Who He Was Created to Be

After waiting for a few minutes in the waiting room, we hear our name being called and follow the click-clack of the woman’s heels down the hall towards her office.  She motions for us to take a seat on the other side of her desk, offering us coffee.  Commenting on the weather.  Asking if we were able to find a spot in the parking deck across the street without too much trouble.  She is obviously trying to be polite and make us feel comfortable, but I am impatient and ready to get down to business.  We are here for answers, not small talk.

Finally, she sits behind her desk and hands us a thick stack of papers, neatly bound together with a large binder clip.  It my first hint that this meeting is not going to be quick.  Or that the news inside these documents is not going to be good.  I had been secretly hoping that she would give us a single sheet of paper, one that said something simple like, Your child’s test scores all came back in the “normal” range, and you have absolutely nothing to worry about.  Have a nice day!  But of course my secret hopes were entirely unrealistic.  We wouldn’t have requested these evaluations in the first place unless we had suspected that something was seriously wrong.  The thick stack of papers is a professional’s report, confirming and articulating in technical terminology what we already know to be true.

She starts talking about the report, explaining some of the details and diagnoses.  You know how, when Charlie Brown’s teacher talks, all you can hear is Wah wah, wah wah, wah wah wah instead of the actual words?  That is exactly what this feel like.  I can hear this woman’s voice, and I know she is saying actual words, but I am unable to understand any of it through the fog of shock.  How can these words be describing our child?

Seeing our child’s weaknesses and struggles right here in black and white, complete with specific codes from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5), is sobering and heart-breaking.  What parents want to read a document that officially declares that their child is deficient? What parents want to admit that their child is fundamentally flawed? Abnormal?  Broken?

The Promise

Once upon a time, many, many Sundays ago, I walked into the sanctuary just a few minutes before the service started, and sat down next to some friends of mine.  They started joking, No, no, this will never work.  We need to sit boy-girl-boy-girl.  You know, because that’s how mature we all were in our 20’s.  After a little bit of shuffling and rearranging, I ended up sitting next to the very guy that my friend had been wanting me to meet.  

All summer and autumn, my friend had been telling me, You need to meet my fiancé’s roommate. I think you would really like him!  My answer back to her was always the same:  I don’t want you to introduce us or set us up or plan a blind date.  If God wants me to meet him, we will meet.

And unbeknownst to me, my friend’s fiancé had been telling his roommate for months and months: You need to meet my fiancée’s friend.  I think you would really like her! His roommate’s answer was always the same:  I don’t want you to introduce us or set us up or plan a blind date.  If God wants me to meet her, we will meet.

Well, there we were that Sunday in November, sitting right next to each other in church.  Apparently, God did want us to meet!

He turned to me and introduced himself, shaking my hand, and then said probably the most original “pick-up line” that has ever been spoken:  So, I hear you want to be a missionary!  Yes, as a matter of fact, I did want to be a missionary.  He had heard correctly!  

That was my heart’s desire . . . to spend my life doing something amazing for God. To tell others about Jesus.  To love and serve and give all of myself, no matter what, no matter where.  And the thought of finding someone else who had the same passion in his heart?  My friend and her fiancé were right . . . this guy and I would really like each other!

And the rest, as they say, is history.  Only seven months later, on a warm day in the middle of June, I walked down the aisle, and that guy became my husband.  We promised to love each other in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or worse, until death parted us.  We were excited to see what the future held for us.  We were excited to see where God was going to ask us to go!

Bleed

It’s an ordinary evening in every way.  I am standing in front of the stove cooking dinner for my family when my phone chimes, alerting me of an incoming message.  I glance at the screen, assuming for a second that it is most likely my husband, letting me know that he is on his way home from work.  But when I read the words on my screen, even before my mind fully processes them, my heart, always leading out in front, stops for a beat or two.   I have been expecting this news for a few days now, but here it is in black and white, a simple text that will forever alter the course of my foster son’s life.   It is confirmation that he will be leaving.

I turn off the stove – because even in my shock, I am perpetually responsible – lower myself to the floor in a near-fetal position, and bawl my eyes out.  This year-long season of pouring out and loving and serving and becoming exhausted and sacrificing everything for this child’s well-being.  This season is over.  

This is not how I wanted it to end.  I wanted to be the rescuer.  To remove him from his brokenness and be a part of his healing process.  I had hoped that there would be a happily ever after.  I had prayed, countless times, begging God over and over again to please, please do a miracle.  A miracle that never came.

Walking in the Rain

The first hint of worry about the impending storm surfaced in my heart, but I ignored it, convinced that I could weather it just fine.  After all, I was confident and capable.  It would take more than a little rain cloud to quench my faith.

The rain began, innocently enough, with tiny droplets of water, only a light mist of disappointments.  Not all that concerning.  But then the rain began in earnest, quickly drenching me completely.  A foster child so traumatized and damaged, that my very best efforts were utterly unable to help him heal.  A dreaded medical diagnosis that taught me what it means to truly fear.  A grown child who has chosen a different path, leaving me shocked and devastated, sobbing into my pillow at night, wondering what went wrong.   It wasn’t long before the light sprinkles became a steady downpour, a deluge of wind and driving rain, and I could no longer pretend that my faith was strong.

God, if You are even listening at all, why have You led me to this dark and lonely place?  My faith is so weak!  And if I’m deeply honest, I’m pretty sure I might be losing my faith altogether.  You promise that You will work all things together for good, but how can this, this downpour, be for my good?   I have cried out to You again and again to please help me be strong, and yet day after day, year after year, You remain silent.

This journey has indeed tested my faith almost to the breaking point.  I have been discouraged so many times, disappointed in myself that the trials of this journey have proven – to me and to everyone who knows me - that my faith is not very strong at all!

But what option do I have?  Give up?  Hide?  Do nothing?  Let the darkness win?  If I did that, what would I say?  Sorry, I can’t serve you today; it’s raining.  Sorry, I can see that you are drowning, but I can’t help you into the lifeboat; I’m too discouraged.  Of course not!  I think of King David who described his "downcast" soul and the tears that soaked his pillow.  Clearly he walked in the rain, and yet God called him - and equipped him - to rule an entire nation!

But how?  How can I keep loving the children the Lord has brought into our family?  How can I keep ministering to the least of these?  How can I keep serving and giving and doing?  How can I keep walking in the rain?  

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. 

He Knew You

From the very second you were created, in that moment when they came together in the darkness in the place where they thought no one would see them, when they were madly in love with one another – from that very first moment of your life when you were just the size of a poppy seed, He knew you.

He knew you when they found out that you were growing inside that most secret place, when you were just the size of an apple seed.  He knew how they would react when they found out.  It may have been an unplanned surprising shock to them, but it was never a surprise to Him.  Even then He was the One who was writing your story.  His timing, His Hand forming your heart and stomach and intricate digestive system, crafted every detail with perfect precision.

When you were about the size of a green olive, He was sculpting your facial features, shaping those tiny ears and that little nose that are uniquely yours.  Your heartbeat was strong enough to be heard on the doctor’s machines. 

I Didn't Know

I didn’t know, until I first felt his little hand tucked securely into mine, how much love my heart could contain.  A passionate, fierce, intense love.  A love so acute that it was almost painful.  A love that nearly took my breath away.

I didn’t know, when the Lord saw my empty arms, when I begged him for a child, for an opportunity to be a mother, to imprint my life upon the life of another, that this was the child He had chosen for me.  This charming, magnetic child who attracted people’s notice wherever he went.  Who would walk into a room and instantly meet his next best friend.  Who would go outside early in the morning so that he could knock on the new neighbors’ door and ask, “Do you have any kids my age?”  This bright, curious boy who taught himself to read when he was four years old.  Who carefully drew up architectural plans for his LEGO blocks, and made sure that the plans were followed accurately.  Who chose as his topic for his essay: “The Difference Between Alchemy and Nuclear Fusion.”  (Sorry, buddy.  If you want my help with your homework, you’re going to have to pick a different topic.  Or go ask your father.)

Never Forget

Although I knew that this moment was inevitable, I was still somehow startled when the phone call finally came.  Your social worker, letting me know that you would be leaving our home.  I hung up the phone with a heavy hand and a sinking heart, my mind numb with trying to comprehend what this is going to mean.  How can a mother possibly brace herself to say good-bye to her child?

There is no way I can explain this life-changing event to you, because you are too young to understand good-byes.  One moment you will be in the security of my familiar embrace, completely content and sheltered.   And in the next moment, you will unexpectedly be in the arms of a new, unknown mother.   Will you be scared and confused, wondering where I am?  Will you grieve the loss as much as I will?