The storm

It is late and I should be sleeping.  This memory, this beautiful memory haunts me.  The steamy summer storm raged outside.  We had the windows to the porch open wide to let in the thunder.  We loved storms. The angrier the better.  We sat on the couch, your hands on my belly, waiting to feel the life inside reach out to you.  Only a few more weeks.  I was terrified, and you were impatient to meet your first.  The sirens went off.  The sound sending us outside in mad anticipation.  I couldn't get my body to leave the porch.  I stood there in bare feet.  The rain whipping about me, the wind pulling at my sundress, as you ran to the street to see if it would come.  The rain falling so hard I could barely see you just a few dozen feet away.

I wanted to go too.  I was paralyzed by my biology.  Then I heard it.  The familiar freight train roar growing louder that meant it WAS coming.  And I yelled to you, "we have to go to the basement" but you didn't hear me. I could barely see you. Panick set in. I had only experienced curiosity, wonderment, and excitement in times like these, but now I wanted to run away from the noise.  Then came the so-loud snapping of the oaks in the park on the other side of the narrow street. I yelled a yell that hurt, "we have to go inside, right now!" And you yelled back, "no, I won't, but you probably should".  I thought I might puke.  I could feel the fingers of it clawing at the inside of my raw throat.  

Some readers will judge me for what I said next.  My wet sun dress clung to my swollen belly, as I screamed, "I am NOT raising this baby without you!  If you won't go in neither will I."  So I stood on that porch drenched, being beaten by pellets of rain, that might have stung if I could have felt them, as the sound of trees snapping traveled down the park, now made invisible by the rain. The sound traveled parallel to our row of houses and into the distance.  The park lost over 50 trees that day, but I learned something about us.

I would rather stand with you in any storm then stand alone in safety.  I would rather enter the fray with you than be without you.  This life, this military life, of forced separations is hard because you enter storms and I cannot come.  I have to stay behind.  But even so, know that when you think you don't see me there standing next to you in the rain, I am.  I am definitely there.  I made up my mind on a hot steamy summer day long ago that no matter what, I was weathering every storm WITH you.

Time is relative

I have been holding back in posting more about our gift baby.  He needs lots of care and attention.  Plus, I wanted to give myself and my family lots of time and space to make an authentic, spirit-led, decision about adoption, to stop knocking on the doors to Casey's heart, to step back, get out of the way, and give them room to open. You see, when you are thrown a curve ball it is easy to duck.  When our expectations aren't met, when we think we are aligned with God's will and then we are surprised unexpectedly it is easy to say "no", this isn't how it was supposed to go.  This isn't what God wants for me.  This is when prayerful reflection is needed most. 

We became foster-adoptive parents to adopt a girl between the ages of 10-14.  We had a neat little plan to build our family without adding "parenting years" onto our marriage.  Wow, typing that I realize how selfish that sounds.  Trust me, we had great intentions.  We also truly and honestly wanted an older child because they are so much less likely to be adopted.  We wanted a girl because we don't have one.  Casey wanted a daughter to walk down the aisle, and I wanted a daughter with whom I could journey motherhood.  We wanted to be witness to the life of a daughter.  We still hope for that.  Our problem was in thinking that we had it all figured out. 

Isn't that how it happens?  Just when you think you have it all figured out, "the joke's on you".  In late April 2013, when we said "yes" to fostering gift baby we thought he was passing through our lives.  We all prepared not to take ownership of him.  He wasn't ours.  I have said "no" to plenty of foster placements for various reasons, but this time I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't.  I convinced myself, "I will love him well, and then he will move on." It happened slowly, the way dusk creeps in on children at play.  There is a huge, yet subtle difference between loving and caring for a child, and loving and taking ownership of them as your own.  It felt intrusive to take ownership of a child whose mother I hoped would heal for him.  I wouldn't do that to either of them.  I couldn't do that.  But he pried my heart open and crawled inside.  Over time I died to my plan, and accepted this as God's plan, at least for now.  What a beautiful plan too!  I get to love and be loved by a beautiful soul I wouldn't know had I said, "no" on the grounds that he was not a girl between the ages of 10-14.

As time wore on, both of our boys began to refer to him as their, "little brother".  First, during introductions.  Then, when they were playing with him.  As the days slipped from one to another it was as if he had always been a part of our family, as if he were meant for us.  His personality is a blend of the older two boys.  He shares their love of music, their sense of humor, even some of their quirks from when they were babies!  The similarities are uncanny.  Eventually, holding him ceased to be a duty and became a privilege.  He ceased to exist out side of myself, but became an extension of me.  His coos would come to me like enchanted notes carried on a warm breeze from a distant violin.  They began to make me revel with joy for his existence, and every morning and afternoon I waited with anticipation for him wake up.   

Casey agreed to adopt him, in writing.  He was still nervous about all those plans he hadn't yet let die.  I wasn't.  A new plan, more beautiful than any we could plan, had unfurled before me day by day.  The time came to change gift baby's placement goal.  Fostercare adoption isn't linear.  It isn't easy.  In one instant they are going to be yours forever, and the next the could be ripped from your arms.  This caused us to deny the depth of our feelings for him, but it was something we naively thought we might avoid. When this possibility reared its ugly head at us things really changed.  That's when we had to be really honest with ourselves.  Until that point it had been easy for both of us to pretend that we could go back to "normal" if baby boy left us.  Facing this reality caused us to realize that things were never going to be the same.  The boys and I especially, would grieve a lost child if he were to go.  The idea caused my heart to twist and palpitate in my chest. 

We sat on seat edge for two weeks waiting to find out if he would be staying or going.  During that time, I tried to distance my heart from his and couldn't.  Instead he became even more a part of me.  I was sleepless, praying in my bed, as shadows washed over me, for the strength to follow His plan.  Questioning Him, "why would you do this to us? I don't understand why."  Then the day came when I found out what was really happening (can't wait to tell you all some day).  The social worker gave me a speech on timing, the time line, and the legalities currently being adhered too.  As the social worker explained to me what was going on, and what her goals for him were I realized I could have slept well if I had a little more faith.  Not because she was telling me what I had longed to hear, "he is absolutely yours."  No.  I realized, who am I to question "the Plan"?  His timing is perfect, it isn't my timing.  I don't get what I want when I want it.  I get what I need when I need it.  We needed to have that epiphany right now.  We needed a reality check.  We needed to come together.  I needed to understand that I am not in control.  That I need to let go and trust God to do his thing.  That is HUGE for me!  I grew from knowledge to understanding through experience.  It is a dangerous thing indeed to mistake knowledge for understanding, and humbling to realize that is exactly what you have done. 

We love him.  He is ours (for sure right now, but I hope forever).  We love him.  I literally feel as if he has been birthed through me these last few weeks.  Hearing his voice cause me to swell to bursting with joy.  Witnessing him experience life makes me feel so lucky, so blessed.  It is a privilege, I am proud of him, and proud to be thought of as his mother.  I can't explain how this bond builds just yet.  It as strong as my bond with the other boys.  He will always be a part of us, and us a part of him.  No matter what.  I am thankful.  I am so incredibly thankful.  The last few months have humbled me beyond measure, and taught me that in my darkest moments I have the most to be thankful for.  I have experienced that in darkness God truly is working the most in me and for me.  I had knowledge of that truth before this, but I did not understand.  I have experienced that God really is good all the time.  I have experienced God.  Again.  This time more beautifully and fully than I could imagine.  I am but a speck, and yet he carefully tends my every need.  He often does this in spite of my moaning and lack of gratitude.     

It has also taught me that I need to listen more carefully to that still small voice inside of me when it shares the good as well as the bad.  How many times do we look in on possibilities, as if we are standing in the doorway to a room filled with joyful strangers, horrified to step in, but desperately longing to?  That little voice that says, "you can do this.  This would be good for you." often gets ignored while we listen to all the reasons we can't or shouldn't.  How long have we spend languishing in doorways?  Don't listen to that negative voice (unless you are planning to take a barrel of Niagara Falls, then listen to it) telling you why you can't.  Take the step, and trust in God's timing. 

http://youtu.be/SXaSWUvTb8w