmed.

It sounds silly, I know. Clearly I love them. I've always loved them on some level (it ebbs and flows and favors one over the other on any given day or moment, as most parents can attest to). But this time, now, I knew it was real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. My love for them has been proven to be real.

The love I have for Owen shined a light on the depth of my love for the boys.

Yes, it's a different kind of love.

At first, I was convinced it was different in a lesser way, a horrible way. I was ashamed and disturbed by how much I loved Owen compared to the boys. Frustrated that all the things people had warned me about ("Just wait until you have your own. You'll see that you can't/won't/don't love them the same.") was true.

I was horrified.

But then, something happened. Somewhere over the last month, as I struggled, and talked to Rocky and friends, and prayed, and watched from the sidelines, I have fallen in love with my boys all over again.

It's like what was once lost has been found.

Was it the pregnancy hormones finally leaving my system?

Was it the newness of Owen, and the overwhelming, intoxicating love I felt for him wearing off?

Was it the self-reflection and prayers offered up, confessions and pleadings to God for the feelings to go away?

Was it the unending support offered by my husband and friends, who assured me that I wasn't wrong, or evil, or crazy, or abnormal?

Was it the amazing grace given by a Holy and Blameless Creator, who brought me into the light after walking for a time through a dark valley?

My soul tells me it's all of those things.

It's truth, and forgiveness, and understanding and grace; for my kids, for myself, for our unique family dynamic.

Some days it's still really hard to parent little kids. Some days it's excruciation to be a foster parent, a stand-in who is unappreciated and resented. Some days the lack of progress after nearly two years seems overwhelming and I want to throw my hands up in the air and give up. Some days, I don't like my kids.

But when I lay my head down at night, and I think about God and I think about our day and regret the kind of parent I was (or wasn't), I pray for more.

More time.

More patience.

More grace.

More kids.

They're still so little, but they're growing up so fast. They may not be on par with their peers (just yet), and they may need to be reminded and scolded and guided and molded, but they're my kids. And I love them. And I miss them when they're gone, and I walk by their bedroom door at night and see them sleeping softly in their beds and I can't believe how big they are. So big, and yet so little.

These boys of mine....

I never did want little boys.

But God knows what we need, doesn't He?

And I am so, so thankful that He does.

Sweet Child O' Mine

(Drafted in April and somehow never published)

I always though I was good at giving gifts. Friends birthdays, Christmas, "just because" gifts.

Since moving to Chicago and being a part of our new church, I've realized that I'm not that great at giving gifts. It's not my strong point. Not the way I show love to others. Which makes it hard when it seems like everyone is constantly showering me with gifts. Baby clothes and toys, pampering stuff for new moms, unlimited time and help and support as our family transitioned from 4 to 5. I, we, have been blessed beyond measure. Our community has taken care of us, their own. We have wanted for nothing.

And life has been good. Full. Whole. Entirely consuming.

Many things have kept me away from writing here. Exhaustion. Lack of time. Wanting to snuggle my newborn instead of hanging out online. But I think the thing that's prevented me from writing more than anything is the lack of words. The writer's block. How on earth do I put down in writing what my heart and soul cannot even grasp? The gift we have been given from the greatest Giver of all.

Our boy, Owen Samuel Stone, came quietly into the world on his due date, March 17, 2015, at 4:48 p.m. and we all instantly fell head-over-heels in love. He was (is) absolutely perfect in every way. Strong, healthy, impossibly gorgeous. Our baby was finally here!

I have struggled to process my overwhelming, all-consuming love for this child. The way his body curls up into a ball in my chest after he's nursed. The way he breathes softly and warmly on my neck when I hold him and pat his back. The way he smiles and laughs in his sleep. The way he is comforted out of tears by my voice, or my scent, or my touch. I am daily in awe, and tears, at this beautiful boy.

How do you put into words the way you feel about the greatest gift you've ever received?

How do you write a blog post about the deepest love you've ever felt?

There just aren't words.

So I will simply say that we are so happy. We are over-the-moon, swimming in baby giggles and milk comas, oohing and ahhing at every new thing Owen does, staring at him while he sleeps as our eyes fill with tears.

We are so, so happy.

Sitting, Wishing, Waiting

Well, I'm two days away from my due date and still no sign of baby. I know labor can start at any minute, but it feels like he will never come out. I guess I have made him too comfortable a home in the safety of my belly.

I've had two glorious weeks off work to prepare for his arrival. Two weeks of nesting, naps and daydreaming about what he will look like, how he will feel in my arms, how different our lives will be once he's here. It still feels like a fantasy...

A week and a half ago I experienced symptoms that made me think he would be here early. So mom and sister hopped in the car and headed out here, making sure to not miss his birth. While I feel bad that they rushed out here with an urgency that apparently was unfounded, I've been thankful for their company, their help and just to have them here with me during this time. There's nothing like the support and camaraderie of your people.

The boys, especially our little one, has become impatient with the baby (as we all have). Everyday he talks to my belly multiple times, imploring his brother to "Come out!" He has all kinds of ideas as to why he hasn't come out yet. "Is he sleeping mom?" "Maybe he's putting he clothes on." "Is he going to stay in there forever?" "Mom, when the baby comes out I'm going to watch him play, and sleep and eat."

We are all eagerly awaiting his arrival...

As for me, my feet are unrecognizable. I can barely squeeze them into flip flops anymore and shoelaces have to be opened far and wide in order to get my foot into my tennis shoes. I've never had rolls on the tops of my feet before; it's a feeling I will be happy to not have anymore once baby arrives. I'm still doing more than maybe I should (and certainly more than Rocky wants me to do), but I can't just sit around all day. There's still laundry to be washed, meals to be made, cleaning to get done. Plus, it keeps my mind off the longing of wishing this labor thing would commence already.

Rocky has been amazing, as usual. Working around the clock at his normal 9 to 5, coming home and helping with dinner and homework, then working on the house so that things are in better condition for when baby gets here. I think these are also the way he distracts himself from the waiting game. He wants to hold his son so bad. For 10 months I've been holding him in my own way; Rocky has been ready, and is pining to hold his baby in his arms.

We all continue along, in our own ways, to kill the time between now and a new day.

I'm trying to take the advice of my mama friends. "Enjoy this time!" "Sleep! Eat! Rest! Watch TV!" "Everything is going to change; it's going to get harder. Savor these last few days." I'll admit it's hard to do. I feel ready. I've felt ready. We've wanted this for years. Plus, my body is just done. Between the swelling and the carpal tunnel I've developed in my right hand, things are getting fairly uncomfortable.

I know he's worth every ache, pain and discomfort. I know that he's the answer to so many prayers. I know that this time won't last forever; he's coming soon.

And we wait, with hopeful expectation, with arms outstretched to hold him.

We wait for our little prince to make his entrance, to make even more whole a family who has wanted him since before time.

Come, sweet baby. The whole world is waiting for you.

Winter

It's been two weeks since the last post, the news that our day in court had been postponed for another three months. We've had time to grieve, be angry and move on to everyday normal life. Things have been quiet, uneventful even. Everything feels normal; nothing lurking under the surface, no shoe waiting to be dropped, no chaos about to ensue. It's been nice.

We've been cooped up for weeks now due to inclement weather and freezing temperatures. We've seen more snow and ice in the last few weeks than we have for the entire winter. Temperatures have recently begun to dip into the negative, making it painful to even walk to and from the garage to get into the car. Sometimes even our eyeballs and teeth hurt.

It's hard to have little boys full of energy in a city where winter is a good 6 months long. It's hard on moms and dads who have to entertain, mediate, engage and discipline because their kids are so bored that they pick fights with one another. Though it's been a great two weeks, it's also been exhausting. I'm sure my third-trimester fatigue makes matters worse.

Our due date is quickly approaching, and yet it feels like forever away, just out of reach. Rocky has been working relentlessly on nights and weekends to get the nursery ready, build us a laundry room upstairs, and repair drywall and paint in areas that were long overdue for such attention. He is truly my rock and my hero; He loves our family well, and serves me in a way that makes me feel loved and cherished way down in my very soul. In every way that a husband should be, he is Jesus to me.

The boys have been doing tremendously well in school. Our big boy is reading more and more words everyday and was overcome with joy the other night when he was able to read his own homework instructions. It made my heart swell with joy that he was proud of himself instead of feeling embarrassed or inadequate by his delays. His new-found confidence is every parent's dream. Our little one is counting and learning math and can now write his own name without a sample and spell it out-loud without help. We're still working on identifying all letters of the alphabet and struggling to write some numbers, but I see improvements everyday and I'm so proud to be their mom.

As for me, well I'm trying to enjoy the last few weeks of being pregnant. It's hard to do so when I'm stuck at work sitting in a very uncomfortable chair, staring at a computer screen for 7 hours a day. I'm very much counting down the days until I can rest and nest at home in preparation for baby boy's arrival. Only 6 more work days to go! (This countdown has been what's getting me through...)

This has all been such an amazing experience that I feel simultaneously excited and anxious to hold onto it as long as I can. We never expected this baby, and I'm definitely treating it as if it will be my only pregnancy, so I am savoring even the unpleasant parts knowing that this is such an honor and a privilege. Though I am so looking forward to holding my sweet baby in my arms (and truly hoping he comes a little early!), I'm also clinging to his last few weeks in the womb; protected, sheltered, safe. All the things I cannot provide once he's here. All the things I will have to pray to God to provide for him instead.

It's very scary to be a parent, you know. You believe the lie that no one loves your kids more than you do, and that you know best. But the reality is that God loves my children more than I can ever imagine, and His way is the best way. Even when I can't see it. Even when I don't understand. Even when I don't agree. I have to believe that this is true. It is my only comfort when my children suffer an injustice. Knowing that God loves them more, and has a plan for their life that I cannot see, brings me a peace that I otherwise would not have.

Recently, several of our friends have been faced with some tremendous struggles, health-wise. Things that make you lift your eyes up to the heavens and ask, "Why, God? Why did this have to happen to this person?" It's a pointless question, I know, but when we're faced with such tragedy and uncertainty and fear, it's the only question we can think to ask, as if having an answer would bring comfort. We've been stretched as a church, and having our faith grown and deepen in ways that would not have occurred had it not been for the hardships we've encountered, both in our own lives and in our congregation. We're becoming a church that prays for one another, that expects healing, that seeks God in everything. With this, we are being transformed. Our homes, our marriages, our communities are feeling the ripple effect from this tiny pocket of praying immigrant believers in this city. 

With that being said, I humbly ask that you pray alongside us for the following:

-That the boys' court date would stand and that a resolution in their favor would be reached that day

-Healing for our friends suffering from chronic and dangerous health issues

-Provision for our friends who are suffering with finances and unemployment

-A smooth delivery and a healthy baby for us

-And finally, that God would continue to grow and empower our church in this city, for His glory

We cannot do this without the prayers and support of other believers. We are one church, one body, one tribe. May God keep us united, even in our separation. Amen.

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.