Supporting Our Rock

I call him our Rock, because every day he carries our family.  Each one of us depends on him and his solid, unwavering strength.  But a Rock can only stay strong for so long.

After my last blog post, describing how even the strongest Rock can become weary, we were overwhelmed by an outpouring of love!  Many of our friends are asking, What can we do?

It’s not an easy question to answer, because in general, men are hesitant to ask for help.  Even Moses, a Rock for an entire nation, needed someone to help him recognize, You cannot do this by yourself!

We see the story in Exodus 18.  It took Moses from morning until evening to carry out his many responsibilities.  When his father-in-law saw all that he was doing for the people, he said to Moses, What are you doing?  Why are you doing all this alone?  This is not good!  You are wearing yourself out!  This is too heavy for you.  You are not able to do it alone.  Look for able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy, and let them help you. They will bear the burden with you, and you will be able to endure.

In the same way, the Rock in our family has been wearing himself out, supporting me while I battle cancer, taking on many of my responsibilities at home, caring for our children, all while holding down a full-time job.  The words that Moses needed to hear are the same words my husband needs to hear today:  What are you doing?  Why are you doing all this alone?  This is not good!  You are wearing yourself out!  This is too heavy for you.  You are not able to do it alone.  Look for able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy, and let them help you.  They will bear the burden with you, and you will be able to endure.

So, who are these able men, men who fear God, men who are trustworthy?  And how can they help?  Here are just a few ideas, although the possibilities are endless!

Our Rock

I call him the Rock in our family.  Through the many tumultuous years of foster parenting, through the endless challenges of raising children with complicated needs, through deep heartache and pain and loss, and most recently through my vicious battle with Stage 4 cancer . . . through it all he is the one who has remained strong and courageous.  Resolute and steadfast.  Endlessly optimistic and confident.  The one who has never stopped believing in the goodness of God.

I call him our Rock, because every day he carries our family.  He works diligently at his job so that we can have an income, and so that we are provided with much-needed medical insurance.  Every day he faces a stressful job where many people depend on him for direction and decisions.  Decisions worth billions of dollars for his organization.  

After a long and stress-filled day, he comes home to a wife who may or may not be feeling well, who may or may not be crying, who may or may not have enough faith to make it through one more day.  After helping the kids through dinner and their bedtime routine, washing all the dishes, folding the pile of laundry left on the couch, and opening the mail (tasks I struggle to do because of painful and debilitating nerve damage that the cancer has caused in my arm and hand), he then has video-conference meetings with his colleagues who work in different time zones on the other side of the world.  He is the last one to go to bed at night, long after everyone else is asleep.

A Different Story

Because she is unable to adequately care for the needs of her child, the little one has been taken into protective custody, and placed in the safety of my home.  That makes her the villain and me the hero.  She’s the bad mother and I’m the good one.  Right?

How did we get here, exactly?  Her story is so different from mine!

Even before I took my first breath, my story was relatively smooth and straightforward.  While she was born into a fractured and flawed family that sort of limped along, each one managing the best way they knew how, my parents were committed to staying married and raising their children together.  They taught me the meaning of “family,” setting for me an example of faithfulness, love, patience, and enduring hope.  They taught me about healthy relationships and the importance of making responsible decisions. 

How the Impossible . . . Becomes Possible

Somehow, a single day can seem like a lifetime when a child is in the hospital.  When one day of admission turns into several days, and then into several weeks, it’s more like an eternity.  What day is it again?  Time seems to stop and the tears seem to never stop.  It is utterly exhausting, both physically and emotionally. 

After many years of caring for medically-fragile children, children who spend thousands upon thousands of hours in the hospital, you would think I would get used to it.  Nope!  It never gets easier.  There are days – and usually interminable nights – when I cry into the darkness, I can’t do this!  This is impossible! 

Indeed, it is impossible, at least for one person.  There is no way I could continue caring for these precious children with their complicated medical needs if I had to do it alone.  I depend on my community, my “village,” those invaluable friends and neighbors and church family who are ready and willing to step in and offer support when things invariably get overwhelming and difficult.

During these seasons of long hospitalizations, the most common offer I am likely to hear is, If you need anything, please let me know.  I love the openness of that!  The generosity and kind-hearted intent.  The love that those words communicate! 

But honestly, when I am focused on the child in front of me - on the medical complications and the doctor’s prognosis and the long-term implications of this current health concern – and when I am completely drowning trying to balance the time at the hospital with the ongoing responsibilities at home, it becomes almost impossible to articulate what I need.  I search my over-burdened brains for the right words to ask, and come up empty.  All I can think to cry is, Help me!

What I need more than anything, what has encouraged me the most during these stressful days and weeks in the hospital, is a specific offer of help.  When someone is willing to take the initiative, and give or serve or love from the abundance of their heart.

I am so grateful and humbled to be the recipient of so much love!  I can barely begin to count the ways that thoughtfulness has inspired me to not give up on these frail children.  Ways that generosity has encouraged me to press on with this hard calling.  Ways that kindness has made the impossible . . . become possible.

Say the Word

“A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart

and will sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.”

My friend has come for a brief visit this crisp winter morning, although “visit” is a relative term and doesn’t accurately describe our interaction.  It’s hard to have an uninterrupted conversation when there are little ones running around, each one needing something that can’t be postponed.  While my friend sits alone at my kitchen table (in my preoccupation, I may have forgotten to offer a cup of coffee or a glass of water), I change a diaper, refill a sippy cup, start a g-tube feeding, catch the toddler just before he falls backwards off the couch, stop the older one from grabbing his favorite toy away from the baby (and then remind him again of why he needs to keep his toys in his room), clean up spilled Cheerios off the floor, and turn off the feeding pump when the alarm indicates that it is finished. 

The entire time, my friend is sitting there, slightly amused, watching the non-stop chaos that defines the majority of my waking hours.  I try to make light of the situation and say, half-jokingly, the phrase I say many times every day, as if I’m starring in my own video that might be posted online somewhere:  #thisismylife.

To which my friend responds, with barely a hesitation:  It’s the life you chose.

That is the end of the conversation right there.  How can I possibly reply?  It is the life I chose.  When I agreed to care for these foster children, some who have since been adopted into our family, what else did I expect?  A life of spa days and bonbons?

Even so, the comment stings.  I feel like a turtle, safely protected inside my beautifully painted shell, fearful that anyone might see the weak, vulnerable, ugly reptile hiding inside.   In a moment of courage, in hopes of making a connection, I hesitantly stick my head out to assess my surroundings.  To test the waters.  Nope.  It’s not safe.  The grace and compassion I had hoped to find is met, instead, with criticism and judgment.  And so I retreat back into the safety of my shell.  #fakesmile #everythingisfine  I do not say one word.

I received the message loud and clear:  #youchosethislife and #youhavenorighttocomplain and #maybeyoushouldquit. 

It's OK to Grieve

. . . And you live happily ever after.  The end.

The last piece of paper has been given the last stamp of approval, and at last the painful wait is over.  The child you have been dreaming of and praying for all these months is finally home!  Friends are celebrating this glorious and unforgettable event with you.  You are surrounded with shouts of “Congratulations!” and well wishes.  There are welcome-home parties and showers of gifts and friends bringing meals and your extended family coming to visit.  It is a joyous time indeed!

This is the one thing you have longed for more than anything.  This is what you have been preparing for and planning for.  Your dream has finally come true!  Your family finally feels complete.

Where, then, is the happily ever after?  How is it possible for you to feel so sad and overwhelmed?  Where do these tears keep coming from?  These inexplicable emotions add guilt and shame to the confusing mix. 

Of course you cannot possibly say a word to anyone about this.  Who would understand why you are so downcast about a child that should make you so happy?  Who would understand why you would cry when your prayers have finally been answered?  Who would understand your overwhelming emotions when you barely understand them yourself?

We are a Family

As each child’s face flashes across the large screen in the front of the auditorium, each picture more adorable than the one before, everyone in the congregation oohs and ahhs.   The picture of little girl with the pink bow, the bow that attempts to contain her blond curls.  The photo of the sleeping baby boy wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket.   The image of the twins lying end to end like two peas in a pod.  Someone from the tech team had added a beautiful soundtrack to the slideshow – a sweet song about children being treasured gifts from the Lord.  It is so stirring and tender, that a few people here this Sunday have to brush away a tear or two.  There are few creatures more precious than an innocent child.  Few people more proud than a new parent.  Few moments more solemn than when a parent stands in front of the Church and dedicates that child to the Lord.   

When the slideshow ends, the new parents bring their children forward for the dedication ceremony.  These sweet children in real life are even more adorable than their pictures!  Families make their way towards the front of the auditorium.  Grandparents sneak into the aisles to snap pictures.  Others in the audience crane their heads to get a better look.  The children themselves are oblivious to the significance of the occasion.  They are just content to be held in their parents’ arms.

The Path Home

THE PATH OF DEATH

Never in her life had she been so terrified.  So paralyzed by fear that even the simple task of breathing in and out seemed suddenly so difficult that it required her undivided attention.  Her ears barely registered the bird singing in the branch overhead or the cars speeding by on the busy street nearby.  The weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk went unnoticed.   All she could see was the little white building with a faded pink sign that included the words “woman” and “choice.”  She asked herself, How on earth did a good girl like me end up at a place like this?

The story wasn’t supposed to happen this way.  She had thought for sure that it was a romantic love story that would end in happily ever after.  Her beloved had given her true love’s kiss, and had assured her of his commitment.  He was going to carry her off into the sunset.  Into a future bright and full of promise.

But the promises had been shattered, right along with her heart.  Her true love was gone, leaving her with a houseful of small children to raise alone.  Adding another one to the mess simply was not an option. 

So here she was, walking towards the little white building with the faded pink sign, scarcely able to believe that it was really happening.  That her story was going to end in death – not only the death of the heartbeat growing inside her, but also the death of her innocence and naiveté.  The death of a dream.

The Relay Team

Through blurry eyes I pour coffee into my extra-large mug, watching the brown liquid fill to the top, hoping wearily that the caffeine it contains will do its job quickly this morning.  I did not sleep well last night – again.  My precious child sleeping in the room down the hall kept coughing at irregular intervals; his weakened lungs have been fighting germs for several weeks now, germs that refuse to give up and go away.  As much as I would love to cuddle with him on the couch today, nursing him back to health, I simply do not have the time for such luxuries. 

My other little guy, my foster child, has once again managed to fill my calendar today with appointments - appointments which will require the majority of my energy and attention.  I should tell myself to continue pressing on and not give up, knowing that I am being obedient to what the Lord has asked me to do.  But still, it is difficult not to get discouraged.  It is impossible not to be exhausted.

As I quickly check my e-mail inbox before the busy day begins, one particular notification suddenly catches my attention.  It practically jumps off the computer screen and into my lap:  75% off an island getaway.  On this cold January day, under the cloud of sleep-deprivation, with the kitchen clock ticking rapidly towards the incessant demands on my time today, a vacation in the sun sounds absolutely heavenly!

I do feel a momentary twinge of guilt that if I take this trip, it will mean that my husband will need to stay with the children, holding down the fort here at home.  However – true confessions here – we have been taking separate vacations for years.  He takes a few weeks every fall to go hunting with a buddy in the Northwest.  I take a child or two with me on various trips to visit extended family on the West Coast, or to see the sights in some faraway city.  We love to travel . . . just not together.

It is not because we do not love each other passionately.  We do!   It is not because we need to take a break from each other.  How I long to spend more time with him!  The one reason we cannot enjoy vacationing together, the one obstacle that keeps us apart is, sadly, a simple one:  we do not know one person who is able to care for our foster children while we are gone.