Believe For Me

The oncologist has said from the beginning, a year ago now, that because the type of cancer I have is so aggressive and so “angry,” that chemotherapy may not work.  And that because the chemotherapy would be so brutal, so powerful and so toxic, that I may not survive it.

So when I find myself sending urgent messages to her in the middle of the night, practically begging her to please start chemo as soon as possible, it’s because I have become completely desperate.  As the cancer spreads like a raging wildfire throughout my body, the searing pain has become so excruciating, so totally consuming, that I cannot bear it for one more second.  For several weeks I think, surely this the last day.  And I cry out to God, begging Him, please let this be the last day!

Thankfully, the oncologist prescribes pain meds, and when I send her a message again in the middle of the night, begging for something stronger, she responds without delay.  For the past year, she has been my enemy, the voice of doom and gloom and no good options, but suddenly, with one quick stroke of her pen, I love her! 

The next few days after my urgent message to the oncologist, there is a flurry of activity:  bloodwork and scans, getting a port surgically implanted (because the chemo drugs are too toxic to go into my veins), checking my heart to see if it is strong enough to withstand the powerful chemo drugs, verifying insurance information and signing consent forms.  The days are a blur of pain, mental fog and drowsiness from the narcotics, and sleep-deprivation.  I barely remember any of it.

The first chemo infusion is on a Friday, and by Sunday, the terrible side effects I had been warned about kick in fill-force.  Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, mouth sores, difficulty breathing, insomnia, and long strands of hair falling out every time I brush my hair.  And still, I am begging God, please let this be the last day!   

I had wanted so badly to face this with courage.  I had hoped that my faith would be so strong, so unwavering, that nothing, not even this, could weaken it.  That my hope and my joy would withstand these terrible, awful circumstances, and that everyone who sees me would be amazed and inspired to put their hope in God too.  That somehow, God would be glorified in this.

But it’s not like that.  Not at all!  With each new day of increasing and unrelenting pain, I am frustrated and angry that God is ignoring my prayers.  In the middle of the night when even a few minutes of sleep is totally elusive, I just sit in the chair that I have barely moved from for weeks, sobbing and moaning, crying out into the darkness, God where are you?  If you are good, why are allowing this to happen to me?  This just feels cruel.  Why aren’t you doing anything?  Hello?  God?  Are you even listening at all?  The faith that I had hoped would get me through this is completely gone.  Empty.  Not one drop left.

There is a story in Luke 5 of a man just like me.  He was just lying there on his stretcher, unable to help himself, unable to get to Jesus.  His situation was impossible.  He was without hope, most likely wondering why a good God would allow this to happen to him.  Thankfully, though, he was not alone.  His friends were right there with him, carrying his stretcher, seeking creative ways to bring him in and lay him before Jesus.  

And when Jesus saw their faith . . . he said to the man who was paralyzed, “I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home.”  And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.   And amazement seized them all, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, “We have seen extraordinary things today!”

The amazing thing about this story, is that it has nothing to do with this man’s faith.  He didn’t necessarily believe that Jesus would heal him.  He wasn’t particularly strong or brave or full of unwavering hope. Any faith that he had at the beginning was most likely completely gone. Empty.  Not one drop left. 

But did you notice?  Jesus saw, not his faith, but he saw their faith, the faith of his friends.  The ones who were bearing his stretcher, the ones who were carrying him.  And when Jesus saw their faith, He chose to act.  He chose to speak.  He chose to heal.  It was because of their faith that everyone who saw was amazed and glorified God and was filled with awe.

And it’s the same with me.  During the past few weeks, it is my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family who are bearing my stretcher, carrying me to Jesus when I am incapable of getting there myself. Every time someone prepares a meal for my family or drives me to an appointment or takes care of my children, that person has become my stretcher bearer.  

When my long-time friend of more than 20 years spends the night on my couch, knowing full well that she will be woken dozens of times to help me find some momentary comfort.  When my sisters travel all the way across the country to love and support and encourage me.  When my close friend from my Small Group stops by to check on me nearly every day, helping brush my daughter’s hair or fold a load of laundry or peel oranges – things I can no longer do by myself.  When people from near and from the other side of the world donate funds to pay for someone to clean my house.  When a friend who is drowning in her own deep grief stops by to see me after she gets off of work, bringing me fizzy drinks or making me smoothies.  With every act of kindness, with every volunteer sign-up, with every personal sacrifice, these are the ones who are bearing my stretcher.

And during the past few weeks, it is my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family who are believing for me, Believing when I am unable to believe for myself.  Every time someone prays for me and my family, texts me a promise from God’s Word, sends me an encouraging sermon or podcast to listen to (since I can no longer attend worship services at church), or shares a song that reminds me to press on, he or she is believing for me.  

When the pastors and the elders at my church lay hands on me with oil.  When church friends gather outside my house on a Sunday afternoon to pray that I would find healing.  When I receive an email from a friend, saying, I have prayed for your [prodigal] son many times over the years.  And I want you to know that I will continue to do so in your absence from this life.  With every heart-felt prayer, with every word of Truth spoken over my life, with every expression of faith in the goodness and power of God to act, these are the ones who are carrying me to Jesus.  The ones who are believing on my behalf.

Just like the story of the man in the Bible, the amazing thing about my story is that it has nothing to do with my faith.  I don’t necessarily believe that Jesus will heal me.  I am most certainly not strong or brave or full of unwavering hope. In fact, my faith is mostly depleted.  I have nothing left. 

Thankfully, though, God sees, not my faith, but He sees your  faith, the faith of my friends.  The ones who are bearing my stretcher, the ones who are carrying me.  And when God seesyour  faith, He may choose to act.  He may choose to speak.  He may choose to heal.  It will be because of your  faith that everyone who sees will be amazed and will glorify God and will be filled with awe.

To my friends and my family and my neighbors and my church family… please do not give up on me!  Although the worst of the pain began to subside a few days after chemo started, the side effects of the chemo are every bit as “brutal” as the oncologist said they would be.  (She is my enemy once again.)  The chemo will continue, not for weeks, but for months!  And even if the cancer goes away, it has been so invasive that it may have caused some long-term or permanent nerve damage.  This journey towards healing will most certainly be a very long and slow one.  

And there is absolutely no way I will be able to endure it alone. I am pleading with you:  please keep loving and supporting and serving our family.  Please keep being right here with me, carrying my stretcher, seeking creative ways to bring me in and lay me before Jesus.

And most importantly, please have faith for me.  Pray for me when I cannot pray for myself.  When I am unable to believe, I need you to believe for me.

Ending Well

It was one year ago, on Christmas Day, when I first felt this weird tingling sensation in my neck, which quickly turned into a lump, and then several lumps, which tests and scans and biopsies subsequently confirmed as being Stage 4 metastatic cancer.  It has been a year of fighting hard for my health.  Fighting hard for my life.

The thing about cancer is that it is a vicious, aggressive, ruthless enemy.  But unlike other enemies, when you are fighting cancer, you can never, ever, not for one second, retreat.  There is no withdrawing from the battle, no R&R weekends where you can just be a normal person for a few days before putting your armor back on to fight another day.  No, cancer is in you, and if you have any hope of winning the battle, you can never stop fighting.

But I have discovered, surprisingly, that there is an even bigger enemy inside me, one that is even more brutal and unrelenting: the enemy of fear.  Not just fear of dying or fear of the unknown future, which is huge, but fear in every decision that I make. 

When I have time in the afternoon, should I fight my fatigue by taking a nap?  After all, sleep is restorative, the only time when cells regenerate.  Or should I use that time to go outside?  I mean, I need that oxygen-rich air and vitamin D from the sun to help fight this cancer.  

Should I press fresh organic fruits and vegetables through a juicer for those essential nutrients that my body needs, or should I stay away from fruit altogether, since cancer cells thrive on glucose?  

When the pain becomes unbearable, should I apply a heat pack, since cancer cells cannot survive heat, or should I go for the cold pack, which may reduce some of the inflammation?  

Every day, with every decision, I fight the enemy of fear, knowing that my very life depends on choosing wisely.  Always aware of the lethal consequences I will face if I don’t.

Reluctant Warrior

There are many roles I have chosen for myself.  Roles I love.  I am a Christ-follower, a wife, a long-time foster and adoptive mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a homeschool teacher, a neighbor, a sign-language interpreter and a blogger.  But now, for the past few months, I have had another role thrown at me: a warrior.  Being a warrior is not a role I would have chosen for myself.  I did not voluntarily sign up for this.  I am unskilled, ill-equipped, and insecure at times, but a reluctant warrior nonetheless.

When I first heard the words cancer, rare, aggressive, incurable, stage 4, I naturally felt deep fear.  Terrified at the unknown future.  How long do I have left to live?  And how long will I still feel like me?  How long will I feel well and be able to take care of myself and take care of the two youngest children that God has brought into our family through adoption?  What will the symptoms be like as they worsen and progress?  What will it feel like when I am no longer able to speak or to swallow or to breathe on my own?  What if the pain becomes excruciating?  How will I bear it?

Suddenly, it felt like this little village that is my body was being attacked, under siege by a powerful enemy, and even if I could somehow defend myself from its progression, it would only be a matter of time before this evil conqueror would eventually prevail.

Sitting in the oncologist’s office that day, I felt weak and helpless, utterly at the mercy of the cold, clinical medical technology and what it would do to me.  I felt like a victim.  No choice, no voice, no power over the limited treatment options I was being offered, nor the dreadful side effects – both temporary and permanent – that would be left in their wake.  I felt a deep emptiness inside, knowing that my season of advocating for orphaned and vulnerable children, of caring for them and loving them in my home, was over.  Now, instead of foster mom, adoptive mom, speaker, advocate, mentor – roles I was passionate about - I was forced to become “cancer patient.”  And with every bone in my body, I hated it, grieving the loss of all that I had lost.

For several weeks after receiving my diagnosis, my heart was filled with fear and dread.  Uncertainty about which direction to take.  My husband and I spent countless hours researching and discussing options, praying for wisdom, weeping in grief and worry, seeking counsel.  For weeks I lost sleep, was unable to think of anything else, and was almost completely paralyzed with anxiety.  Not only did I have a physical enemy that was attacking my bodily health, but I had a mental enemy, every bit as detrimental, that was attacking my emotional health.  I couldn’t go on like this.

Teaching Him

Please, God.  Please don’t make me do this!  Surely there is some other way.  Surely there is a solution I haven’t thought of yet.  You know me!  You know I am weak and exhausted and ill-equipped for this path.  You know I have cancer, for heaven’s sake!  God, you know I can’t do this!

And yet, despite my tear-filled tantrum, despite my reminding God of all the things He already knows, this is precisely what He is asking me to do.  He is asking me to teach my son.  At home.  We tried sending him to school where he might be able to receive the special education that he needs.  But that was not the answer.  We tried hiring a private teacher at home where his fragile health will be protected.  But that was not the answer either.  

No, I know in the depths of my heart that there is no other option for his education.  For this season, anyway, God is calling me to this task.  He is calling me to rely on, not the experts or the professionals or the “multitudes.” There is certainly a time and a place and season for those resources. But for this season, He wants me to rely on the Holy One of Israel.  He wants me to seek help from Him as I walk this path.  (Isaiah 31:1)

And the path, for me, is daunting. Since the day I met him nearly ten years ago, I have poured myself wholeheartedly into protecting him and keeping him healthy.  I have researched his complicated physical conditions and have found the very best specialists who can help him to thrive.  And it has been such a tremendous joy to see him thrive!  Every day, his vibrant personality and zeal for life simply amazes me! The fact that he is alive simply amazes me!

But his learning difficulties? His neuro-developmental disabilities? Those are way beyond me.  They defy my ability to understand.  How can I possibly teach him to read, much less to comprehend and apply what he is reading?  How can I help him memorize math facts when numbers make no sense to him? But even more frightening than the academics is the life-skills that are so essential for him to learn.  How can I possibly teach him everything he needs to know to live a productive and independent life some day?  The very thought of it overwhelms and almost paralyzes me.

What They Did Not Know

His parents just stand there helplessly, pleading with their son to please, please reconsider.  To please make a better, wiser, more sensible choice.  His father prays silent, fervent prayers, asking God to give him just the right words to say that would change their son’s mind.  His mother tries desperately to hold back the tears, begging God to please let this not be true.  How did they get to this point?  Where had everything gone so terribly wrong?

It hadn’t always been like this.  They remember, as if were yesterday, the years and years that they had waited and prayed and longed for a child.  How they had struggled to remain brave and hopeful as the families all around them seemed to be flourishing and growing, and their own womb remained empty.

And then the day, that wonderful day, the happiest day of their life, when God answered their prayers and gave them a beautiful, perfect baby boy.  Their son.  Oh, how they rejoiced!  And their lips praised, again and again, the One who works wonders.  And their hearts overflowed with thanksgiving for His goodness and His mercy and for giving them this precious, priceless gift. 

They committed their son fully, completely, wholeheartedly to God.  They knelt down before the Lord, falling on their faces to the ground, and pleaded with God to give them wisdom to raise their child.  To teach them what to do.  To show them the kind of life God wanted their son to have.  To use them, despite their inexperience and inadequacies, to prepare this boy for the mission, the grand purpose for which God had created him.  

Now that God had so generously answered their prayers for a child, they took their parenting role very seriously, and they knew that they would need God’s help every step of the way.  They obeyed God completely.  They observed every command. They raised their son to be strong and courageous.  They taught him God’s word at every opportunity.  They modeled for him what it means to live a life with the utmost respect and reverence for God’s holiness.  

And now?  Now their son is grown, independent, old enough to make his own decisions.  And his parents are deeply grieved, not only at the foolish choices that he is making, but at the dangerous direction his life is taking.  At the angry young man he is becoming.  His life is full of fighting, violence, destruction, and revenge.  He is reckless and impulsive.  He is promiscuous and – they can barely bear the deep shame of it – he actually sleeps with prostitutes!  Could this really be the same person that they had dedicated to God all those years ago?  It hardly seems possible.

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!

When You're Drowning

The enormous waves are crashing all around, first one, then the next, getting higher by the minute.  You feel yourself sinking fast, and panic fills your pores.  The howling wind pretty much drowns out your desperate cries.   Help!  Please, please help!  Save me!!

You had started out so brave.  Your faith had once been so strong.  What happened?  How did you end up here, drowning in this violent storm?

You have been following Jesus for a while now, and sure, you have experienced your share of hardships, but getting to know Jesus personally, learning from Him and walking side by side with Him.  You wouldn’t trade that for all the fish in the sea! 

During these past few years, you have seen first-hand the amazing, miraculous things that He can do.  The broken have been healed.  Hunger has been satisfied.  Prisoners have been set free.  You know, you just know that He is who He says He is!   You vow in your heart that whatever He asks you to do, wherever He asks you to go, you will say yes.

So when He calls you to Come, to step into the unknown, to walk by faith in a way that you never have before, you are thrilled!  This is the moment you have been waiting for!  The moment when you yourself get the great privilege of seeing your life go from ordinary to extraordinary,  Of being a part of the miraculous!

Don't Waste This

It is such a beautiful spring morning, but the weather is completely hidden by the dim lights inside the church.  The rows of chairs are filled with friends and family, so many well-wishers who are gathered to surround this family with support and solidarity during their time of unspeakable loss. 

When the father, a foster parent friend of mine, steps up to the microphone and describes the moment last week when he placed his baby daughter into the doctor’s arms for the last time, and then used the pen to sign her death certificate, and then realized that he would never get to hold her again, there is not one dry eye in the room.  Heartbreak beyond explanation.

He is transparent in his grief.  He speaks of sobbing in the night, crying out to God, Please don’t waste this!  Meaning, please don’t let my baby girl have died in vain.  Please use her death for a greater purpose.  Please give meaning to our devastation.

It’s not fair!  Why would such a terrible thing happen to such a nice family?  A family who has stepped into this hard calling of foster care and has committed their life to serving the most weak and vulnerable?  After all they have done and given and served and sacrificed, shouldn’t good people like them be somehow exempt from tragedies like this?  Shouldn’t God be protecting them from suffering like this?

Waiting

These hard plastic chairs in the hospital lobby were certainly not designed for comfort.  I sit here listening to a talk show host drone on the television that is mounted on the wall in the corner.  I watch the other patients coming and going and wonder idly what emergency would bring them to this place on a cold night like this.  I hold this little child on my lap, this child who is completely dependent on me to take care of his complex medical issues, and silently try to calculate how many hundreds or possibly thousands of hours I have spent just sitting.  Waiting.

Sometimes I imagine that I am a Warrior Mama, fighting for these children, protecting them, advocating for them at every opportunity.  And I am!  Quite often I am the one who speaks up for them, defending their best interests, pleading with the courts and social workers and whoever else will listen the importance of permanency.  Communicating how complex their needs, how delayed their development, how fragile their emotions.  Fiercely protecting them!

Sometimes I do need to Go.  To act and speak and do and move and fight.  But more often, if I’m honest with myself, this journey is mostly about doing exactly what I am doing at this very moment:  waiting.

Will You Adopt Her?

Will you adopt her?  It was a question that they had never considered.  A question they never saw coming.  A question that shocked them to the core, challenging everything they believed!

After months, maybe even years, of prayer and discussion and research, they finally made the monumental, life-changing decision to open their home to foster children.  They just knew that God had called them to provide temporary safety and shelter to a child in need. Their hearts were full of love and compassion for the children they had not yet met– children they knew the Lord would soon bring into their lives. 

They expected difficulties, of course.  When children’s typical development is interrupted by abuse or neglect or trauma, when their world has been utterly shaken by being removed from the only parent they have ever known, of course there will be challenges to overcome.  Of course it will be an enormous adjustment for everyone involved.

And they went into it, fully expecting to get their hearts broken.  They suspected that once they had fallen in love with a dear child for whom they had cared and provided and nurtured, it would feel like torture to watch that child leave, knowing that they would most likely never see him or her again in this lifetime.

The Test

This is a test.  Well, more of a pop-quiz, really, since you did not have time to prepare.  And even if you had known ahead of time, there really are no books that you could have reviewed.  No CliffsNotes to scan or study groups to attend or websites to research. 

So just jump right in and do the best you can.   Read the scenario carefully, and choose the best answer for each question.  When you are ready, or even if you aren’t, you may begin.

Imagine that your seven-year old son has been diagnosed with a life-threatening or terminal illness.  He has suffered from this condition since he was a baby, but somehow you thought he would have improved by now.  You assumed that with the appropriate medical treatment, and with the sheer power of your parental love, he would overcome his disease and thrive.  He would live happily ever after.

And yet in spite of the finest, most advanced medical technologies and the latest pharmaceuticals available, he continues to struggle.  He doesn’t improve.  He perpetually doesn’t feel well, is in almost constant pain.  You aren’t quite sure if this is from the illness itself or from the side effects of his ever-increasing stockpile of medication that he is required to take.  Side effects like insomnia, fatigue, irritability, insatiable hunger, unpredictable outbursts of rage, extreme mood swings.

It’s one thing to care for a medically-fragile baby; quite another thing altogether to parent/discipline/raise a child with chronic ongoing needs.

How do you find the balance between responsible, prudent parent and compassionate, merciful care-giver?  Between strict rules and occasional grace? 

How do you parent a child who suffers?

Making Wishes

The voice on the phone is bright and cheerful, exactly what I need today.  “I have some great news for you,” she declares.

I could use some great news right about now.  My son has been struggling with complicated health issues for a long, long time, and every time the phone rings, it seems to bring more bad news.  The recent lab work doesn’t look good.  No improvement in the numbers.  The new medication doesn’t seem to be working.  The medical team is deciding what steps to take. 

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, wishes came true.  Miracles happened.  Prayers were answered in the most amazing ways.  A precious baby boy lay in a hospital room, alone, fighting for his life, and against impossible odds, in spite of the doctors’ decision to “make him as comfortable as possible until the end,” he made it!  He was given a chance to thrive!

But here’s the thing about caring for a child with fragile health:  not all wishes come true.  Not all stories end with “happily ever after.”  Sometimes prayers are answered, not with miracles, but with silence.  The medical complications are not easily resolved, there are no specific “praises” that can be e-mailed to the church prayer chain.  He was born with significant health issues, and seven years later, guess what?  He still has significant health issues.  Seven years later we are still praying.  Still waiting for him to be healed. 

Hero

“You always know the right thing to do.

The hard part is doing it.”

- General Norman Schwarzkopf

You regularly wear a black t-shirt that boldly proclaims, “I’ve done things that make me lose sleep at night, so that you can sleep at night.”  It’s true:  While you were deployed, you saw and experienced horrors that most civilians cannot imagine, and now you proudly wear the t-shirt – and the tattoos - to prove it.  You were a soldier, willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously for what you believe in.  For the citizens who live in freedom, who are able to sleep at night, you are a hero!

But then, when you returned home after your tour of duty, scarred and forever changed, you faced the worst possible scenario imaginable.  A horror far worse than war.  Harsher, even, than combat.  In one tragic, unthinkable moment, tragedy struck, and your child was left fighting for his life.  It was almost more than you could possibly bear!  After hours of uncertainty, he survived his near-fatal injuries, and his life was miraculously spared.  Your nightmares, unfortunately, continue to haunt.

And now, finally, your child is coming home! It is the day you’ve been waiting for and praying about for six long months.  In your excitement, however, be aware that this will be your most critical battle yet.  That the lives and the future of your children are at stake.   You are the one they will need.  The one who will be responsible for their safety and protection and security.  The one who will lead them and set an example for them.  Now, more than ever before, it is vital that you be all you can be. 

You now have an assignment that is classified priority.  You must be willing to sacrifice your life and fight courageously, not for your country this time, but for those you love most.  You have new mission going forward, one of utmost importance:  Operation Enduring Family.

The Gift

He had been anticipating this special day for weeks, counting down the hours that had crept painfully slow. There were more presents under the tree than he could even count, and, oh, the thrill . . . many of them had his name on the tags!  And now Christmas Day was here at last!  He could barely contain his excitement!

He opened the first one, ripping into the paper, the bow flying off.  It was a . . . a book?  Well, that wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but Ok, he thought.  A book is good.  I like to read.  And still, there were many more gifts to open.  One by one, he opened the packages.  A skateboard.  A basketball.  A chess set.  And with each present that he opened, his shoulders stooped just a little bit more, and each “thank you” became less and less enthusiastic.  When the last gift had been opened, he looked around in utter disbelief, threw himself onto the floor in a heap, and wailed, “But I wanted an X-Box!”

Poor kid.  He didn’t get the one gift he had hoped for.  The one he had been envisioning.  And all of the other gifts, by comparison, were inferior.  It wasn’t that he was ungrateful.  He just couldn’t help but feel disappointed and heart-broken.  Let down.  His dreams for the perfect gift had been dashed.

I get it.  I’m just like my foster son on that Christmas morning long ago.  My dreams were so big and my expectations were so high.  I had prayed and hoped and anticipated the gift that the Lord was going to give me.  I just knew that what He gave me would exceed my wildest expectations.¹

He gave me a gift, alright.  But it wasn’t the one I was expecting.

Grief

At one time I may have imagined that love at first sight was a preposterous idea, a result of the wishful thinking of hopeless romantics.  But now that it has happened to me, I no longer doubt its possibility.  She made a believer out of me.

From the moment I first met that girl, our spirits connected.  It was almost like magic, the way she reached down deeply into my heart, tapping into emotions I didn’t realize I was capable of.  A powerful sadness for her lost childhood and stolen innocence.  A fierce desire to protect her.   A pervasive sense that we belong together.  She gave me the courage to say yes to something I had never thought possible: giving my heart to a teenage foster child.  She taught me how to dream.  

What Kind of Story is That?

The day I had been dreading is finally here.  The day that no mother should ever have to experience.  They day I say goodbye to this precious child I hold in my arms.  He is the temporary treasure that the Lord had entrusted to me to love and protect and nurture a year and half ago.  I knew he would not be with me forever.  I knew that  my role, this chapter in his life, would some day be over.  But knowing it does not make it any easier.  The heart does not always listen to the facts; it opens wide and gives itself away, knowing the whole time that doing so will cause it to some day break.  But it courageously extends its arms anyway, undeterred by the inevitable.

The sign on the door says, “Welcome Home!” which makes a little piece inside of me cringe.  “Home.”  They can call it a home.  They can pretend it’s a home.  But can it really be a home if no family lives there?  Of course the staff are all professionals, skilled and thoroughly equipped to meet his every need.  Nurses, a nutritionist, a physical therapist and a case manager.  Someone to take him to all of his doctors’ appointments and someone else to give him a bath and wash his beautiful curly hair.  I am so thankful that there are places like this for children like him.  Places where he will be able to grow and thrive and reach his fullest potential.

But still, it grieves me that he will now have a rotating cast of professionals caring for him.  That he will no longer have a mother.  Has that sweet face received its last kiss?  Will anyone ever hold him in their arms and rock him to sleep?  Will he ever know what the words “I love you” mean?

Is this what the story is all about?  Where it all ends?  What about the happy ending?  Stories are supposed to leaving you feeling good when they end.  They are supposed to have meaning.  They are supposed to include love and family and home.  What kind of story is this one, anyway?

Fighting the Fear

“No, Mommy!  Please!  No!”  His desperate screams fill my ears and I have to turn my head away so that he won’t see the tears that threaten to leak out of the corners of my eyes.  So that he won’t know how much his helplessness and vulnerability break my heart.   Oh, how I long to rescue him from this pain!  To protect him from this terrifying situation that causes him this out-of-control panic.  Instead, I hold him even tighter, pinning his arms so that he can’t move.  He may believe at this moment that I am the worst parent in the world by subjecting him to this agony, but I know that this is what he needs in order to be healthy.

“Sh, it’s okay,” I keep whispering into his ear.  “I’m here, Sweetheart.  I’m right here.  Just squeeze my hand.  Sh.”  I continue to hold him securely while he continues his frantic cries.  He is unable to hear my words of comfort.  The roar of fear has caused his ears to be deaf to my voice.  He is so blinded by terror that my face, the room we’re in, everything becomes fuzzy and out of focus.

I pray silently, Please, God, let this be over soon!  The phlebotomist patiently attempts a third and then a fourth time to locate a good vein, to draw enough blood to fill 10 – yes 10! – vials to be sent to the lab for testing.  With each passing minute, with each painful stab of the needle, with each piercing scream, it gets increasingly difficult to watch.

I knew when our little foster baby had his organ transplant four years ago that it would mean life-long concerns about his health.¹  I knew when we adopted him two years ago that it would mean a life-long commitment to his care.  That it would mean sacrificing countless hours, summoning boundless energy, and experiencing immense inconvenience. 

What I didn’t know, what I never could have planned, was the indescribable love in my heart for this resilient child.  The unimaginable heartbreak of watching him endure repeated medical tests.  The fierce protectiveness that I feel for him every time we step foot into this place.

And I didn’t know how significantly the medical trauma of his early years would affect him.²   That it would cause him to have such ongoing fear.   That every time he has a medical procedure, even a minor one, he is re-traumatized, and the healing has to start all over again.

Normally, getting your blood drawn should not be such a traumatic event.  It shouldn’t be such a major ordeal every single time!  One would think that after being subjected to various medical procedures hundreds of times over the past six years, that he would get used to it.  What is he so afraid of? Why doesn’t he just remain calm and hold still?  He knows it’s going to be over in a few minutes.  Why isn’t he brave enough to fight this fear?

Finally, mercifully, the needle comes out, the band-aid goes on, and I reassure him once again that I am here, and that he is safe.  And he is safe . . . until next time.

Not Me!

Do you ever feel like Moses sometimes?  There you are, minding your own business, living in the middle of Nowhere Desert, quietly herding sheep and raising a family.¹  Nothing spectacular ever really happens, and that’s just the way you like it.  There was a time when you thought you might enjoy living in bustling Egypt, with its grandiose building projects, bountiful crops, and a vigorously healthy population.² 

However, as you got older, you realized that the government is corrupt, the average person is way over-worked and under-paid, and the laws, instead of protecting children, actually decree that they should be murdered.³  No, thank you, you think.  That’s not me.  I prefer living an average, peaceful life in seclusion and anonymity.  I like routine.  Predictability.

And then, in one moment, on one ordinary day when you least expect it, everything changes.  You don’t exactly see a burning bush or hear an audible voice, but the message is just as clear.⁴  God is calling you, not to go and deliver his people from slavery, but to go and deliver a child from a hopeless, fatherless future.  He is asking you to be the one to rescue an orphan. 

Your first reaction, the automatic response is, Not me!  You are asking the wrong person, Lord!  I’m not brave enough!  I don’t have any special skills or experience or training.  I don’t have the right personality for it, and I know nothing about children who have been abused or neglected.  And You know I don’t handle stress very well.  I really and truly can’t do this.  Please, oh please, ask someone else to do it!⁵

Love Your Neighbor

Story based on “The Good Samaritan” found in Luke 10:25-37. 

Ponderings based on a journal entry by Marc Ulrich,

a man who is learning what it means to “love your neighbor.”

Once upon a time there was a child.  An innocent child who experienced from a terribly young age what it means to live in a harsh world full of sin and evil and broken people who hurt one another.  Her parents, the very ones who were supposed to love her and protect her, were unable to do so.  Instead of being fed and clothed and cleaned, she was naked and cold.  Hungry and soiled.  She wept tears of pain and loneliness, longing for someone to love her.  But instead of receiving soothing caresses when she cried, she was beaten.  “Shut up!,” they screamed into her terrified face.  And then they abandoned her, leaving her half dead.

A man passed by.  A nicely-dressed, well-educated man who loved the Lord and had dedicated his life to studying God’s Word and teaching others the truths of the gospel.  What perfect timing!  When the child saw him approaching, a small glimmer of hope sparked in her heart.  Hope that someone, finally, had come to rescue her. 

The Heart of a Father

His life this past week has been a crazy whirlwind, and this evening he finds himself, once again, in a strange city on the other side of the country, far away from the family he loves.  It is a constant effort to find the right balance between taking care of his responsibilities at work, and taking care of his wife and children.  And since it is impossible to be in two places at once, the struggle remains.

He has an unexpected few hours of unscheduled time, so he decides to take a walk along the beach.  To take a few minutes to try to unwind after his long day of meetings, from the relentless pressure to produce more, more and always more.

As his feet sink into the warm sand, and he listens to the comforting sound of the waves whooshing in and out, back and forth, he takes a deep breath and feels his tight shoulders begin to relax.  His thoughts travel towards home, towards the one place his heart longs to be.  And in his rare moment of solitude he begins to reflect on the past week.  What a week it has been!