Rachael's Blog

My foster care blog posts will be moving to a new site

Mon, 26 Sep 2016 23:39:00 GMT

I'm putting this up for any blog subscribers who are interested in continuing to hear about our foster care journey. For the sake of privacy (ours and our foster children's) we have put together a new separate blog featuring only fostering posts. I transferred all my previous foster care related blog posts over to the new site and deleted them from Varblow.net. This new blog does not have our names anywhere. If you would like to follow the new blog please email, Facebook message, or comment here and I will send you the link to the new site. I am not posting the link here to protect our privacy. Feel free to share the posts from the new blog, Just don't tag me if the post is public.

God's Magnum Opus

Wed, 08 Jul 2015 17:23:00 GMT

Hiking down Mt. Tom in Woodstock, VT I was surrounded by the splendor of creation. Wild daisies and Sweet William intermixed with ferns and grasses waving vivid green against endless blue sky. A bluebird rested in an ancient maple far above the tracks of doe and fawn dotting the soft forest loam.

How not to believe at moments like these with the splendor of creation all around me?

My little girls stopped to splash in a fountain made from an underground spring. Lightly freckled noses, soft blond lashes, sunshine reflected from red gold hair. Their beauty took my breath away. Meadow and forest paled beside it. I found myself blinking back tears.

But, I quickly stopped and repented as I thought, No, wait, I’m here in God’s glorious creation, I shouldn’t be thinking so of my own children when surrounded by so much natural beauty. I felt guilty for a few seconds until I realized how very backward my thinking was.

God’s creation, the boulders and trees and mountain springs, is glorious. It gives a glimpse of His magnificent imagination, but His crowning glory, His magnum opus, is the creation of man. He saved us for last and we alone bear His image.

How not to revel in that? My children, my father, my husband, my nephew –those surrounding me on the mountainside were the truest beauty of the scene and my enjoyment of them glorying in His creation was only natural. In fact, it was a form of worship.

How often as we enjoy those around us do we pause, in spirit if not in active thought, and say, “Wow, God, You’ve done good work.”? Holy worship of our Creator God.

But sadly, sometimes we see only what is ugly in those around us.

That man cut me off.

That woman is picking her nose.

That child is such a brat.

These thoughts, observations, are the antithesis of worship. When we find fault in the creation, aren’t we in a way finding fault with the Creator? We’re saying, “What you’ve made here isn’t good enough, I would have done it differently, Lord.”

For years I’ve played a simple game when standing in line or watching a crowd. I take a moment to really look at each person passing by, to find the beauty there. A sweep of dark hair, a mischievous gleam in the eye, a slight smile on the lips. Seeking to see in each and every one the beauty that God placed there, a glimpse of the beauty He sees when He looks at them.

Often I find it in the stoop of the shoulder, the twist of a gnarled hand, or hair bleached white by the passing years. I wonder, what life experience has brought that stoop, caused that twist? And from true observation of my fellow man prayer so naturally flows.

Lord, put joy into those eyes.

Lift up that head.

Send Your Spirit to this person.

When it becomes a habit to look for beauty, to offer a prayer, it is so much harder to stand in judgement.

I have the most difficult time applying this principle to myself, in fact for a long time I never even thought to try. I look at the pictures my husband takes of me, pictures that tell the story of a man who sees beauty in his wife. All I see are wrinkles, baggy eyelids, bad posture, and skinny arms. Delete. Delete. Delete. Until no pictures remain.

Isn’t this also a criticism of my creator? God, you put beauty in everyone else, but none into me. And so sometimes I force myself to look until I see a beauty in me, too.

Man is God’s greatest creation. He didn’t send His Son to die for the trees and the flowers, no matter how magnificent. Only for man, His magnum opus. He sees the beauty in every single person, including in me; He’s the one who put it there. In looking for and finding this beauty, we honor Him. In glorying in the beauty we find, we worship Him.

If You're Not a Mom You Probably Don't Want to Read This

Mon, 13 Apr 2015 20:14:00 GMT

As a teenager I remember standing in the doorway of the bathroom holding a sick little sister while my mom mopped up the vomit this sister had just projected across the floor. I was thinking, Oh my gosh, I can’t ever be a mother because I could never in my life clean another person’s vomit. I just couldn’t. I think I would die.

Twenty years later, and now with six kids of my own, I found myself about to disembark a cruise ship. It was 9:00 a.m. on a sunny Florida morning as the elevator doors opened to a lobby full of people. Without warning, my two year old erupted. The multihued contents of his stomach were suddenly everywhere: cascading in waterfalls down my shirt, beading in my son’s thick lashes, pooling in my sandals.

My husband and I just stood for a long moment looking at each other. He on the outside of the elevator, Me standing stunned inside holding Jacob as the last remnants of his breakfast (and apparently yesterday’s lunch and dinner) dripped down the glass elevator walls.

“Bleh.” Jake said, blinking. “Bleh!”

A wonderful feature of this cruise was that they took care of our luggage for us the night before. So nice and hassle free, as long as you don’t find yourself covered head to toe in vomit as your extra clothes are being efficiently bussed ahead of you to the airport.

Fifteen minutes found Jake washed and in his spare outfit, me changed into Matt’s button down shirt, and Matt in his undershirt approaching the man clad in a surgical mask, rubber gloves, and plastic apron who was mopping out the elevator. (Another bonus feature of the cruise: They clean up vomit for you.)

“Uh, yeah, my kid is the one who puked. Sorry about that. Um, do you have an extra bag we might have in case he does this again? Thanks.”

Ten minutes more and we were at the front of the customs line. This time I got a little warning in the form of tummy tremors and had the bag pressed to Jake’s little face as the customs guy asked Matt what we kind of souvenirs we spent $30 buying. Then he looked through our documents.

Agent: “And which one is Jacob?”

Matt: “The one over there hurling on my wife.”

A moment later the agent held up my passport picture and squinted, having trouble reconciling the clean kempt woman in the photo with the puke covered one giggling uncontrollably on the floor appearing to suffocate a toddler with a plastic bag.

He didn’t detain us.

I discretely threw the bag away, hoping the worst was over as we boarded the bus, found seats and were greeted with TV’s showing all the beautiful places we could travel for our next vacation. I breathed a sigh of relief as the minutes passed and bus merged onto the B-line heading toward the Orlando Airport.

“Look, Mom,” my twelve year old said, pointing at a screen. “Next time we can go to The Andes and see wild chinchillas.”

Then the sounds began. Not soft tummy rumblings this time, oh no, loud, guttural, phlegm clearing retches like you’ve never heard before. Only Jacob can make noises like these, and he does it without the least concern and apparently no discomfort.

“Nothing is like the comfort and relaxation of a Disney vacation…” The TV assured us.

The man in front of us politely feigned deafness as Jake continued to make sounds that can only be described as an elephant with a hairball. The polite man’s wife turned to stare in horror, clutching her large Coach purse to her chest and scooching as far away as the seat would allow. I tried unsuccessfully to squelch the giggles as five year old Elena broke into a loud round of Let It Go just as Jake made a colorful contribution to the small clear baggie which was the only container I had left.

“It’s funny how some distance makes everything seem small…,” she sang as the Coach purse lady cringed into the wall.

“Blaackcht,” went Jake, echoing across the bus. “Braaacchtaguuupt!”

“…Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymoooore!”

The volcanic experience didn’t bother Jake; he blinked again and smacked his lips -- a true two year old, impressed by his own bodily functions. Polite disregard from the husband. Repulsed stares from the wife. Hysterical laughter from me.

“Couldn’t keep it in heaven knows I’ve tried!” sang Elena.

I hoped no one on the bus was headed to the same state as us.

18 Proven Ways to Prolong an Argument with your Spouse

Sun, 18 Jan 2015 01:50:00 GMT

There are so many tried and true ways to keep an argument going with your spouse. I was shocked the other day to realize that I have yet to read an article on the most effective methodology. Not to worry, the gap has been filled!

I gathered input and created an itemized list for you. Here are the best eighteen ways to keep those disagreements escalating. Thanks to my many friends and family members for their advice, contributions, and for even giving the occasional demonstration. ;)

Never, ever begin a discussion with prayer. This could open your heart to your spouse’s perspective and potentially derail your argument before it gets off to a good start.
In the same vein, never stop an argument to pray. You don’t want your heart to be softened when you’re about to go in for the kill.
Turn the subject as quickly as possible to your spouse’s major recurring faults and away from the topic at hand.
Be sure that you are both thoroughly sleep-deprived. Since Ephesians tells us not to let the sun go down on our anger, we must always take this to literally mean never go to sleep angry. Fighting when you are both tired will lower your tolerance and help you to take your disagreement beyond the current issue as quickly as possible.
Be sure to use broad general statements like “you always” and “you never.” Keep an arsenal of unrelated examples from various points in your relationship to support these broad general statements.
Try not to apologize. If you really feel that you must, be sure to do so in a qualified manner, “I’m sorry if you felt that way.” This keeps the blame squarely on your spouse while giving you the ammunition of having apologized first.
When your spouse is talking, don’t waste time listening. Be sure to spend that time formulating your defense and counter attack.
Don’t listen to the words that your spouse is speaking, rather point out that they interrupted you, used a mean tone of voice or yelled. This works like lighter fluid on smoldering charcoal.
Misinterpret what is said wherever possible.
If your spouse asks you to postpone the discussion until you’ve both calmed down, you should, of course, refuse.
Never give in or concede a point, unless it’s part of your plan to appear conciliatory while secretly baiting your spouse into saying something they shouldn’t.
Call names and say insulting things. Comparing them to their parents, one of the children, or a long dead dictator is especially effective.
Leave in the middle of the argument. Punctuate your exit with a nicely slammed door.
Leave your spouse crying and go play a video game. She just needs time to calm down.
Take him leaving the room as a personal affront and not as a need for a break from the drama.
If your spouse starts crying be sure to have a sudden unconquerable urge to laugh. If you mistakenly suppress it, do be sure to at least smirk a bit.
Be selfish. Everything is about you. Remember: Your spouse does things you don’t like just to offend you.
Change the topic. If it seems like you’re resolving the issue, or heaven forbid, that your spouse has a valid point, reintroduce a subject from an previous unsolved argument and breathe some new life into it.

And just in case you need any help getting the argument started in the first place, here are three proven methods to get things going:

“The slow build.” This is where you give him the cold shoulder for several days to be sure he starts to suspect something might be wrong before you let him in on the problem.
“Look, honey, we have an audience!” Wait until you have friends or family over. Then start pointing out her shortcomings.
“Instant Explosion.” The moment he says something a little off, draw all possible negative conclusions from the statement, and attack.

Was Blind but Now I See, So Clearly

Tue, 14 Oct 2014 23:19:00 GMT

The doctors believed initially that Baby Jay was blind. We were told to bring him to an ophthalmologist within a month of his hospital discharge. I thought he could see perfectly well and was shocked when the doctors said he could only see color, light, and indistinct shapes. He was six months old.

Today he got his first pair of glasses. I expected a battle just getting them on his face, never mind keeping them there, instead I got laughter. As soon as we set them on his little nose his eyes widened and he started chortling and pointing at the eyeglasses displayed all around us.

I took him out into the window filled atrium. He was craning his neck to look up at the skylights, out the windows, down the hallways. He was so interested in the things he was seeing that I had to keep stopping him from bumping into the pillars.

And then he ran. He has never run before. I thought this was due to physical delays, but maybe he just couldn’t see far enough ahead to feel safe running. He let go of my hand and ran down that hallway, laughing, babbling, and gesturing as so many smiling adults stopped to look on.

“Thank you, Lord,” I breathed, unsuccessfully blinking back tears. “Thank you.”

I buckled Jay into his carseat and tried to take the glasses, not wanting him to tear them apart while I was driving. He protested loudly. I left them, and watched in the rearview mirror whenever I safely could. He was whipping his head back and forth, fascinated by everything going by outside the windows. He usually just sits in a near stupor.

We stopped at a café. He stood on a chair in the window engrossed by all the cars going by outside. I thought we would have a battle to keep the glasses on his face, but at barely two he realized within seconds that they make it so he can see. The battle is to take them off.

Hours later, I can’t get over his amazement as he gazes around the house, his confidence as he trots from room to room.

How very blessed we are to live in a time and a place where this is possible. Thank you, Lord.

(Then in true two year old fashion Jay ripped the nose guards off, put the glasses on his stuffed alligator, screamed when I took them away, and put them back on his face sans nose guards.)

Hollywood, I've Had Enough

Thu, 02 Oct 2014 01:33:00 GMT

My husband and I recently borrowed a TV show on DVD and began watching it together that evening. The storyline so epitomized the way that Hollywood portrays adoption and foster care that Matt may have needed to pause the disc for five solid minutes while I ranted.

The basic premise of this particular show is that the main character, Emma, was found as a newborn beside the road. She spent three years in foster care before someone finally adopted her.

Halt!

Really? A healthy newborn with no family or attachments would never sit in foster care for three years. She would have been adopted by a family who desperately wanted her within her first year, likely within six months, and probably by the foster family she started with. Caseworkers try to put little ones likely to become adoptable with foster families looking to adopt.

Next, Emma reveals that the family who finally adopted her put her back in the system when they had their own children. Seriously? Do you know anyone who has ever stopped loving one of their children when a younger sibling arrives? No? Me neither.

It turns out that Emma “gave up” her own child when she was eighteen and in this fairy tale based show her son’s adoptive mother is…

Wait for it…

The wicked queen from Snow White, while the birth mother is revealed to be the savior sent to free all the fairytale characters from the wicked queen’s curse. Great message, Hollywood, thanks.

Emma tells how for all her years in the system she was “just a meal ticket.”

Grrr.

Yes, there are some bad foster homes. There are some who do it for the very paltry payment intended for the care for the child. But, honestly, there is no amount that you could pay someone that would make up for everything a foster parent goes through. The vast majority are in it for the kids.

Could we see some of these folks portrayed, please?

It’s not just this particular show. It’s prevalent across the board, especially in crime shows which so often depict the hardened foster mom with broken toys and screaming children all over her unmown lawn, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she tells the detectives she “don’t know nothin’ ‘bout” what happened to that kid in her care.

This weird bias against foster care and adoption is in popular fiction as well. I read a book recently in which the adoptive parents were narrow minded and unloving and told the young woman she was stupid and incapable. She unites with her birth mother and finally finds the love and family that she always wanted.

Yes, this does happen, but it also happens that the child was very happy with the adoptive family. Take my neighbor, when she was sixteen she made an adoption plan for her newborn. Thirty years later her daughter found her. The daughter dearly loved her adoptive parents who had recently passed away. My neighbor loves having her daughter in her life, loves her little grandson and is thrilled to have this second chance with them, but she knows that she made the best choice for her daughter at the time.

Since getting involved with the foster system I worry about what some kids are going to find when they seek out their birth parents. Not all will have that Hollywood happy ending my neighbor had.

Kids adopted from the foster system can face some harsh reality. When they start digging, they find all the reasons they were in care in the first place. An acquaintance, adopted from the system at age two, went looking for her birth mom and found that she had died of an overdose years earlier.

I have yet to see Hollywood write a script where the long search for a birth parent ends in a prison, cemetery, or homeless shelter. (But then, who would want to watch that movie?)

The thing that bothers me the most in all this is news coverage covertly biased against adoption. It particularly bothers me because the news isn’t a writer’s fictitious situation; it’s a reporter’s take on reality. Years ago in Ann Arbor a five year old girl named Nancy died in a playground accident during recess. All the reports and articles mentioned that she was the grieving couple’s adopted daughter, as if this was relevant information, as if they were less stricken than they would be if they lost a birth child.

I noticed it again during the Olympics. “That’s his adoptive family cheering from the stands.” “Her adoptive father has come down to give her a hug.” They never say, “That’s his birth family cheering from the stands,” or “Her birth father has come down to give her a hug.”

The bias against adoption isn’t new. I remember reading Laura Ingalls’ These Happy Golden Years and being dismayed that no one thought it odd that Ida Brown’s parents wouldn’t pay for her to take lessons at the singing school because she “was only an adopted child.”

Hollywood, do you think you could drop the bias? We want to see adoptive families that love one another and behave just like other families. We want to see foster parents who care and go to battle for the kids in their care. You’re always looking for fresh ideas. Why not start there?

10 Ways Parenting Prepares Me for the Zombie Apocalypse

Sun, 13 Jul 2014 18:08:00 GMT

Some of my friends are concerned about the pending zombie apocalypse. I've noticed that these are mostly my childless friends. They might want to take note of the ways that parenting has prepared me for the rise of the undead, because I'm going to have advantages they don't when it comes to the end.

Eluding Pursuit. I have experience sprinting into a room under heavy chase and getting the door closed and locked before the pursuers catch me. Will it be so different when I flee into a locked room to sharpen my zombie killing spears as opposed to simply changing my clothes all by myself? Just as my children figure out that Daddy is downstairs and can help them too, the zombies will head off in search of easier victims.
Muscle Mass. When your one year old weighs nearly a third what you do, lugging that kid everywhere gives you muscle tone. Add to that a second baby, an overstocked diaper bag, and two ton strollers and carseats, and you don’t need to work out. When the zombies come I’ve got the strength to swing my survival pack to my back with ease as I throw my AK-47 to one shoulder while fending off the undead with my machete. I won’t even break a sweat.
Olfactory tolerance. When we’re running from the zombies no one will be showering, changing, or applying deodorant. I have sons.
Fearlessness. Seeing hands reaching for me under the bathroom door doesn’t freak me out.
Endurance. When we’ve used up the gas in all the cars abandoned along roadsides by those fleeing the zombies, we’ll have to hoof it to keep ahead. Years of walking the floors at night, walking the baby around in the back of church or lecture halls to keep him quiet, walking to the playground and back every day, and chasing toddlers in circles, will have prepared me for my post-apocalyptic life on foot.
Indiscriminate Taste. As a parent I’ll eat anything, from leftovers on the highchair tray to yogurt spoon fed from a droolly toddler who just stuck his hand in it. So, when I find myself hunched down in an abandoned house finding only a can of cat food for sustenance I’ll lick that thing clean with relish.
Wakefulness. When the zombies are chasing me throughout the night, I’ll just think back to going to bed after the baby gives in to sleep around midnight, nights spent walking the floors, giving bottles, chasing away monsters, locating favorite toys, cleaning up vomit, and rising with the toddler at 5:30, and be able to keep going without hesitation, as my non-parent comrades drop off from exhaustion only to wake up to find themselves members of the undead.
Grossology. Kids are gross. Zombies are gross. You get the idea.
Preparation. If we get away from the zombies with just the diaper bag, we’ll be doing pretty well. I mean, we should be able to keep the family clothed, fed and supplied with colorful band aids for at least five days. Add to that the things we find hidden under seats in the car and we’ll be set for weeks.
Ability to take a beating. Let’s face it, when the zombies come things aren’t going to be easy. We need to be able to take a hit and keep moving. Today my one year old hit me up side the head with a boat. I saw it as his way of getting me ready for what’s to come.

How to Change a Diaper Like a Kid

Wed, 28 May 2014 12:40:00 GMT

Now, my son didn’t actually write this, but I’m pretty confident these are his thoughts on the matter.

1. When your mom asks you to change the baby’s diaper while she loads the groceries in the car be sure to look shocked that she would even suggest it.

2. Don’t place the changing pad under the baby; it might contain the mess thereby eliminating steps four through ten.

3. Find the smallest seat you can. The one crammed between the side of the van and the baby’s carseat is usually best. Seat yourself here and try to lay the baby there, too.

4. Open the diaper without first checking how messy it is. Turn to inform your mom that it is simply disgusting and looks like yellow cottage cheese. While you are looking away the baby will stick both feet into the loaded the diaper and kick the back of the seat. Do not be concerned. This is normal.

5. In the next ten seconds do your best to get the diaper contents on your shirt and pants, the baby’s outfit, the seat where you’re sitting, and the baby’s carseat. If any part of the baby’s legs are still clean, you aren’t doing it correctly.

6. Inform your mom of the mess. While you are looking away the baby will start to pee. Laugh hysterically as he sprays the seat in front of him, your brother’s math homework, and himself in the face.

7. Be assured that by this point your mom will intervene. This was your goal from the start. Well done.

8. Your mom will clean up the mess and have a new diaper on the baby in less than thirty seconds. Spend that time wiping your own clothes clean and lamenting that you will no longer be on time to your next event

9. Refer to the seat in the van where this happened as “the pee seat” from now on. You and your siblings should henceforth refuse to sit there.

10. Rest assured that your mom will not ask you to change a diaper in the car again.

10 Things Never to Say to a Homeschooler

Tue, 11 Mar 2014 22:29:00 GMT

Each walk of life comes with its own round of questions and comments. High school graduates are asked where they are going to college and what their major will be. Newlyweds are asked when they will begin procreation. Pregnant women are asked their due date, the baby’s gender, and how much weight they’ve gained. (Are you SURE it’s not twins?!).

As homeschoolers we encounter a lot of curious folks and are frequently subjected to shocked looks and interrogation. I know that we’ve made an unusual choice and many people are unfamiliar with homeschooling. I don’t mind curiosity. Go right ahead and ask me questions. But, ask because you’re genuinely interested, and not because you think I’m nuts and want to prove it to yourself. Some things are rude and intrusive and some are best unsaid. For example:

10. “You look so normal.” Implying that they expected a denim jumper, white socks, tennis shoes, and ten pajama clad children clustered around the dining table practicing for the National Spelling Bee.

9. “I don’t have enough patience to homeschool.” Neither do I. Seriously. I just trust that if God calls you to homeschool, as He did me, He’ll help you with patience, as He does me. He doesn’t just throw you in the deep end and walk away. He helps you keep your head above water.

8. “Oh, can you babysit?” This is such a hard one. I would love to help out a friend, and often do, but homeschooling is really a very full time job. I wouldn’t ask a friend who works a “real job” to take time off to watch my kids unless it was an emergency.

7. “You must be rich.” That’s just a rude thing to say to anyone, homeschooler or not. Who wants to discuss their financial situation with strangers? Homeschooling is only as expensive as you let it be. There are free curriculum options, and every homeschooler’s best friend is their local library.

6. “I could never homeschool because..(insert reason).” This is a totally fine comment from a friend, but random strangers don’t need to justify the choices they have made to me. It always seems defensive. I’m not judging you for your schooling choices, and I’m hoping you aren’t judging me for mine.

5. “What about socialization!?” This is a question that is difficult not to flip right around and ask the questioner regarding whatever schooling choice they have made. Each form of schooling has its own pluses and minuses when it comes to socialization. Homeschooling is not a social death sentence. Homeschoolers can have as many or as few social interactions as they choose.

4. “You’re not going to do this when they’re in high school are you?” Are you kidding me? High school is when homeschooling finally gets interesting. I’m having a great time discussing Les Miserables and Great Expectations with my high schoolers. I learn something from them every day.

3. “Katie, can you count to a hundred for me?” Every homeschooler has the skeptical friend or relative who takes every opportunity to grill the kids, seeking holes in their education that will support their opinion that you are destroying your child’s life by homeschooling her. For us, this situation resolved quite naturally when my kids became more knowledgeable than their interrogators.

2. “You think that you can do a better job than the schools?” People homeschool for such a variety of reasons. Very often it has nothing to do with the local public school and everything to do with their lifestyle or where they feel God is calling them.

1. “I couldn’t stand having my children around all the time.” (To which I am tempted to reply, “Hey, I couldn’t stand being around your kids all the time either.” But, that wouldn’t be very nice, would it?) This is the absolute worst and I hear it ALL THE TIME. So many random strangers say this to me right in front of their kids. How do you even respond to that? I generally just look at them in amazement, but I would like to tell them that, if this is the case, they should examine their hearts, not about homeschooling, but about how they are handling their kids and parenting in general.

I realize that many of these sorts of comments are rooted in concern. People think that we are destroying our children’s chances at a good future by experimenting with their education this way. I’ll let my friend Lydia (http://smalltownsimplicity.blogspot.com/) tell you how homeschooled kids turn out:

“I was homeschooled myself, along with my siblings. We have all chosen very diverse paths in life. One teacher does not mean that every child will "turn out" one way or another. The personality of the kid comes into play, as well as who God has created that kid to be. My siblings include a writer, an internal auditor (banking), an engineer, a doctor, a dancer, a singer and a stay at home mom homeschooler (me!). While what we do as homeschool mamas has weight and importance, it won't make or break our children forever. God has a plan and we can work within that to help our kids be who they are meant to be.”

Thank you, Lydia and all my friends who chimed in on this one.

Somewhere along the line I became a crier

Sat, 08 Mar 2014 17:34:00 GMT

Have you ever seen the movie The Fighting Sullivans? It’s based on the true story of four brothers serving on the same ship during World War II. As the ship begins to sink, the three older brothers realize they can’t find the youngest. They go searching, find him, but can’t save him. As the ship goes down all four die heroically. Then we see the poor mother and the young widow of one of the brothers trying to make sense of their loss and move on. I remember watching this as a kid and teasing my mom as she sobbed through a good portion of the movie.

We were at a prayer meeting this winter where they asked that anyone in need of healing come to the side for prayer. My youngest son quickly found our foster baby and took him over, explaining to the adults in what ways his little brother needed healing. Then my son laid his hands on Baby J. and prayed over him right along with everyone else. I felt the tears leaking down my face.

A short time later an old song began to play, one from back in the seventies when my parents first came to Christ. I looked over and noticed a woman around their age who is wracked with Alzheimer's. Her face was full of joy as, with lifted arms, she bounced on the balls of her feet singing that praise song to Jesus without even looking toward the screen for the words. Blessed moments of lucidity enabled her to do once more what God created her for –be in communion with him. More tears on my cheeks.

And then they played Meggie’s song. Sometimes I can hear it and even sing along, not that Sunday. As I hurried from the room, the tears ran for the third time. In the bathroom I splashed cold water on my face. Studying my red eyes in the mirror, I realized sheepishly that I had become the very thing I had always teased my mother for being --a crier. I bet if I watched The Fighting Sullivans today, I would be sobbing, too.

Why do we consider tears a sign of weakness? Why do we feel this need to display only strength? Life is hard. Life can be sad. Life moves us. It’s okay to cry. Will people really think us weaker for our tears? Or will they find us more human? A random stranger I once met at the library shared with me about the still birth of her third child. We sat there in the midst of toys and kids with tears streaming down our faces as she related her pain and loss. Did she think less of me because of my tears? Did I of her? Of course not.

I’m learning that tears are just one of the tools God gives us to express our humanity, and while at times we do need to hide them, often it is okay to let them flow.

A Desperate Need

Fri, 17 Jan 2014 02:13:00 GMT

Washtenaw County currently has about 300 children in foster care and a desperate shortage of foster homes. Our licensing workers call us semi-regularly asking for names of anyone we know who might be interested in fostering, anyone at all.

When a child or children cannot be placed in a home several things happen. First the caseworkers start calling homes that are less and less ideal for that child. An ill-fitted placement is better than no placement at all. Sibling groups have to be separated. Kids are put in homes that will take them temporarily and then will be moved multiple times as a long term placement is located.

While these things are bad, two are worse. The first is this: Kids who can’t be placed, even young ones, will be sent to a homeless shelter overnight and a placement will be sought again the next day. The second is this: Many, many teenagers are being placed in group homes, essentially modern day orphanages. In the words of a Navigator I spoke with in November, “If they weren’t already damaged, the group home will damage them real quick.”

When the subject of foster home shortages came up at a recent foster parent training I asked why they thought that this might be. Without a pause, the three Foster Care Navigators agreed that it is because Washtenaw County is such an affluent area. “Wow,” I thought, “how very backward.” But, I don’t believe that it is necessarily that the well-to-do are less compassionate; I think that, perhaps, they are less aware of foster care and the needs of foster children. Occasionally, I meet grown adults, people in their 40’s and 50’s, who don’t even know what foster care is.

Many object to allowing foster children to be placed in homes with same sex couples. Our foster parent support group contains about 30% such couples. There is a serious need for homes, and these are some of the people who have come forward to serve. Perhaps those with objections might choose to volunteer as well?

So, how do we find the needed homes? I did a quick internet search and found a list of 187 churches in Washtenaw County. Given that so many foster kids come in sibling groups, just one foster family from each church would solve our county’s problem.

People offer many excuses to me for why they don’t do foster care. They don’t need to. Each person’s life choices are between them and God, they don’t need to justify them to me any more than I need to justify mine to them. I understand that many people can’t do foster care for any number of very real and valid reasons. But, I do want to quickly address two things I hear quite a bit.

“I could never love a child that isn’t my own.” Believe me when you see that little face for the first time, and know that you are the only one the child has, the only one who will protect and battle for him, the love comes real fast. Plus, it is okay if the feeling of love doesn’t quickly arrive, love is a choice that we make and show with our actions.
“I could never bear to have them go.” I will be the first to tell you that the pain of losing a child is the most excruciating thing I have ever experienced, but that doesn’t mean that the children don’t need us. Additionally, many foster children become available for adoption and their foster families can become their forever families.

Three hundred kids in our county are hurting, grieving at being separated from their homes, abused and neglected. They deserve love and care every bit as much as our own children. I would love to see a county known for its affluence also become known for its compassion.

(The easiest way to pursue foster parenting in Michigan is contacting a foster care navigator: www.fcnp.org 1.888.335.3882.)

Ten Reasons to Sit in the Front Row

Tue, 26 Nov 2013 22:55:00 GMT

When it comes to church, our family used to be solid back row dwellers, so much so that if the back row of the sanctuary wasn’t open, we would lurk uncomfortably in the aisle trying to figure out what to do.

“Let’s go out to breakfast instead.”

“Maybe if we stare at them long enough they’ll feel uncomfortable and move somewhere else. There are plenty of seats up front.”

“Kids, stand over there and cough a lot.”

About five years ago we made a decision to move up front so that our kids could better see and follow the service. It actually has a lot going for it. So, here’s my ten reason countdown on why everyone should sit in the front row:

10. First lips on the common cup. Now, I’m not saying how the rest of the congregation feels about us with our six kids getting to the cup first, but I figure we aren’t getting any germs.

9. Access to the altar. My preschool aged daughter can dance out into the aisle and right on up across the stage where she has plenty of room to show off her moves while Daddy chases her back toward our seats with a baby in each arm. This also gives everyone a nice chance to see the striped red snowflake tights that she paired with a hot pink tutu, a rainboot and a tennis shoe.

8. Being near the musicians. Our baby loves to crawl full tilt to the drums, which someone had the foresight to put inside a baby gate. That is what that’s for isn’t it? Now, if we could just get a pen for the piano, too…

7. No one is sleeping. When the pastor is that close, you keep your eyes open through the sermon.

6. The kids get a lot more exercise. No matter how many times I mention that it might be preferable to walk sedately to and from your seats when there is a church service in session, my kids feel the need to make the journey at a run. After trips to the bathroom, children’s church, to get a tissue, and to see if their offering is in their coat pocket, they can check ‘exercise’ off their to do lists when they get home.

5. Easier escapes from the angel choir. Not only can you actually hear the little angels singing from up front, but when one of our little angels decided to squat down and walk back to us mid-chorus, he didn’t have far to travel in that awkward position.

4. Real life nativity. When the large empty manger is set up for advent, and it’s just sitting right there in front of you, what preschooler can resist the urge to run up, climb in and play baby Jesus? And what older brother can stop himself from placing a new little sibling in it?

3. You can sing as loudly as you want. When there is no one in front of you, you can belt out every ill placed note at full volume, especially helpful during renditions of O Holy Night.

2. More exercise for parents, too. Of course, this kind of exercise is not so much physical and more in the area of character building. As you walk all the way up the aisle with a baby leaking yellow goo from his diaper, or a toddler shrieking “I’m ready to be good!! I’m ready to be good!!” everyone else gets to watch the show, giving you a great chance to exercise patience and humility.

[caption id="attachment_453" align="alignright" width="300"] They have front row seats on Christmas morning when the manger is no longer empty.[/caption]

1. The kids can see what is happening. They can better follow the service. This leads to great stage-whispered discussions right in the middle of the service, “Hey, mom, I think the pastor just got spit on those people over there! Maybe we should sit further back…”

While I say “up front,” we aren’t actually in the front row. We sit in more like the third or fourth row. There just happens to rarely be anyone in front of us. So, there is plenty of room up here for everyone else. If you do decide to move on up, don’t worry I’ll try to reign in my tendencies toward reason number three.

The Case for Siblings

Mon, 04 Nov 2013 21:48:00 GMT

I have gotten the impression that some people think big families are accidents, as if the parents are a bit simple and just haven’t figured out how these things work, so they didn’t manage to stem the flow of children before it got embarrassing, kind of like when you wait too long to fix your cat and suddenly have ten kittens that need homes.

My husband and I each come from families with seven children. There were times as a kid when I was embarrassed to have so many siblings. I would go through sibling by sibling and try to pick which ones I didn’t want so that our family could be a more normal size. I always arrived at the same conclusion: that I liked each one and would keep them after all. When Matt and I were dating we said that we would have two to four children. We currently have two plus four children, to quote my father, “we figure it’s a good start to a family.”

It saddens me to see fewer couples choosing to have large families because coming from a big family has been an amazing blessing for me. My brother and sisters are my best friends. They are the ones I call when I need to share or laugh and when I can’t handle my grief. Beside Matt they are the ones who held me as we lost our babies last year, and they packed up the nursery so that I wouldn’t have to come home and stare into the empty cribs. After the gift of life, the greatest gift my parents ever gave me was the gift of my siblings.

It’s a gift I wanted to give my children. Our siblings share histories, parents, and memories with us in ways that no one else ever could. That helps them understand us like no one else does.

Big families are often big by design and not by accident. When my second son was born, and I lay in the hospital bed snuggling his little body in my arms, I felt that my family was complete. But, I soon found that I couldn’t justify leaving my children with just one sibling simply because I didn’t like pregnancy, labor, or lack of sleep. I struggled with this again after our daughter was born. I had my little girl. I could dress her up and teach her to sew. We would do everything together and be best friends. Family complete.

About this time one of my husband’s aunts died, leaving behind an only child, a daughter who said that in losing her mother she had lost her best friend. I realized that, if life followed a natural course, I would probably die about thirty years before my daughter, leaving her as devastated as Matt’s cousin. I knew that what she really needed was a best friend much closer to her age, otherwise known as a sister. Fortunately, God thought so, too, and we arrived at five.

As the average family continues to shrink in size, fewer people understand the unique dynamics of a big family. Relationships form differently. Here are some of my observations:

Forming bonds with siblings is just as important, if not more so, than forming them with parents. A child’s siblings will hopefully be around long after the parents have passed. Where the mother of one child may sit with her child on her lap and read a story, the mother of many will sit and read the story with two kids on her lap, one on each side, one hanging over the back of the couch, and one on the floor chewing on her foot. Those children are bonding with their mom, just like the only child, but they are also bonding with one another (well not so much the foot chewer but he’ll get there as he grows).
Big families develop kids with character. Because mom or dad cannot give each child their full attention all the time big sisters teach little brothers to tie their shoes. Big brothers teach little sisters to make cookies. The older child is learning responsibility, patience and leadership as the younger child is learning a new skill. By necessity everyone learns to share and wait their turn.
Children with lots of siblings are often very independent. Because the parents can’t be and do everything for them, they give the child freedom in things that are less important, and the kids learn to solve their own problems. While this can result in trips to grocery shop with two kids in backward pants and mismatched shoes, one dressed in a dinosaur costume, and another with a tutu on her head. The kids learn to make their own choices and the parent to let the little things go.
These kids end up with relationship skills. Each day each child in a big family is going to need to relate to each other child and their parents. That gives them some serious people skills --eventually.

When a friend asks me if I think that she should have another child I tell her two things. First of all, that she may regret NOT having another child, but will never regret having him. Secondly, I tell her that while love doesn’t divide but it multiplies, time does the opposite. The more children you have, the less time you have for each one individually. So, you need to be willing to sacrifice in other areas to have time for your kids. I wish I had added a third bit of advice: Another sibling is one of the greatest gifts you can give your children.

Champion Homemaker

Thu, 29 Aug 2013 03:15:00 GMT

Last week I won the Chelsea Homemaker of the Year Award at the Chelsea Fair. Now, anyone who knows me well knows that public recognition embarrasses the bejeebers out of me. I hid with a scarlet face behind Baby J, while they bedecked me in a sash and crown and gave me flowers and a plaque. Then, I was careful not to tell anyone and grateful that no one I knew was at the ceremony. This worked well until my husband absconded with my computer and Kindle, updated my Facebook status, and refused to return my electronics until he somehow made it so that I can’t delete it. I will now be changing my password to Mattisarat and putting my icy feet on his belly in the middle of the night for the remainder of his life (which may be short.)

Soon after I got the phone call to be sure I was at the award ceremony, I walked into the girls’ room and stepped SPLAT! into something cold and squishy, yet curiously crunchy. On opening the window shade I found that my usually well behaved three year old had made a fish pond in the middle of her bedroom carpet with water and goldfish crackers. I hopped off to the bathroom on my heels, navigating around laundry piles to rinse my foot. The irony was not lost on me as I, potentially homemaker of the year, scrubbed wet cheese crackers out of the cream colored carpet. Used to such things, the kids didn’t even ask what the maniacal laughter was all about.

[caption id="attachment_422" align="alignleft" width="225"] Me in my far finery beside the weed that is taller than I am.[/caption]

As I went through my day I noticed that one of the weeds in the garden by the front door was taller than me. The three year old (of fish pond fame) had decorated her face with a Sharpie and looked like a cross between Hitler and Edward Teach. Someone had used a thumbtack to stab decorative designs in the bathroom wall. There seemed to be something growing on the table behind the fish tank, and the chinchilla had chewed huge gouges in the window sill behind his cage. I was wearing socks that said Monday, when it was clearly Wednesday, or was it Thursday? If I was going to wear the wrong socks, why did I pick Monday? (I guess Monday would be a more formidable barrier between my feet and wet sticky goldfish than, say, Saturday.) Glancing in the mirror I saw I hadn’t brushed my hair yet and yesterday’s mascara was giving me a raccoony quality that might lead to the dogs trying to chase me up a tree. Homemaker of the year? I thought, starting to giggle again. It was a good thing the judges for the fair didn’t make house calls.

I found the whole episode a good reminder that everyone has a certain face they allow to be seen. We post about our anniversary and our wonderful spouse, homeschooling and our perfect children, the vacations we take and the friends we were with, giving the impression of a perfect life. It’s important to remember that the face a person chooses to show in public is not the full picture. Everyone suffers and has trials; it’s how God grows us.

As I stood at the fair looking at the blue ribbon beside a picture I had entered of baby Jenn, I thought again how it’s so easy to tell half the story. The judges, the people passing by see a blue eyed beauty, never dreaming of the pain and loss that go with the picture. I looked over at the dress I made that won grand champion and thought that it didn't tell the full story of dinners going uncooked and dishes undone while I sewed all those tiny beads on by hand.

And, you know? I think it’s fine that people often share only the positive, maybe even preferable. Can you imagine if you looked at your feed and saw: “Had a huge fight with my husband this morning; why did I ever marry that jerk!” “My teenager just got arrested for public indecency; Anyone know a good lawyer?” “I gained fifteen pounds on vacation; check out this picture of my belly rolls!”? People would be clicking “like” a lot less often. I just think it is important to remember that we are getting the edited version and not assume that someone else is a better person or has an easier and happier life than we do. Inside the shoes of the person receiving that Champion Homemaker plaque may be wet cracker covered socks that say Monday.

Don't Be Job's Wife

Fri, 17 May 2013 02:13:00 GMT

We’re all familiar with the story of Job, but do you know what I noticed when reading his story the other day? Everything of value is taken from him, and yet he STILL HAS HIS WIFE. It kind of makes you wonder what kind of woman she was because apparently leaving her with him was more of a test for Job than taking her away.

As it is she barely gets three mentions in the book. First of all she appears in Job 2:9. She looks at him in his distress and makes her infamous statement “curse God and die.” If ever Job needed a kind word, sympathetic ear, and warm hug, now was the time. Yet, she comes rolling in with her bad advice, probably leaving him gritting his teeth and wondering why he ever married her in the first place. I guess we’re starting to see why Satan left her around.

Next she shows up in 19:17 where Job says “My breath is offensive to my wife.” So, I’m reading this to say that poor Job is mourning the loss of everything he holds dear, and his wife is complaining about his breath. Hmm.

The last time she gets a mention is in 31:9-10 where Job says that he has been faithful to his wife. It’s funny, these days I don’t think most people would really fault Job if he cheated on a woman like this, but he didn’t. He stuck with her when things were hard. Because he was righteous. Because he wanted to please God. Good job, Job.

I look at this story and want to be nothing like Job’s wife. I want to be the thing that my husband values the most after God. I want him to say, “Gee, I lost my house, my property, my camels, sheep, donkey and goats. I’m covered in festering sores, but I still have her so I’m doing pretty well.” Or in modern day language, “Work sucked today, my boss yelled at me, I got a ticket on the way home and there are all these bills I can’t hope to pay, but I know that she’s there waiting for me, so everything is going to be okay.” I want to be the one who lifts him up when things are bad, to be there with a kind word, a sympathetic ear and a warm hug. And if his breath is offensive, I don’t really need to let him know that.

How Do I Raise This Child!?

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 00:55:00 GMT

My youngest son is that child that you know will do amazing things, if only he survives to adulthood. He is responsible for every gray hair on my head, wrinkle on my face, and my future heart condition.

He’s the kid who cut his own hair, not once, but seven times! Who drew a path with blue marker across his grandmother’s entire house --cherry floors, carpet, and tile-- so that I would have a trail to follow to find him. He’s the one who put dish soap rather than dish detergent in the dishwasher because he wanted to see what would happen –twice. He’s the boy who put all manner of things --toys, bars of soap, pears-- down the toilet causing my dad and me to become experts at removing and replacing toilets, the boy who, upon getting locked in a sun-room, broke three windows to get out (good-bye $700.00), the boy who regularly loses frogs, salamanders, spiders, and toads inside my house, and who inadvertently released several mice in my parents’ living room which were never seen again. The boy who ran away from home to the backyard, packing all of his favorite stuffed animals, but no food, and then tried to start a fire and catch a squirrel with a homemade spear for dinner.

He’s the boy who has flooded the kitchen four times, flooded the bathroom until water came out the kitchen can lights (on the day of our foster care home study), and just last week flooded the laundry room, turning his bedroom into a swamp and the living room ceiling fan into an unusual water feature.

At two he could get childproof lids open and childproof door knob covers off faster than I could. At three he peed in the pantry and thought I should be pleased because he was careful to miss the food. At age five he freed his friend’s pet goldfish –all over her bedroom carpet. At six he wouldn't eat cake or ice cream unless it had broccoli on it. By age eight he could argue any point and make the most ridiculous argument sound plausible, a trait he still carries.

He’s a boy with an amazing ability to survive. When he falls out of a tree, his fall is always slowed by the lower branches, allowing him to escape with mere scratches. When he wrapped the rope swing around his neck, climbed a tree, slipped and fell, he just walked away with rope burn on his neck. When he broke through thin ice, the water was only a foot deep. He’s put in several valiant, but unsuccessful, attempts at drowning and is the only one of all the cousins to be fished out of the ocean by a lifeguard. It took three serious falls on his head before he actually got a concussion, and he’s never had stitches or a broken bone. My theory is that he has a whole team of line-backer sized guardian angels, oh yeah, and a lot of people praying for him.

He’s also the boy who knows how to take care of a baby and everything there is to know about chinchillas, who leads his little cousins in Bible study, who cooks breakfast for his little sisters, who writes stories and praise songs, who likes to plant beautiful things in his garden. He’s the boy who cries when he finds a dead baby mouse, and he’s the one to grab a camera and run down the street with me to get a picture of the hay bales at sunset.

And while some days are hard, I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

Flying with Kids

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 03:18:00 GMT

On Sunday we flew home from Florida with our five kids. To add to the general excitement, ten of our nieces and nephews (13 and under) were on the flight as well. When the flight attendants offered $800 in vouchers, a first class ticket on tomorrow’s flight, a hotel stay and meal vouchers to anyone willing to give up their seat, you would have thought that the rest of the passengers would have taken a good look at all our kids and stampeded one another to get back off the plane. Heck, I considered it.

The first thing I do when getting to our seats on a plane is ask the person sitting between me and one of my kids to trade seats with my two year old nephew who has been assigned a seat twenty rows away with strangers. Any sane person looks at my arms full of baby and legs clad in three year old and decides that twenty rows away from us is the place they want to be. Even if it is a middle seat. (Last time I flew the woman next to us sneaked off and got a nice older gentleman to switch seats with her –failing to mention that he would now be sitting next to a six month old.) Then I have my nephew switch seats with my teenager so that the nephew is with his parents and my teenager can help with the baby. Next, I hand the baby to him and scour every surface with disinfecting wipes: the lights, the trays, the seats, the seatbelts, the windows. I draw the line at the other passengers, no matter how dirty they appear.

One thing I will never understand is why the flight attendants come around and give all the kids brimming drinks during the flight. First of all, sugaring kids up and then requiring them to sit in a space the size of a postage stamp? That’s not going to end well. Secondly, why is the cup always full? What person in their right mind gives a three year old a full cup of anything, even on the ground? If there is ever a time for the glass to be half empty, this is it. Yet, they do it on a bouncing plane. They should at least hand out stacks of napkins with the drinks and save themselves the trouble of returning moments later for the clean-up. Thirdly, and most obviously, giving kids drinks leads to bathroom trips, something to be avoided on an airplane at all costs.

There is something about kids and public bathrooms—the smaller and dirtier the bathroom, the more time they want to spend in it. We have two smaller daughters who must investigate the bathroom at least once anywhere we go. So, mid-flight I jostled our way to the back of the plane, waited in line while pretending not to understand my three year old’s steady stream of, “Mommy, that man has a big tummy! Is there a baby in him’s tummy? Can mans be mommy’s, too? Can I see his tummy button?” Once in the mirco-loo I immediately noticed that, as usual, someone had mistakenly believed he could stand and aim through the turbulence. So, I busted out my wipes and gave the bathroom the most thorough going over it’s had since the last time I flew, all the while telling my daughter, “Just hold it a minute longer. No, don’t touch that. Ew, get off the gross floor! Don’t open the door. I don’t know what that compartment is for...” Then, I mummified the commode in toilet tissue for good measure.

Having recently read about a grown man slapping the two year old beside him on a flight, I was ready for the worst, but the people on this flight were pretty tolerant. They willingly switched seats to help our families sit closer together. No one even sent nasty looks our way when one of my nieces took up shrieking at the top of her lungs for a portion of the flight. I wish that all our fellow travelers were so kind.

I remember the first time I flew with one of my kids. It was just twenty year old me and two month old Sean. The woman who had the other seat in our row arrived, looked upon my little darling with disgust and dismay and promptly pushed the call button. She informed the flight attendant that she would not fly next to a screaming baby (He was asleep.) and demanded to be moved. Sean slept thorough the flight, and I had the luxury of spreading my things across the empty seat beside to me.

My favorite nasty flight mate was a woman who looked at me getting into the row behind her with two year old Joey. She stood up, gaping in horror, and demanded that I “not let that kid kick her seat for the entire flight.” I told her I couldn’t give her any guarantees and that she should probably ask to have her seat moved. Once buckled, Joey’s feet didn’t come near to reaching her seat back, and I mostly resisted the urge to spend the flight kicking her seat myself.

We’ve had two men brace the seat back so that the kids couldn’t recline their seats. Another time a man was watching inappropriate movies on his computer with the kids right beside him. Another creepy man sat reading a romance novel and licking his lips.

Last January, our twelve year old got upgraded to first class, an adventure even I haven’t had. On rejoining us at the gate he proudly announced:

“It was awesome! Every time I pressed the button they brought me Snickers!”

“Fun size, I hope?”

“Nope! A whole plate of big ones, but I only took two each time.”

“And how many times did you push the button?”

“Um, maybe four.”

“I see.”

“Did you get some for us?” his little brother asked.

“Oh, oops, I ate them already. Um, I’ll be sure to get more next time.”

Flying as a family is fun and always an adventure, wondering what the other passengers are going to do next, and how many more trips it will be before my kids realize that mommy dressing them all in their matching tie-dye shirts for airport trips might actually be a little dorky. We always have to ride the trams at least twice, sitting in the front every time. An empty moving sidewalk must always be run down the wrong way until someone arrives who wants to use it as it’s intended. The airline always breaks our stroller, and we inevitably leave something at security. It all comes down to the simple fact that flight, like life, with kids is just more of an adventure.

Mountain Top Moments

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 06:05:00 GMT

Before my junior year in high school I went with my church youth group on a mission trip to Colorado. I vividly remember one Sunday morning our youth leaders maneuvered the two white fifteen passenger vans up a steeply winding road to the summit of Pike’s Peak. We tumbled out of the vans into the thin atmosphere, sky so blue it made your eyes ache. The piles of snow scattered about belied the warm June morning. We came together for a homegrown church service, just a few Bible verses followed by a song. As we chorused Amazing Grace we were one with our maker, on the top of the world, young and unashamed. And a remarkable thing happened, those who were on the mountain with us joined the song. The voices of our brothers and sisters in Christ, people we won’t likely meet until the next life, co-mingling their voices with ours in praise and gratitude to our savior. As the song ended we all nodded, smiling to each other before going our separate ways.

Thanks to my dad, I’ve been hiking up mountains for as long as I remember. As children, my brother and I would trot along ahead of him, hopping over mossy logs and slippery rocks, racing to the mountain top. Once, when I was about ten, I twisted my ankle. My dad carried me down the mountain all the way to the car.

We still climb, but not as nimbly as before. It would be so much easier to leave the kids home with Grandma, and sometimes we do. But, we want to share that mountain top experience with them. Typically, my husband wears a backpack with the toddler. I carry the baby. The bigger kids trot along ahead, wondering that Mom needs yet another break. But, eventually we make it there; the whole family standing together on the top of Blue Ridge Mountain, sweaty and panting, taking in a view that makes the climb worth it.

Mountain top moments aren’t simply for, well, mountain tops. God is showing me that they happen every day, if you pause to look for them. I had one just a few hours ago. I rocked the baby in my arms, cuddling him long after sleep had reclaimed him, and felt so much joy and gratitude that God would bring him to me and count me worthy to love him and be the mother he needs for that moment. These moments are God’s gifts. He surrounds us with them, if only we take the time to see, and they carry us through when we find ourselves back in the valley. Those valleys can be hard to navigate but we know that our daddy, be he earthly or heavenly, will be there to carry us whenever we need him.

The "Massager"

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 03:06:00 GMT

As we left the hospital with Baby J. the nurse told us to bring everything on the counter; they would just throw it out if we didn’t. So, I upended the pink plastic medical bin into a bag and didn’t look in the bag again until we got home.

My husband Matt was holding the baby, my sister Jenny making dinner, the kids circling me with interest to see what treasures I had brought from the hospital. (You know, besides a baby). I pulled out five tubes of antibiotic ointment, about twenty syringes, blue gloves, adhesive tape and then a long cylinder of some sort with one tapered end and a twist on lid on the other. A flashlight? I twisted the end, but no light came on, instead it started to shake. I looked at my sister confused. She began to laugh.

“Is this what I think it is?” I asked.

“Um, yup, I think so,” she laughed, “When Ella was in the hospital they rubbed one on her back to help loosen the gunk in her lungs.”

“Huh. Yeah, J. did have breathing trouble there for a while.”

“Hey, what’s that thing?” one of the kids asks, “A toothbrush?”

“Uhhh… no.”

Another comes over and looks at it with interest.

“Ooh, it’s a back massager!” He takes it, turns it on and trots over to my husband where he starts running it up and down his father’s back between the slats of the rocking chair. Ever the mature mother of five, I nearly collapse on the floor giggling.

“Let me try!”

“No it’s my turn!”

“You got the gloves, I get the back massager!”

“Um, it’s not exactly a back massager.”

“What is it then?”

“Yes, honey,” Matt chimed in, “What is it then?”

I glared at him, paused, and decided that after an earlier conversation on hemorrhoids, (Which ended in a vehement declaration from one of my sons of, “Wow, I had NO idea that pooping could be so dangerous!”) I was not even going to try to explain this one to the kids.

“I think we’re going to keep the batteries and throw that away.” I tell them.

“What? Why?!”

“Oh, I think they can keep it, honey,” Matt says with his classic mischievous grin.

“Everyone will think it’s mine!”

“You can have it, Mommy,” one child held it out most generously.

Now, Matt was the one laughing.

I came downstairs this morning to find our three year old running it up and down the dog’s back. Later one of my son’s was rubbing it on his sore neck. Throughout the day it cropped up in odd places, often causing the kids to ask why mommy was grinning. Amazingly, when rubbed on J.’s back, it did lull him right to sleep.

And the highlight of my day was during Bible study when my sister, Cathy, was praying blessings on Baby J. and my five year old walked up behind her and started rubbing a “personal massager” all over her unsuspecting aunt’s shoulders.

Called to Let Go

Sat, 10 Nov 2012 01:49:22 GMT

I hold her close against my chest long after she surrenders to sleep, cherishing these precious moments with the daughter whom I have only a few more days with…

When we brought baby Jennifer home from the hospital there was every indication that we would be adopting her. The months passed. The certainty grew, as did her place in our hearts. With her gregarious personality and happy chortle she became an integral part of our lives. Then, her parents changed their minds. A terrible caseworker combined with an apathetic lawyer in an overtaxed foster and court system to make a perfect storm of a foster care mess.

But, through it all God protected this baby. He used us to meet her needs in ways which no one else could. Now, we have just a short time left with her, and as I rock her to sleep I wonder: How do you fit a lifetime of love into a few short days, especially knowing that she may never experience it again? How do I let go and trust that God can care for her without my help?

Time passes and the night wears on. Jenn sighs in her sleep and lays her little fist against my chest. I stroke her tiny fingers one at a time trying to memorize the little dimples in each knuckle, the tiny pink nails, the chubby fingers. Once again, I ask Him to protect her. Then I gently tuck her into her crib and place her teddy close, making the sign of the cross on her forehead before slowly turning away. And I thank him for the 8 months that we’ve had, for the gift of these last few days to say good-bye. And I quietly shut the door.