Monday, May 30, 2016

Nothing Wasted

We finished another school year, which, in many ways, encouraged me with so much progress for my Lotus Bud.  There will always be challenges and frustrations teaching a child with hidden special needs, particularly when the parent-child attachment is still so rocky, but I was so proud of the baby steps of progress I could look back and see in her.  Then, we got to the last few weeks of school, and for whatever reason, it was as though that progress had never happened.  She lost it.  It was gone.  Suddenly, with our eyes set on second grade this coming fall, we were back to not being able to count... literally.  I believe, that like our other peaks and valleys, this is likely a temporary setback.  But when you're dealing with a child from a hard place, things can be rather unpredictable.

It has been a rough month since then as well, even though school is over.  We've seen regression in her social behaviors, acting out, and sensory behaviors, including one incident that resulted in Lil Bit's hand getting broken.  It was an accident, but also a direct result of J ignoring the instructions I gave.

I have spent the past two and (almost) a half years in varying levels of fight, flight, or freeze mode myself.  Just as J's trauma is not an isolated event, but rather an entire time period that shaped her life in her most tender, formative years, the trauma as an adoptive mama is ongoing as well.  For those who, like us, had a very volatile beginning, and have dealt with significant struggles in attachment, it can feel terrifying, hopeless, and incredibly frustrating beyond typical parenting challenges.  For nearly two and a half years, I have had my hands clenched tight.  Wanting to trust the Lord.  Wanting to open myself to this child and love her the way I thought a mother should love a child, and feeling like a complete failure every time my heart recoiled at her, knowing that she would rip it out again and again.  I have lived in fear, something I swore I would never do.  I have lived in terror that if I trusted God again, He would let me (make me?) hurt more.  He would allow me, like Job, to be sifted by the enemy, when I already felt sifted into nothingness.  I didn't want to welcome that.  I wanted his comfort, but I could not bear the thought that He might be preparing me for something even harder by allowing me to go through this.  Everything in me screamed, "No more!!! NO. MORE."  

We all walk through fire in our lives.  Sometimes it's a tragedy that happens in the blink of an eye, and you spend the rest of your life trying to heal and cope with that moment in time.  Sometimes, it is a long, drawn out, indefinite suffering.  I know that as I live each day with this child, the wound from our initial and extremely traumatic meeting will be ripped open over and over again.  I want so desperately to be able to trust her, but reality tells me that she will break my trust daily through lies and manipulation.  I want to be close to her, but how can one feel safe or comfortable with another person who proves daily that they are untrustworthy and need constant vigilance, or subconsciously sabotages your relationship?  She is acting out of her trauma, and because I am as safe as it gets for her, it falls on me.  And although I do my best to act in the way that I should, I, in turn, think and feel out of the trauma I have experienced as a result of her trauma.  It is indeed a vicious cycle.

But here's the thing:

All of this time, when all I could feel was the shock and rage at first, and then the long, dark emptiness, He has been pursuing me relentlessly.  And do you know what?  He has caught me again.  After two and a half years of asking the biggest, scariest, most blasphemous questions of him, of pounding on his chest in anger, of curling up in a ball and refusing to fully open my hands to him, He has caught me up in his arms at last.  And He is, ever so gently, opening my heart and my hands again, sloughing off the resentment, bitterness, and fear.  And as He has made me secure again in his love, He has also given me a picture of this portion of my journey.  Life comes out of darkness.  Just as He called the world into existence out of nothingness, He brings new life from the darkness of the womb everyday.  This love for my Lotus Bud is labor.  A long, hard, languishing labor.  And just as a mother bears down to bring her child out into the light and life is the result of the pain, so it will be with with Lotus Bud.  A baby pains its mother in the birthing.  The mother knows the pain is coming, and accepts it for the joy on the other side... for love.  So it is with this 54 pound, 49 inch child of my heart.  The labor is longer, and even more painful than that of a babe, but I can choose to look upon it without fear or resentment.  And as I bear down, day after day, minute after minute, with the sweat pouring down, I can choose to remember that none of this is wasted.  Not one moment of it.  And life will come out of the darkness.                    
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Saturday, October 17, 2015

Drumroll please...

Friends...

JP's psychoaccoustic therapy is FULLY FUNDED as of just a few minutes ago!!!

Thank you so much to everyone who gave.  I am always blown away by how the Lord provides in ways that I never expected, and thankful for those who are faithful to follow the prompting of the Holy Spirit to reach out.  Thank you also for your continued prayers.  I am emailing our counselor immediately to tell her to order JP's listening device so that we can get started asap on this new therapy.  For the first time in a long while, I feel more hope than despair as I look toward our future as a family.  It has been a long, long road, and I know there is still quite a journey ahead of us, but I believe that we are about to take a significant leap forward in our attachment process.  And you all are a part of that: part of the ugly-beautiful work of redemption.  Again, thank you!  What a blessing it is to have so many people standing with us.  I am going to bed tonight with a full heart.   
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Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Urgent Need

Friends: we need your help.

We've been doing counseling with JP for a couple of months. Over the past week or so, we've seen some of her trauma behaviors escalate significantly, with the most frightening being that she ran away from home on Monday. Thankfully, I realized she was gone minutes after she left the house, and I found her within 15 minutes...but she was already over a mile away from our house when I caught up with her. I don't think it's possible to describe the terror of the moment I knew she was gone and I could not see her in either direction on the road. 

We had an emergency meeting with our counselor, and in light of these escalating reactive responses, she has recommended a psychoacoustic therapy that sounds incredibly promising for reducing stress, anxiety, reactive behaviors, and even sensory behaviors. We believe this could have an incredible impact on JP's healing. The price tag was a bit of a blow, though: $2100 all together for the device (which our therapist gives us at wholesale) plus her time in creating a schedule and walking us through all the steps. I won't lie: That is staggering to us considering that our new not-so-affordable health insurance has caused JP's medical bills to nearly double. So this will be on top of the annual $8-10K we have to come up with just to keep her alive and healthy, and standard therapy costs, which are worth every penny, but incredibly expensive. While I normally wouldn't post something this personal for her here, I felt like I didn't have a choice but to ask for help in such a time sensitive circumstance.

We haven't fundraised since before we brought JP home, but as we all know, adoption doesn't end at the airport. If you feel led to be a part of JP's continued healing, or know someone who might have a heart for this, please share and check out the "Donate" button at the top right corner of our blog, which will go directly to JP's therapy via PayPal. I know not everyone is called to adopt a child into their home, but for those who want to be a part of the continuing work of adoption and healing for a child, this is a great opportunity to partner with us in that. We are exhausted, in every possible way, and I am thankful that we have a support group of brothers and sisters to help hold our arms up when we have nothing left.  We covet your prayers, for JP and for our family.  

Soli Deo Gloria.
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Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The Refrain

I can't tell you how many times I've sat down in front of this computer, feeling like I desperately needed to write, to siphon off some of the feelings bursting out of me... and having not a clue where to begin.  Inevitably, I scroll back through previous posts and realize, things haven't changed all that much.  I mean, loads of things have happened, but there's always this voice in the back of my mind saying, "No one cares about that little stuff.  They're probably as sick of hearing you talk about all this as you are of having to say it."  Maybe that's true (sorry!), and maybe it isn't, but I've decided it's not going to keep me silent.  

So much about our lives as a society is crazy and chaotic.  It's all about getting past this or that and on to the next thing.  We see it as a failure to be "stuck" in one place for too long, that it's some sort of sin against efficiency not to be able to check this job, issue, challenge, etc. off our ever-growing To Do lists.  I have certainly felt that way many times over the past 21 months, since bringing JP home.  

Why can't I/we just get past this?  Why do I have to learn this lesson again?  What's wrong with me?

I have a theory.  It's just a thought, but it's a refreshing thought, and my soul needs that in these turbulent times.  What if it isn't such a bad thing to learn the same lesson over and over again?  What if it is, in fact, a strange mercy to feel the Shepherd's rod ever guiding us along well worn paths?  Paths we sometimes wish we never had to lay eyes on again.

Sometimes, I get the faintest glimpse of clarity as I'm revisiting those paths, like one remembering a dream.  Maybe He's been telling me this story all of my life.  Singing the same song with variations on a theme, each new verse leading back to the oft forgotten refrain, but giving it new insight and depth with each passing.  And that song is my story, the story of who I am at the deepest part, the soul He crafted to house inside this dusty body.  For a while, at least.  And for a while, often times a long while, I forget who I am.  The dust clouds my vision.  

I've been trying to capture that song on paper for as long as I can remember, always searching for the perfect lyrics, the perfect melody to tell the tale.  Perhaps it is too "otherly" for that to ever happen this side of Paradise.  But if Paradise was lost, it will be found again.  It will be made new.  And maybe, just maybe, when I look back, this elusively familiar refrain will prove to be a blessing beyond measure.  
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Thursday, April 2, 2015

Oh, How He Loves Us

We're approaching Good Friday, the day we remember our Savior carrying his cross on wounded back, only to be spread across a tree, all for love.  He calls us to follow him, to pick up our own crosses.  And as we join him in the Via Crucis, the way of the cross, our hearts are heavy with repentance and gratitude for his sacrifice.  We are stirred from our slumber.  We preach sermons and lift up songs about following him.
Everyone loves to sing that one...

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders...

We sing, and weep, and raise our hands.  We feel a deep longing for such intimacy in the midst of the mundane.

Then, maybe one day, He does just that.  What then?  Maybe, like Peter did when Jesus called, we leap out of the boat and begin to walk on the water.  Suddenly, we're distracted by the coolness of the sea lapping about our ankles, then swirling around our knees... crashing against our chests, and the next thing we know is deep gulps of briny ocean choking off our air.

The thrashing begins.

While there are those who walk boldly down the road the Lord has set before their feet right from the start, I would wager that many who are not nudged, but blasted outside their (jargon alert) comfort zone- what we know, what we perceive ourselves to be "good at" or gifted in- there is a time of thrashing.  Between waves splashing into our eyes and mouths, we frantically look around for help, grasping at the air for a hand to draw us out of the deep water.

We wonder why in the world we jumped out of that blasted boat, why we were led on this journey, what good it could possibly do when we feel like we're failing so monumentally in our hearts.

Have courage, dear heart.

Eventually, the thrashing begins to ease.  We stop fighting the fear, the discomfort, the sorrow, the resentment, and we embrace it all.  We finally start to sense that Voice we were desperate to hear, whispering that it is well, and we are Beloved.  

Listen to me.  You are Beloved.

See, even though we may "know" better, we perceive God as loving the way we love: trying to love selflessly, but secretly expecting a return on our investment; saying we forgive, but internally keeping score; hurting those we love most in spite of our best efforts at perfect love.

 But that is not Love.

 We've been told to "be Christ" in a world that needs him.  And we should let our light shine so that others may come to know him.  But that light isn't ours, and it never was.  We simply carry it.  We focus so much on the going and doing that we forget the crucial element of sitting and being.  Being still, that is.  Being loved, fully and completely.  Believing that we can't do a thing to be loved any more... or any less.  God isn't keeping score, dear one.  He is Love.  He is slow to anger, abounding in love.  When we confess to him, no matter how many times we've fallen on our faces before for the exact same thing, He not only forgives, but forgets.  We are the ones who dredge up our past failures.  He is drawing our gaze back to his.  

It's forgotten.  Don't be crippled by it anymore.

The going and doing is amazing and necessary, but it begins to feel rather hollow without being filled up by the sitting and being.  Rest.  Breathe.  Be.  You are loved.

And when we relax, and exhale, and look into the eyes of our Savior, who has always been there loving us through our wild thrashing and flailing, it is well with our souls.  No matter what.

When we are free to rest in how He loves us, we are free to love others the same way.  Not to go and "be Christ," because only He can be himself.  No, we go out to be loved by Christ, for all to see, and to offer the same deep breath of life to those around us.  You are loved; you are accepted; you are safe with us.

 I will say it again: You are Beloved.  Walk in that Love today.  And if there is a moment, or lots of moments when resentment wells up in you, or fear and insecurity get a choke hold, stop gasping and sit still.  Start thinking about how He loves us... how He loves you.  And breathe.

       
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Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Following the Signs

I love that my kids are old enough to listen to (and actually request!) chapter books.  Right now, we're reading through The Chronicles of Narnia, by C.S. Lewis, some of my favorite books in the entire world.  Lewis had quite a knack for succinctly and profoundly writing deep truths in a way that invites even young children into spiritual realities... of course through the language of children: fairytales.

One such truth, which even this sort-of-grown-up-kid needs to remember daily is imparted by Puddleglum, the marshwiggle in The Silver Chair.

‘Oh, if only we knew!’, said Jill.
‘I think we do know,’ said Puddleglum.
‘Do you mean you think everything will come right if we do untie him?’ said Scrubb.
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Puddleglum, ‘You see, Aslan didn’t tell Pole what would happen. He only told her what to do.’ (italics mine)

I'd say that pretty much sums up where I am right now.  Just when things seem to be leveling out, we end up in the valley again.  And I struggle in the valley, because hasn't the Church, or at least the evangelical church (not hating here, just pointing out a pattern), always taught that obedience brings blessing?  That when you serve others with your whole heart or sacrifice for another, it blesses you abundantly more than it could ever bless them?  I'm not disagreeing with those statements, because I have experienced those very sentiments as well.  But truly, when was the last time you heard a sermon on counting the cost of obedience?  At least in a western church?  I think the American church is largely afraid to tell people what the cost of following Christ could look like, because they're afraid people won't do it.  We do like our comfort, don't we?  
The truth is, God can accomplish his sovereign will with or without us.  Inviting us (or commanding us) to be a part of it is indeed so that we can experience the blessing of being part of what He is doing.  But it's also for our sanctification, and daggumit, fire hurts.  Often, in all the PR of the "go and make disciples" sermons, we gloss over the fact that obedience is hard, it rarely looks the way we expect, and we may or may not experience the warm fuzzies for a good long time, if ever.  We have our own ideas about what our "blessings" will look like as a result of our obedience.  Because, let's be honest, our society is a results-driven one.  It can feel both relieving and alarming to let go of what we think should come out of all this hard work and investment of our time, our finances... our lives.  But then, Jesus didn't tell us exactly what would happen when we pick up our crosses and follow him.  He did say we would have trouble.  He also said, "Take heart, for I have overcome the world."  

And there it is: the result, the reward... HE is the reward.  Right here, right now, in the middle of the doggedly-trudging-through-the-muddy-trenches ick, I am wholly his, and He is mine.  

Sanctification.

He is making me look more like him.  He's causing me to lean on him instead of my own understanding.  He's reminding me to press into his strength when I want to collapse right in the middle of the path.  He is offering his new compassion every morning when my heart and soul feel bone dry.  I am my Beloved's and He is mine.  His banner over me is love.

You may not be in the adoption trenches, but whatever your journey of sanctification, let me leave you with this strange mercy as you face the darkness:

"Courage friends... whether we live or die, Aslan will be our good lord."
                                                                                            
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Tuesday, January 27, 2015

One Year

One year: That's hard to believe.  And I wish I had the brain space to write something deeply profound at this huge mile marker.  But it's been a heck of a day, and I am spent.  So here's the less than eloquent version of my one year memories.

What is the biggest thing I have learned over this past year?  That no matter how hard I try, I can't be everything this sweet girl needs.  I'm not always master of my emotions, or my attitude.  I mess up regularly.  But the moment I am willing to let go of the expectations I had for myself- how I would feel, how I would act- is the moment I am more than I could ever be on my own.  My Lotus Bud desperately needed a family, but more than that, she needed to know about her perfect Father, who has loved her before she was even knit together in her first mother's womb.  She needed a Savior, who is perfect in every way, and still paid her ransom.  She knows the Name of her Savior now.  And I fully believe that someday soon, she will welcome him into her heart.

This year... it's been incredible, unexpected, insanely difficult, and beautiful in so many ways.  I look back at the child we brought home, and the child I see now.  Yes, I still struggle with attachment, but I see a happy, energetic, well-adjusted six year old, who is thriving in her forever home.  Yes, I still struggle daily to see past irritating mannerisms, difficulty focusing during school or daily tasks, or temper tantrums because she didn't get her own way, but my mind and my heart are finally starting to accept our new reality.  There are moments when I feel true affection.  Nothing contrived or manufactured, just true affection.  It isn't happening as quickly as I had hoped, but it is happening.

I've learned that God has been giving me more than I can handle on a regular basis for the past three years or so, and that's totally ok, because it reminds me to lean on him instead of my own understanding and abilities (because, let's be honest... no one in their right mind would have singled me out for being awesome at this.  He is adventurous, isn't He?).  And I truly believe that He will bring something beautiful out of all this that I can't possibly wrap my mind around right now.  Isn't that what He does?  He makes all things beautiful in his time.

So, the first year is behind us.  We've gone from daily raging meltdowns to occasional pouting.  We've gone from swinging like a monkey off my arm (ouch) to sitting next to me on the sofa while I read a chapter out of The Chronicles of Narnia (yes, I still have to remind her not to pick her nose or elbow me in the chest as we do this...).  We've gone from a complete aversion to touch, to voluntary warm hugs and goodnight kisses.  From not knowing any English to reading beginning reader books on her own.  I don't know what the years to come will hold, but I look forward to more progress, healing, and attachment for all of us as we begin year two together.  

Soli deo gloria.           
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