<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/21727343?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0&color=c58611" width="400" height="225" frameborder="0"></iframe><p>Medina's Adoption - BCFS from <a href="http://vimeo.com/illbehonest%22%3EI'll Be Honest</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com%22%3evimeo%3c/a%3E.%3C/p>
Monday, August 29, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Promise of Canaan
Wow . . . it's been a rough summer. I haven't even looked at my blog in awhile. Maybe no one else is looking either, but hey - it's therapeutic for me so I write. In May, Peniel and Jeremiah went back to their mom. The original plan was for "the month of June" so we could "see how it would go." But I knew they weren't coming back. In my heart, it was easier to just pretend it would only be June. They had been with us for eleven months. I think back on all the things they did for the first time while they lived with us. They had pet dogs! They saw the ocean, played in the ocean, swam in the ocean! They went camping for the first time! They had gobs and gobs of family and presents at Christmas. They both celebrated birthdays with us. They attended a funeral for John's dad. They went to counseling. Jeremiah started and finished kindergarten with us, and Peniel started and finished second grade. It was a beautiful, fantastic, life-changing year for us.
Hannah's empty roomAround this same time, there was a phone call. It was totally unexpected and I need to give you some background information so you will know why this phone call was relevant.
Back a couple of months ago there was a prayer request sent in from a church member. I knew the woman by name. The prayer request was for a young single mom who was pregnant and looking for a Christian family to adopt her baby at birth. I ended up calling the church member who sent in the prayer request. I told her it was none of my business, but that I have struggled with infertility and two losses, and wanted a baby more than anything in the universe. She told me that the young woman had already met with an adoption agency, and had narrowed her choices down to one or two families. I thought that was it, and I let it go.
The call in May was from the same church member. She told me that the adoption agency wasn't working out. The prospective parents had changed their mind. How could they change their mind, I wondered. She asked me if we were interested in the baby. The word "absolutely" could not come out of my mouth fast enough. I called John and then I ran to my mom's office over in the music department. We cried and prayed and held hands. I had so much hope. I can't remember when I had so much hope. It was a boy.
The church member and friend of the birth mom asked if I would be willing to meet with them the next day. I was. We met in my office at the church. It was surreal. The birth mom told me that she wanted to find a good, Christian family to adopt her baby boy at birth. She was unhappy with the adoption agency because their policy was to take the baby into foster care for two weeks until the birth mother could not change her mind anymore. She told me that she wanted him to go home from the hospital with his parents and that she would not change her mind. She asked me if we had any problem with adopting a biracial child. I showed her pictures of Peniel and Jeremiah. I told her how we loved them, how they felt like ours, how we never even considered the color of their skin. This baby, I promised her, would be loved and cherished, and given every opportunity and blessing in life. She showed me pictures of her other three small children. She told me that she could barely provide for them, had no job and was living with her mom. She told me that this baby should have a better life. She would give him a better life.
It all happened so fast. The next Sunday, she met me and John together, and brought her sister. She told us to pick out a name for him. It wasn't hard. The name in our hearts was Canaan. To us, it was a promise kept - a promise of coming into a new chapter of our lives. Canaan was the reason why I had lost two babies before, the reason Peniel and Jeremiah had to leave. The reason why out of the clear blue, Hannah had decided to move out. Suddenly it all made sense. He was meant to be ours.
She liked the name we had chosen. She began to refer to him as Canaan, growing inside of her.
The next week, she invited me to the ultrasound. It was a 3-D ultrasound. I rode in a car with this young, thin, dark-haired woman, her arms covered in tattoos, her face marked with small scars. We had nothing in common except the child she was carrying. I wanted him, she wanted to give him away.
When I saw his face on the ultrasound, I gasped. His lips were full, his nose was perfect. I could see his eyebrows and the curve of his forehead.
She confided in me and told me that when she had learned of this pregnancy, she had gone to the abortion clinic. She was eight or nine weeks pregnant and paid for an abortion. A few weeks later, she returned for her post-abortion check-up. He was still there. The abortion had failed. I cried when she told me, and I cried later when I told my mom and John. He was our Canaan, our promised one.
For a few weeks, I was in shock and floating on cloud nine. John convinced me that we should at least go and register at the baby store. I had never allowed myself to enter the baby store. I couldn't even walk down the baby aisle of a grocery store. But one night we went out to dinner, and we walked into that enormous superstore full of bottles, diapers, little outfits, blankets, formula, furniture, bedding, cribs, sheets, blankets, car seats and everything I had always deprived myself from dreaming of.
With the help of the store manager (a friend of John's) we created a baby registry. It was perfect.
The diaper bag was perfect. The bedding was perfect. The sweet little bumper pads were perfect. Everything about that night was perfect.
The next week I hoped to hear from the birth mom. When five days went by without a call, I called her myself. It was two weeks before the scheduled C-section. When she answered, she sounded tired, and nonchalantly told me that he had been born earlier that day. He was two weeks early, she had gone into pre-term labor. He was in NICU, six pounds and a few ounces. "Visiting hours are over," she told me, "I guess you should get your lawyer and come to the hospital tomorrow."
That night I hardly slept. I washed a little blue outfit with a tiny teddy bear patch. It was the smallest of the few outfits I owned. I washed it on delicate and dried it with extra fabric softener. It was folded neatly and ready to go the next day. The truth is, I bought this baby blue outfit five years ago when I lost my first tubal baby. It has been hanging in the closet for five years. I held onto it like I held onto the hope of a child.
John and I drove to Buford and met with our attorney. We gave her our paperwork and a check for her services. She told us to go on over to the hospital and see the baby. She would get all the papers moving and meet us there later.
We drove to Gwinnett Medical, but we couldn't move fast enough. We parked in front of the women's pavilion- a place that I hated because it has only meant loss for me before.
We went into the lobby and got directions to the room where the birth mom was recovering. I insisted we stop by the gift shop and get flowers, but when we got there, everything looked so cheery and inappropriate to give someone who was giving up their child. We went on without flowers. We knocked at her door. After a short wait, she called for us to come in. On the table beside her bed was a small book called "Given in Love." I recognized it immediately as being the book the social worker gives to a mom who is surrendering a child for adoption. I breathed a sigh of relief that she was going through with it. She had even told the hospital social worker of her plans. John and I stood nervously at the foot of the bed of this stranger who held the key to our hearts.
I don't remember what I said. I just know that she shifted around uncomfortably under the blanket and avoided our eyes.
"I've decided I'm just going to raise him myself."
The phone beside her bed started ringing. I turned to John and fell apart. I dropped the little blue outfit with the teddy bear. John held my arms while I screamed and cried. I was moving for the door when she answered the phone. Behind me I heard her saying, "you had to know that I could change my mind." I was running down the hallway with John behind me, my tears were falling all over me now. We passed a couple of nurses, a doctor, the happy friends in the waiting room, the proud parents. I passed through them crying, trying not to scream in the lobby. Outside, I was hit with the heat of late-morning in June. John didn't say anything. He just hurried behind me to unlock the car, his camera bag on his shoulder. I know I was screaming and ranting. I know I was making a fool of myself. I didn't care.
We walked out of the hospital having never met Canaan. I am sure that he was probably taken home from the hospital in the blue outfit with the teddy bear, because he had nothing else in the world. He went home with a mother who tried to abort him seven months earlier. He went home to three hungry siblings, no father, no beautiful bedding and perfect car seat, no perfect amazing stroller, no doting grandparents and aunts, cousins, uncles, or me. He was most likely driven home in an old, two-door sports car with bad AC and the same raunchy rap music playing in her car on that day I saw his face on the ultrasound.
I'm sorry, Canaan.
I had this plan that we would put the family cradle (the one my grandaddy built) beside our bed for at least a few months. I could see him there, sleeping under the perfect blankets, with his soft skin and full lips. I would have watched him for hours. I would have rocked him in the rocking chair where Jeremiah had let me baby him last year. I would have whispered in his ear about the great promise of his life, the great gift that he was. I would have given everything I had to make sure he had everything the world could offer. He would have played sports and learned to read music. He would have gone to church, to camp, to the beach, to Sunday school.
Somewhere now, he is two months old. I will never stop thinking of him and what he could have been. I still look at the space beside our bed and think of him there, quietly sleeping, warm and safe. I would have protected him from all the darkness, fear and harm in this world, if only I could have had the chance.
And now it seems like Canaan is a metaphor. It is a place in my heart that I have held onto for a long time. I believe God has promised me that I will be a mother- somehow. Right now, in light of this enormous loss, my promised land seems out of reach. and sometimes I think that like Moses, I may die trying to get there.
Here is my promise, and God, I'm holding you to it:
1 “Sing, O barren,
You who have not borne!
Break forth into singing, and cry aloud,
You who have not labored with child!
For more are the children of the desolate
Than the children of the married woman,” says the LORD.
2 “ Enlarge the place of your tent,
And let them stretch out the curtains of your dwellings;
Do not spare;
Lengthen your cords,
And strengthen your stakes.
3 For you shall expand to the right and to the left,
And your descendants will inherit the nations,
And make the desolate cities inhabited.
4 “ Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
Neither be disgraced, for you will not be put to shame;
For you will forget the shame of your youth,
And will not remember the reproach of your widowhood anymore.
5 For your Maker is your husband,
The LORD of hosts is His name;
And your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel;
He is called the God of the whole earth.
6 For the LORD has called you
Like a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit,
Like a youthful wife when you were refused,”
Says your God.
7 “ For a mere moment I have forsaken you,
But with great mercies I will gather you.
8 With a little wrath I hid My face from you for a moment;
But with everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,”
Says the LORD, your Redeemer.
You who have not borne!
Break forth into singing, and cry aloud,
You who have not labored with child!
For more are the children of the desolate
Than the children of the married woman,” says the LORD.
2 “ Enlarge the place of your tent,
And let them stretch out the curtains of your dwellings;
Do not spare;
Lengthen your cords,
And strengthen your stakes.
3 For you shall expand to the right and to the left,
And your descendants will inherit the nations,
And make the desolate cities inhabited.
4 “ Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed;
Neither be disgraced, for you will not be put to shame;
For you will forget the shame of your youth,
And will not remember the reproach of your widowhood anymore.
5 For your Maker is your husband,
The LORD of hosts is His name;
And your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel;
He is called the God of the whole earth.
6 For the LORD has called you
Like a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit,
Like a youthful wife when you were refused,”
Says your God.
7 “ For a mere moment I have forsaken you,
But with great mercies I will gather you.
8 With a little wrath I hid My face from you for a moment;
But with everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,”
Says the LORD, your Redeemer.
Two different women in my church have given me this scripture at two different times without knowing my situation. The first time, this scripture was typed up and hand-delivered to me here in my office with nothing else but the scripture. The second time, two years late, it was attached to a set of tent pegs and given to me as a gift. Coincidence?
Finally, I must add this: Our summer has been painful because of the loss of my beloved Grandaddy, John Timothy Donehoo Sr. I was blessed to be able to speak at his memorial service just a few weeks ago. The reason I wanted to speak at his funeral was to recognize a man who married a widow and adopted her three children, becoming a father to the fatherless and who loved all of his children and grandchildren relentlessly. By his example, he not only changed entire lives of countless people, he chose to be our grandaddy. He was a man of integrity, character, and Christian witness. His youngest adopted child is my mother.
Pray for me!
Monday, May 9, 2011
I Opened the Basket
Mother's Day is a hard day for me, but it wasn't always that way. In my early to mid twenties, it wasn't such a big deal because I wasn't trying to have a family of my own. It came and went, and so did my birthday, always right there together. After I lost my first ectopic baby in 2005, I was surprised at the range of emotions that first Mother's day. Then the next couple of years were jumbled together with the drama of a dysfunctional, codependent marriage that was completely fractured by drugs and alcohol, and my desire to become a mother was put on the back burner. After I met the true love of my life and we married, I believed I would soon have that chance to know what it was like to carry a child. Already a dad, John was still supportive of the idea that we try to have children. Then in 2009, eleven months after we married, I was pregnant. This time, the second ectopic baby took with her a fallopian tube, and I lost even more hope that it would ever happen for me. My fertility doctor told me it wasn't "impossible", but "highly unlikely" I would ever conceive again without IVF. The hardest part about the second baby was that the due date for that pregnancy would have been around my birthday and Mother's Day, which happened to be the same day in 2010. Since that loss, we have added two small children to our family through temporary guardianship. They came like a gift from God, on June 22 of last year. They were four and seven when they came to us, loved from day one by me and John, my three amazing step kids, and our niece, Hannah. We were suddenly a family of eight. We needed a special vehicle to accommodate us, and we needed every available space for a bed in our home. Within a few months, the boys felt like mine. I rocked the little one, held him in my arms as much as he would let me. I read to them, spoiled them, got to know them, and I really felt like I was their mother. And it was a wonderful eleven months. Then came this weekend- the "dreaded" birthday and Mother's Day. I would be another year older, still not pregnant, feeling the possibilities drain away with time. But I had my little ones.
Thursday before the "weekend", I went to school for a Kindergarten Mother's Day breakfast. I was filled with anxiety walking down the hallway, afraid that Jeremiah would be disappointed to see me instead of his "real mom." Walking into his room, his face lit up when he saw me, and he took my hand and led me to his table where there was a drawing of a woman with a blue dress and shoulder-length hair. Across the top of the picture were the words "Jeremiah's mom" and in a small box at the bottom, it said: "Her name is Melissa. I love to go somewhere with her. She is as pretty as me. She loves to eat cheese. Her favorite color is purple and she likes to shop at Wal-Mart. She always tells me, "Good morning!" She tickles me and it makes me laugh. She is 16 years old." I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I realized he was expecting me.
But Thursday night was another story . . .
I went to pick up the boys' natural mom so she could come for a visit with them. In the car she told me that she had decided she wanted to take the boys back. As I drove, she talked about "feeling better," "missing the boys so much," and "wanting to be their mother again." I couldn't speak, but warm tears streamed down my cheeks. She told me she wanted them to finish the school year (17 days) with us, and then move to Athens with her. There were a million things I wanted to say, but no words would come out. At one point she stopped talking and looked at me, before saying: "But you took them as a foster mom, you had to know that you couldn't keep them forever."
My heart was broken. I could only see the past eleven months flash before me like a stream of scenes in my memory. I saw the boys at the beach with us last summer, so afraid of the waves but so excited at the same time. I saw Jeremiah crawling up John's legs so he could hold him high above the surf. I saw Peniel riding high on Amanda's shoulders, digging up shells with Mitchell, and anxiously learning to trust us. I saw John spraying them with the water hose on hot days, and Pork Chop chasing them on their bikes down the driveway. I saw us together at the state park, having a picnic, stopping for boiled peanuts since they had never tried them before. I saw us picking out backpacks and school supplies, Jeremiah's first day of kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences, our big camping trip in the Fall, going on a Haunted Hayride at the state park, picking out Halloween costumes, going trick-or-treating on the square in Dahlonega. I remembered Peniel's birthday, when his eyes looked so surprised to see the PSP in the box and how he told us: "It's the best birthday ever!" Christmas with John's family, Christmas with my family, Christmas morning when they saw all that Santa had brought them during the night. I saw the snow days when we took turns on the sled and threw snowball fights, when Cody helped them build a snowman, and when everyone kept losing their gloves. I saw us all together at the hospital when John's dad passed away, the mystery and awe in Jeremiah's eyes when he realized Grandpa was in Heaven with Jesus. I saw the boys dressed in their suits at the funeral home, being loved and tended to by relatives from all directions. I remember their excitement over climbing Stone Mountain with Uncle Carl. I saw Samuel and Mitchell teaching them things, helping with homework, playing with them. I saw Hannah drawing with them in the driveway with chalk, all of us decorating Easter eggs together, then the boys searching frantically for the "Golden Egg" the next day in the Easter Egg hunt. After Easter, Jeremiah was ring-bearer in Becky's wedding. He was listed in the wedding program as "nephew of the bride." They were in every detail of my life, so much that it seemed they had always been there.
While the boys' mom talked on and on about her pain and suffering over the last year, my lip trembled as I realized I may soon lose my little companions. At night when I tuck in Jeremiah, we laugh and talk quietly. And just before he falls asleep, I tell him, "Jeremiah, I always wanted to have a little boy to take care of. God sent me one..." and he asks "Who?" and I say, "You!" and he grins and throws an arm across me, whispering, "I yuv you, Melissa." In the other bedroom, Peniel always crawls into bed with Mitchell because he is afraid of noises in the yard at night. After Jeremiah drifts off, I go into their room and look at them huddled together with coon-skin hats on, little pioneers. If Peniel is still awake when I go into their room, he says, "Melissa, will you pray to us?" and we pray together. If I forget to pray for someone, Peniel will interrupt the prayer to say "Don't forget . . . Grandma!" or, "don't forget . . . Mrs. Karen." So I know he is really listening.
All at once, on the Thursday before Mother's Day, I was again overwhelmed with sorrow and grief. I knew there would be conversations, decisions to be made, a possible court battle. I knew there was so much ahead to do in order to discover the "best interests" of my two little ones. But what it felt like initially was that I had been given two children, and then they had been taken away, just as my two angels in Heaven had been years before.
I have been battling with God over my infertility for many years now. It has been the subject of many prayers and late-night chats in the car between me and the Lord. I have begged God, pleaded with God to show me someone in the Bible that I could relate to. It felt as though every single story of infertility in the Bible ends with God blessing the infertile woman with a baby! Sometimes in old age, sometimes in the middle of a wacky polygamous family of first-cousins, and always out of the clear blue when they least expected a miracle. I still have hope that this might happen for me, but my experiences with life have taught me to "hope for the best, prepare for the worst." I step out of my doctor's office feeling my hope has been cut off completely. It takes all the faith I have ever had in 34 years to "believe" it might still happen for me. But I have begged (literally pleaded) with God to show me someone in the Bible who walked in my shoes. There has to be someone- there had to be a woman who was part of God's plan who wasn't granted her miracle baby because she prayed all night and cried like a drunk person, or felt into a heap of ashes and tore her clothing. There has to be someone, somewhere in those sixty-six books who didn't get her "wish" granted. WHERE IS SHE?
On Friday after my emotional Thursday night, it came to me. Maybe "it" didn't come to me, but God spoke to me. He spoke to me in the bathtub. This is where I cry the most. When you have children in your home you can't fall apart at the dinner table or sob uncontrollably while folding the laundry. You have to be discreet so you don't freak them out. So I do my best crying in the tub while the water is running loudly. So there I was, crying in the tub, my heart ripped out of my chest, staring at the bathtub toys all around me, Jeremiah's squid, Toy Story bath scrubber, and crayola soaps. I guess it's only natural this should come to me in the water. It came to me so clearly I almost fell back under the water.
It was Pharaoh's daughter. I am Pharaoh's daughter . . .
I opened the basket.
Little Baby Moses- chosen from the start to lead God's people. So loved by his natural mother, kept safely hidden so he wouldn't be harmed. She kept him for three months. She loved him for three months. She sang to him, rocked him, fed him, and prayed over him for three months. And then she did the only thing she knew to do. She made him a waterproof basket. She put him in the little vessell and placed him in the River. How could she do it? How could she give him up? She didn't know what the future held for him, but somehow she trusted in an invisible God enough to put that baby into His hands and believe that his future was secure without her in it?
Somewhere farther down the river, with his sister watching from the bank, the basket made it's way to where Pharoah's daughter was just minding her own business - bathing. I don't know if she had children, I don't know if she was married. I just know that she was living her life, and someone else's child came drifting into her bathtub. What did she think when she saw that basket? Was it common for people to send little basket boats rolling down the river with an infant inside? Regardless, she opened the basket. She opened the basket and she saw the beautiful baby inside. There could have been a poisonous snake inside, there could have been a severed head. Who knows what passed through her mind, but she opened the basket. And once she opened that basket, there was no turning back.
I am sure there were days when Pharoah's daughter felt she was incapable of being a good mother. I am sure there were days when the burden of slavery upon the Hebrew people made it difficult to raise a child who was a member of another race. I am certain that watching Moses grow and eventually return to his biological family was heartbreaking. But I am also sure that she never, ever regretted her decision to save him, and raise him as her own.
Thursday before the "weekend", I went to school for a Kindergarten Mother's Day breakfast. I was filled with anxiety walking down the hallway, afraid that Jeremiah would be disappointed to see me instead of his "real mom." Walking into his room, his face lit up when he saw me, and he took my hand and led me to his table where there was a drawing of a woman with a blue dress and shoulder-length hair. Across the top of the picture were the words "Jeremiah's mom" and in a small box at the bottom, it said: "Her name is Melissa. I love to go somewhere with her. She is as pretty as me. She loves to eat cheese. Her favorite color is purple and she likes to shop at Wal-Mart. She always tells me, "Good morning!" She tickles me and it makes me laugh. She is 16 years old." I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I realized he was expecting me.
But Thursday night was another story . . .
I went to pick up the boys' natural mom so she could come for a visit with them. In the car she told me that she had decided she wanted to take the boys back. As I drove, she talked about "feeling better," "missing the boys so much," and "wanting to be their mother again." I couldn't speak, but warm tears streamed down my cheeks. She told me she wanted them to finish the school year (17 days) with us, and then move to Athens with her. There were a million things I wanted to say, but no words would come out. At one point she stopped talking and looked at me, before saying: "But you took them as a foster mom, you had to know that you couldn't keep them forever."
My heart was broken. I could only see the past eleven months flash before me like a stream of scenes in my memory. I saw the boys at the beach with us last summer, so afraid of the waves but so excited at the same time. I saw Jeremiah crawling up John's legs so he could hold him high above the surf. I saw Peniel riding high on Amanda's shoulders, digging up shells with Mitchell, and anxiously learning to trust us. I saw John spraying them with the water hose on hot days, and Pork Chop chasing them on their bikes down the driveway. I saw us together at the state park, having a picnic, stopping for boiled peanuts since they had never tried them before. I saw us picking out backpacks and school supplies, Jeremiah's first day of kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences, our big camping trip in the Fall, going on a Haunted Hayride at the state park, picking out Halloween costumes, going trick-or-treating on the square in Dahlonega. I remembered Peniel's birthday, when his eyes looked so surprised to see the PSP in the box and how he told us: "It's the best birthday ever!" Christmas with John's family, Christmas with my family, Christmas morning when they saw all that Santa had brought them during the night. I saw the snow days when we took turns on the sled and threw snowball fights, when Cody helped them build a snowman, and when everyone kept losing their gloves. I saw us all together at the hospital when John's dad passed away, the mystery and awe in Jeremiah's eyes when he realized Grandpa was in Heaven with Jesus. I saw the boys dressed in their suits at the funeral home, being loved and tended to by relatives from all directions. I remember their excitement over climbing Stone Mountain with Uncle Carl. I saw Samuel and Mitchell teaching them things, helping with homework, playing with them. I saw Hannah drawing with them in the driveway with chalk, all of us decorating Easter eggs together, then the boys searching frantically for the "Golden Egg" the next day in the Easter Egg hunt. After Easter, Jeremiah was ring-bearer in Becky's wedding. He was listed in the wedding program as "nephew of the bride." They were in every detail of my life, so much that it seemed they had always been there.
While the boys' mom talked on and on about her pain and suffering over the last year, my lip trembled as I realized I may soon lose my little companions. At night when I tuck in Jeremiah, we laugh and talk quietly. And just before he falls asleep, I tell him, "Jeremiah, I always wanted to have a little boy to take care of. God sent me one..." and he asks "Who?" and I say, "You!" and he grins and throws an arm across me, whispering, "I yuv you, Melissa." In the other bedroom, Peniel always crawls into bed with Mitchell because he is afraid of noises in the yard at night. After Jeremiah drifts off, I go into their room and look at them huddled together with coon-skin hats on, little pioneers. If Peniel is still awake when I go into their room, he says, "Melissa, will you pray to us?" and we pray together. If I forget to pray for someone, Peniel will interrupt the prayer to say "Don't forget . . . Grandma!" or, "don't forget . . . Mrs. Karen." So I know he is really listening.
All at once, on the Thursday before Mother's Day, I was again overwhelmed with sorrow and grief. I knew there would be conversations, decisions to be made, a possible court battle. I knew there was so much ahead to do in order to discover the "best interests" of my two little ones. But what it felt like initially was that I had been given two children, and then they had been taken away, just as my two angels in Heaven had been years before.
I have been battling with God over my infertility for many years now. It has been the subject of many prayers and late-night chats in the car between me and the Lord. I have begged God, pleaded with God to show me someone in the Bible that I could relate to. It felt as though every single story of infertility in the Bible ends with God blessing the infertile woman with a baby! Sometimes in old age, sometimes in the middle of a wacky polygamous family of first-cousins, and always out of the clear blue when they least expected a miracle. I still have hope that this might happen for me, but my experiences with life have taught me to "hope for the best, prepare for the worst." I step out of my doctor's office feeling my hope has been cut off completely. It takes all the faith I have ever had in 34 years to "believe" it might still happen for me. But I have begged (literally pleaded) with God to show me someone in the Bible who walked in my shoes. There has to be someone- there had to be a woman who was part of God's plan who wasn't granted her miracle baby because she prayed all night and cried like a drunk person, or felt into a heap of ashes and tore her clothing. There has to be someone, somewhere in those sixty-six books who didn't get her "wish" granted. WHERE IS SHE?
On Friday after my emotional Thursday night, it came to me. Maybe "it" didn't come to me, but God spoke to me. He spoke to me in the bathtub. This is where I cry the most. When you have children in your home you can't fall apart at the dinner table or sob uncontrollably while folding the laundry. You have to be discreet so you don't freak them out. So I do my best crying in the tub while the water is running loudly. So there I was, crying in the tub, my heart ripped out of my chest, staring at the bathtub toys all around me, Jeremiah's squid, Toy Story bath scrubber, and crayola soaps. I guess it's only natural this should come to me in the water. It came to me so clearly I almost fell back under the water.
It was Pharaoh's daughter. I am Pharaoh's daughter . . .
I opened the basket.
Little Baby Moses- chosen from the start to lead God's people. So loved by his natural mother, kept safely hidden so he wouldn't be harmed. She kept him for three months. She loved him for three months. She sang to him, rocked him, fed him, and prayed over him for three months. And then she did the only thing she knew to do. She made him a waterproof basket. She put him in the little vessell and placed him in the River. How could she do it? How could she give him up? She didn't know what the future held for him, but somehow she trusted in an invisible God enough to put that baby into His hands and believe that his future was secure without her in it?
Somewhere farther down the river, with his sister watching from the bank, the basket made it's way to where Pharoah's daughter was just minding her own business - bathing. I don't know if she had children, I don't know if she was married. I just know that she was living her life, and someone else's child came drifting into her bathtub. What did she think when she saw that basket? Was it common for people to send little basket boats rolling down the river with an infant inside? Regardless, she opened the basket. She opened the basket and she saw the beautiful baby inside. There could have been a poisonous snake inside, there could have been a severed head. Who knows what passed through her mind, but she opened the basket. And once she opened that basket, there was no turning back.
I am sure there were days when Pharoah's daughter felt she was incapable of being a good mother. I am sure there were days when the burden of slavery upon the Hebrew people made it difficult to raise a child who was a member of another race. I am certain that watching Moses grow and eventually return to his biological family was heartbreaking. But I am also sure that she never, ever regretted her decision to save him, and raise him as her own.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Goodbye, Dear Friend Hercules
Two weeks ago, we lost our big buddy, Hercules. John called him the "World's Biggest Lap dog" and it would be an injustice not to post a story or two about the Great Dane who made his home with us for so long.
John adopted Hercules over five years ago. He was already five years old, full grown, weighing over two hundred pounds when John took him in. Hercules always brought our family a lot of attention whenever we were traveling with him. He was a close companion of Jack, our terrier-beagle mix. Hercules and Jack were pretty much always together, from the living room where they would rest on opposite counches, to the neighborhood where they would roam together if they got away from us (before the backyard was fenced.) My first encounter with Hercules was on my first date with John. We had dinner at the house, and when I first walked through the front door, these two crazy dogs came rushing at me, barking with tails wagging. Hercules' tail was about two feet long and he got so excited, whacking his tail on the wall beside where I stood, that his tail burst open and blood was splattering all over the walls. It was quite alarming! I remember teasing John about not being afraid of the blood splatters on the wall leading down to the basement and about my being out on a date in the middle of the mountains with a complete stranger.
I didn't know how to take Hercules at first: he was so large and intimidating, and yet, as gentle as a lamb. I would drive off to find him if he got away from the boys, and when I found him and called to him, he would jump into the cargo space of the Jeep and his huge tail would hang down. Several times, I had to try hard to not smash his tail when I closed the cargo door. Most of the time, he had this dopey kind of look on his face, but he was still pretty smart. He knew to stay away from the cats, and not try to steal food from Pork Chop.
Another special memory would be the day I brought Jeremiah and Peniel home, in June of last year. The boys were not used to indoor dogs, but I told them we had two big ones, and one small dog. But I guess when you weigh 36 pounds like Jeremiah, a 178 pound dog that stands as tall as the kitchen counter is a little bit freaky. I will never forget how the boys took one look at Porky and Hercules, and ran into our kitchen pantry, huddling together and shouting: "There's a horse in your house! It's a horse in your house!" When Jeremiah finally came out of the pantry, I sat him on the kitchen counter and he looked around worriedly. His eyes found Jack, little scruffy, 30 pound Jack. "I yike the jello dog," he told me through his tears . . . but it wasn't soon before he learned that Hercules was the gentle one. Jeremiah played with Herc's tail, tried to ride him through the house, picked up his big feet and drove matchbox cars down his hip bone. Yes, he was a very patient old dog. He outlived most great Danes by 2-3 years, and he died peacefully on our back porch.
We Love you, Hercules! Rest in Peace!
I didn't know how to take Hercules at first: he was so large and intimidating, and yet, as gentle as a lamb. I would drive off to find him if he got away from the boys, and when I found him and called to him, he would jump into the cargo space of the Jeep and his huge tail would hang down. Several times, I had to try hard to not smash his tail when I closed the cargo door. Most of the time, he had this dopey kind of look on his face, but he was still pretty smart. He knew to stay away from the cats, and not try to steal food from Pork Chop.
Another special memory would be the day I brought Jeremiah and Peniel home, in June of last year. The boys were not used to indoor dogs, but I told them we had two big ones, and one small dog. But I guess when you weigh 36 pounds like Jeremiah, a 178 pound dog that stands as tall as the kitchen counter is a little bit freaky. I will never forget how the boys took one look at Porky and Hercules, and ran into our kitchen pantry, huddling together and shouting: "There's a horse in your house! It's a horse in your house!" When Jeremiah finally came out of the pantry, I sat him on the kitchen counter and he looked around worriedly. His eyes found Jack, little scruffy, 30 pound Jack. "I yike the jello dog," he told me through his tears . . . but it wasn't soon before he learned that Hercules was the gentle one. Jeremiah played with Herc's tail, tried to ride him through the house, picked up his big feet and drove matchbox cars down his hip bone. Yes, he was a very patient old dog. He outlived most great Danes by 2-3 years, and he died peacefully on our back porch.
We Love you, Hercules! Rest in Peace!
"If there are no dogs in Heaven,
then when I die I want to go
where they went."
Will Rogers, 1897-1935
then when I die I want to go
where they went."
Will Rogers, 1897-1935
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Living in a Shoe
My mom has started referring to me as "the young woman who lives in a shoe" and my friend Sara, calls me "18 kids and counting," although I have never watched that show. I think that living in a "full house" grows you and stretches you in ways you never knew you could be stretched. When I first went away to college in 1995, it was hard moving into a dorm full of people. We shared a community bathroom, the laundry facilities, a small kitchenette, and a large living space that was called the "lounge." It takes awhile to get used to all the sounds, sights, smells, and scenes that you are exposed to when you leave the comforts of home for a girls dormitory. I think that is kind of the way it is at my house when people come to visit, or when the girls have a friend over. Maybe the 15-passenger van in the driveway is a little intimidating, or maybe its the issue of standing in line to use the restroom. Either way, I can always tell when someone is a little less than comfortable with our wacky house that is busting at the seams. I like to think that I am doing what God always wanted me to do, creating a home for kids who need one, creating memories for those kids, and loving them as they should be loved. Psalm 68: 5-6 says God is a "5 father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling. 6 God sets the lonely in families." I look around our kitchen table and think about these verses often. God has put together our family of different backgrounds, and I am very thankful we are exactly what we are. Just take a "typical" evening in my house- I get home from work about 7 pm - there is a little boy with brown skin playing on the floor with a Rottweiller. There is a red-haired, freckle-faced girl talking about a paper she has to write on Harper Lee's book, To Kill a Mockingbird, an autistic 12-year old in glasses trying to play the harmonica, and another boy in glasses making origami birds out of every piece of paper he can find. There is another beautiful brown-skinned boy, digging through the laundry trying to find something he lost, and another dog sniffing at the laundry pile. In the kitchen, a teenage girl and teenage guy take turns on the computer, working on projects, and a sweet bald man is trying to cook dinner amidst the chaos. There are times when it seems overwhelming- the dirt on the floor, the legos in the drain of the bathtub, dog hair all over the furniture, Kool-aid knocked over on the counter - and there are times when I fantasize about the peace and quiet I once knew when it was just me. And then I remember when it was "just me", and I had to sleep with my gun, Rottweiller, and all the lights in the house turned on. I would wake up three or four times a night to check and make sure the doors were all locked. I would sit in silence over a meal, or just park myself in front of the television at night for the company of the Golden Girls. I would take a walk in the neighborhood with my sweet dog, or go walk on the treadmill at the Y. But I was alone. And then there was Christmas of 2007. It was the first and only Christmas that I ever woke up alone. Yes, my sweet doggie was there, but there was no one to exchange gifts with, or share a nice breakfast. I was "the lonely" and God "set" me in a family. He had not forgotten me, although there were times I felt forgotten. He remembered me, and my heart's desire, and moved me and my sweet guard dog to Dahlonega to live with John and his three awesome kids. Then he blessed our home with three more great kids, and others would follow. Thinking about it, I rather like my life in a shoe. There is always something happening, always someone to talk to, or share a meal with. Yes, I like being the young woman who lives in a shoe. I think I will stay there, although we may need to switch our shoe to wide-width.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Tomorrow is OUR Valentine's Day!
Yes, I know that today is actually "Valentine's Day" but John and I will have our own reason to celebrate tomorrow because it will be exactly three years since our first date.
Three years ago, I was newly single, having finally surrendered my hope of "saving" a man who was hopelessly addicted to drugs and alcohol. I had been married for four years, eleven months and twenty-one days. I had seen my first "husband" through 4 mental hospitalizations, three stints in residential rehab, 2 incarcerations, multiple court appearances and arrests, 2 DUIs, one "hit and run", and 3 months on life-support at Grady Memorial - all of which didn't serve to turn his life around like you might think. Three years ago, I had decided that I might not ever have the family I dreamed of, that I might be "DIVORCED" and unwanted for good. Three years ago, I bought myself flowers and candy and determined that I was okay just being alone in a small house with a sweet dog and fat cat, Law and Order reruns, and a purposeful career. But you see, three years ago, I had been talking online to a blue-eyed man in Dahlonega whom I had yet to meet in person. He had an easy laugh when we talked on the phone, and I could tell he loved his children, but he seemed so busy that I thought we would never meet. But that Valentine's Day in 2008, John mentioned that, he too was alone for the holiday of sweethearts. He had worked that night, and had gone home to eat a simple dinner and watch television. He asked me if I might want to have dinner with him the next day- February 15. I agreed that it was time for us to meet. We had talked online and on the phone for quite awhile, we had talked about our first "marriages" and about seeing our exes decline into instability and recklessness. We had laughed into the phone about funny videos we had seen, or about the crazy children in our lives. He had grown up just around the corner from my grandparent's house in Stone Mountain. He had vacationed on the same little spot of deserted beach in Florida all his life, just like me. We had worked at the same mall all through high school, he was on the same trip to Washington DC that I took at 16 years old, and we had literally missed each other by inches all of our lives.
So John invited me to dinner on the Friday night after Valentine's Day. I drove to his house, where he had cooked pot roast and green beans. He had burned a few canned biscuits, and had bought me a diet coke, having learned it was my favorite. After dinner we bowled on his children's Wii and played with his two dogs. We tried to replace the awkwardness of a first date with interesting conversation, and found ourselves talking about politics. He read different books than me - had experienced life in different ways than me - had three brothers while I had two sisters - was a Presbyterian at a tiny little church and for Heaven's sake- a Democrat! But the longer we talked, the more I realized that the things I once thought were so important in a partner were really minor issues compared to the compatibility of finding someone who loves the same Lord that you do, and lives a life of integrity, trying to be an example for his children.
When our "date" was over, I said goodbye to John and he walked me outside. I wondered if he was still interested in me, and what would happen next. He didn't kiss me or try to hold my hand, he just gave me a gentle hug and told me to drive safely. I drove home, and thought about our date as I fell asleep. The next day, John called so say "I had fun last night."
"Me too," I replied, "Let's do it again sometime."
"How about tonight?" He asked. And we ended up seeing each other on February 16th, when I made homemade chicken and dumplings and he brought me peach roses. And again on February 17th. And again the next weekend. And the weekend after that . . . .
And eight months later, we married in a simple outdoor wedding at my Great Aunt's house in Covington. Amanda stood with me, and Georgia stood with John. The boys wore matching sweaters, and after the ceremony, John and I took 3 nights for a honeymoon in Dillard. And after this humble beginning, I moved into that house in Dahlonega where we shared our first meal together. I brought my household full of "stuff", my sweet dog, fat cat, and a whole lot of hope for the future.
And every day since then has been another day with the love of my life, my partner in this world . . . my best friend. Happy Valentine's Day, Bunky! I love you so much!
Three years ago, I was newly single, having finally surrendered my hope of "saving" a man who was hopelessly addicted to drugs and alcohol. I had been married for four years, eleven months and twenty-one days. I had seen my first "husband" through 4 mental hospitalizations, three stints in residential rehab, 2 incarcerations, multiple court appearances and arrests, 2 DUIs, one "hit and run", and 3 months on life-support at Grady Memorial - all of which didn't serve to turn his life around like you might think. Three years ago, I had decided that I might not ever have the family I dreamed of, that I might be "DIVORCED" and unwanted for good. Three years ago, I bought myself flowers and candy and determined that I was okay just being alone in a small house with a sweet dog and fat cat, Law and Order reruns, and a purposeful career. But you see, three years ago, I had been talking online to a blue-eyed man in Dahlonega whom I had yet to meet in person. He had an easy laugh when we talked on the phone, and I could tell he loved his children, but he seemed so busy that I thought we would never meet. But that Valentine's Day in 2008, John mentioned that, he too was alone for the holiday of sweethearts. He had worked that night, and had gone home to eat a simple dinner and watch television. He asked me if I might want to have dinner with him the next day- February 15. I agreed that it was time for us to meet. We had talked online and on the phone for quite awhile, we had talked about our first "marriages" and about seeing our exes decline into instability and recklessness. We had laughed into the phone about funny videos we had seen, or about the crazy children in our lives. He had grown up just around the corner from my grandparent's house in Stone Mountain. He had vacationed on the same little spot of deserted beach in Florida all his life, just like me. We had worked at the same mall all through high school, he was on the same trip to Washington DC that I took at 16 years old, and we had literally missed each other by inches all of our lives.
So John invited me to dinner on the Friday night after Valentine's Day. I drove to his house, where he had cooked pot roast and green beans. He had burned a few canned biscuits, and had bought me a diet coke, having learned it was my favorite. After dinner we bowled on his children's Wii and played with his two dogs. We tried to replace the awkwardness of a first date with interesting conversation, and found ourselves talking about politics. He read different books than me - had experienced life in different ways than me - had three brothers while I had two sisters - was a Presbyterian at a tiny little church and for Heaven's sake- a Democrat! But the longer we talked, the more I realized that the things I once thought were so important in a partner were really minor issues compared to the compatibility of finding someone who loves the same Lord that you do, and lives a life of integrity, trying to be an example for his children.
When our "date" was over, I said goodbye to John and he walked me outside. I wondered if he was still interested in me, and what would happen next. He didn't kiss me or try to hold my hand, he just gave me a gentle hug and told me to drive safely. I drove home, and thought about our date as I fell asleep. The next day, John called so say "I had fun last night."
"Me too," I replied, "Let's do it again sometime."
"How about tonight?" He asked. And we ended up seeing each other on February 16th, when I made homemade chicken and dumplings and he brought me peach roses. And again on February 17th. And again the next weekend. And the weekend after that . . . .
And eight months later, we married in a simple outdoor wedding at my Great Aunt's house in Covington. Amanda stood with me, and Georgia stood with John. The boys wore matching sweaters, and after the ceremony, John and I took 3 nights for a honeymoon in Dillard. And after this humble beginning, I moved into that house in Dahlonega where we shared our first meal together. I brought my household full of "stuff", my sweet dog, fat cat, and a whole lot of hope for the future.
And every day since then has been another day with the love of my life, my partner in this world . . . my best friend. Happy Valentine's Day, Bunky! I love you so much!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Don't come into my cave if you are afraid of the dark . . .
This is as real as it gets, so please don't read this and then post some silly comment about how I need to keep my chin up or "look at the bright side." For those of you who might think I'm not looking at the bright side, let me assure you that I am over-the-moon happily in love with my husband, abundantly grateful for my ever-supportive and loyal family, and crazy about my step-kids and foster kids. But here goes: INFERTILITY STINKS. I would use another adjective besides "Stinks" here but it would not be very nice.
Last week, I was talking with a little boy who is adopted. He told me that he will not have any brothers or sisters because "my mom's stomach is broken." It was all I could do not to fall into the floor in a heap of emotions and just cry for his mom. Because I know what it's like to have a "broken stomach" and feel the ache of longing to carry a child, but also feeling like a part of you is so damaged or broken (and not because you did anything to cause that) and it is a disgusting, lonely, and miserable feeling.
Yes I know- REJOICE ALWAYS... The Bible says so. I want to rejoice always, I want to be so happy for the 12 people a day that cross my path with their perfect ultrasound photos. I want to REJOICE in this situation that I am facing. I want to rejoice in the crazy misfit family that God has given me.
But some days it is hard . . .
I've had Jeremiah and Peniel since June 22 of last year. I love them so much, and they have healed my broken heart in so many ways. But slowly, they have begun having overnight visits with their mom. This past weekend was the third time they have had an overnight visit with her. When they came back to me, they were awful. From his car-seat, Jeremiah was throwing a fit and when I tried to correct his behavior, he shouted "I don't yike you, Meyissa! You are the WORST BABYSITTER EVER!" And let me tell you, that remark did not sit well with me. Of course, I didn't cry in front of him- I did it much later, in my bedroom with John lovingly rubbing my back and telling me that I am NOT a babysitter. Becky later pointed out that if I was a babysitter, I'm really getting the shaft. I feed, clothe, and bathe this child - wash his dirty butt when he has diarrhea and frequently fall asleep with his toes stabbing my in the back because he wakes up in the middle of the night and comes into my room. And I don't get paid a dime for any of that!
Samuel wrote a letter to his mom in jail and gave it to me to mail. It read "I miss you when you are in jail. You are the best mom in the whole world." If the irony of that escapes you, don't worry - it escaped him too.
Obviously the hardest part of being a step mom or foster-mom is the fact that I am a substitute for the real thing. It's like when you watch a soap opera and suddenly without warning your favorite character is replaced by a new actor. The narrator's voice announces: "The part of Dash Wellington will now be played by . . ." and gives the name of the new actor who will take the place of your old favorite one. The new actor can do all the same things, read the same lines, romance the same ladies as part of the plot - but in your heart he will never feel like the real Dash Wellington. Well, that's me . . . the babysitter with the broken stomach. To my kids, I am just a stand-in for the real thing. Or at least that's how I feel right now. I'm just down in the dumps- in my cave. It doesn't mean I won't come out . . . and it doesn't mean I will be this way forever. I will come back into the light of day, I will hear the boys laughter and their arguing over who can fart the loudest. I will hear the girls talking about their guy troubles and discussion about prom dates. I will look around our crowded kitchen table and think about how blessed I am - how fortunate I am to share my lives with them, to grow and learn with them . . . to see their progress in life, and to hear about their adventures.
So, if you read this blog and you pray- please pray for me. Pray that I can rejoice in all things. Pray that I can see God's hand at work in this- that I can "let go" and accept things as they are, or find fulfillment in God's perfect will for my life- even if is disagrees with my own plans.
Last week, I was talking with a little boy who is adopted. He told me that he will not have any brothers or sisters because "my mom's stomach is broken." It was all I could do not to fall into the floor in a heap of emotions and just cry for his mom. Because I know what it's like to have a "broken stomach" and feel the ache of longing to carry a child, but also feeling like a part of you is so damaged or broken (and not because you did anything to cause that) and it is a disgusting, lonely, and miserable feeling.
Yes I know- REJOICE ALWAYS... The Bible says so. I want to rejoice always, I want to be so happy for the 12 people a day that cross my path with their perfect ultrasound photos. I want to REJOICE in this situation that I am facing. I want to rejoice in the crazy misfit family that God has given me.
But some days it is hard . . .
I've had Jeremiah and Peniel since June 22 of last year. I love them so much, and they have healed my broken heart in so many ways. But slowly, they have begun having overnight visits with their mom. This past weekend was the third time they have had an overnight visit with her. When they came back to me, they were awful. From his car-seat, Jeremiah was throwing a fit and when I tried to correct his behavior, he shouted "I don't yike you, Meyissa! You are the WORST BABYSITTER EVER!" And let me tell you, that remark did not sit well with me. Of course, I didn't cry in front of him- I did it much later, in my bedroom with John lovingly rubbing my back and telling me that I am NOT a babysitter. Becky later pointed out that if I was a babysitter, I'm really getting the shaft. I feed, clothe, and bathe this child - wash his dirty butt when he has diarrhea and frequently fall asleep with his toes stabbing my in the back because he wakes up in the middle of the night and comes into my room. And I don't get paid a dime for any of that!
Samuel wrote a letter to his mom in jail and gave it to me to mail. It read "I miss you when you are in jail. You are the best mom in the whole world." If the irony of that escapes you, don't worry - it escaped him too.
Obviously the hardest part of being a step mom or foster-mom is the fact that I am a substitute for the real thing. It's like when you watch a soap opera and suddenly without warning your favorite character is replaced by a new actor. The narrator's voice announces: "The part of Dash Wellington will now be played by . . ." and gives the name of the new actor who will take the place of your old favorite one. The new actor can do all the same things, read the same lines, romance the same ladies as part of the plot - but in your heart he will never feel like the real Dash Wellington. Well, that's me . . . the babysitter with the broken stomach. To my kids, I am just a stand-in for the real thing. Or at least that's how I feel right now. I'm just down in the dumps- in my cave. It doesn't mean I won't come out . . . and it doesn't mean I will be this way forever. I will come back into the light of day, I will hear the boys laughter and their arguing over who can fart the loudest. I will hear the girls talking about their guy troubles and discussion about prom dates. I will look around our crowded kitchen table and think about how blessed I am - how fortunate I am to share my lives with them, to grow and learn with them . . . to see their progress in life, and to hear about their adventures.
So, if you read this blog and you pray- please pray for me. Pray that I can rejoice in all things. Pray that I can see God's hand at work in this- that I can "let go" and accept things as they are, or find fulfillment in God's perfect will for my life- even if is disagrees with my own plans.
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