Tomorrow has been three years since I married you. I think back to that cool October evening when we stood up before our family and close friends and recited vows we had written ourselves. Sometimes I am amazed that after all the struggles you endured because of love in the past, that you even had the capacity to love and trust again. Some people might say the same thing about me.
It's funny that you and I missed each other by minutes our entire lives. We probably stood with our toes in the sand on Mexico beach every summer of our teenage years, never looking far enough down the beach to see one another. We probably passed each other in Gwinnett Place mall, or maybe you came into the food court on your break and saw me standing at a cash register in my red and blue striped chic-fil-a polo shirt. Maybe my family passed yours in a car on Redan road around the holidays. Maybe we were on the same airplane headed to Washington DC in high school, you and Brandon, me and Brandy.
We didn't meet back then because we probably had nothing in common, other than geography. We missed each other because God had us headed in different paths at that time. I went to Brewton Parker, came to work at Hebron, married someone else. You worked your way up to the top of your stores, became a manager, married and became a father. You and your family moved to Dahlonega. I was in Winder. I never knew about you, and yet, our lives were similar again in so many ways. You were struggling to hold your marriage together, and I was struggling to keep mine together. In 2007, we both reached the end of what we could endure. We both said "that's enough" to the drama, abuse, and the roller coaster of emotions. We were both crushed by the loss of our first marriages, and the realization that we could not save another person from their own destructive habits. We both let go, and accepted that we might never find a partner that would love and us fully.
On Christmas morning of 2007, we were both alone and didn't know the other existed. I never thought I would find you so soon but I am so glad I didn't have to wait any longer. In the beginning, I was nervous to trust again, and so were you. We both had our "baggage" and we both had our fears. I am sure it was work for you to open your life and your children's lives to me. It was work for me to open my heart and allow someone to see me for what I really was . . . broken.
I remember how we used to stay up late on the phone talking and laughing. And I remember when we both started sharing about our pasts, and sometimes we would cry. And I remember how, not too long after we met, I knew that we were meant to be together. I knew that we would fit into place like two halves that were always made for each other. Remember how you text messaged me and told me to turn on the radio one day and the song playing said "You're my blue sky . . ." and you told me that song was for me. I really couldn't have said it better, John. You're my blue sky. You were the peaceful, calm, blue sky that was waiting behind all those clouds and the lightning. You were always there, hidden behind the struggles and facing your own heartache. And when the time was right, the clouds parted, the sun broke through, and there was the blue sky . . . waiting for me.
I know this is a personal thing to say for the entire world to read, but I love you so much. Every day that I get to spend with you is a precious gift. I am so blessed to be your wife, your partner, and your friend. Thank you for not giving up on love.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Teach your kids to set the table
After one week in my new position, one thing is abundantly clear: families in crisis do not eat dinner as a family and most likely, they never did.
The girls at the shelter have "chores" they have to do each night. They aren't difficult chores - just basic household things around the kitchen. One of the chores is "setting the table" for dinner. The first night, the young lady with this chore grabbed a stack of plates and a handful of forks. She haphazardly tossed them on the table and threw a fork on top of each plate. There were no napkins, no knives, no spoons. Everyone gathered around the table to eat and started grabbing whatever they found in front of them, never passing the serving dishes, just reaching over each other. On my second night, I gently asked if anyone would be upset if I said a blessing before dinner. They all said it was okay with them, so I offered a quick prayer. Then the girls did as the night before, digging and reaching and shoveling food onto their plates.
By the third night, I noticed the same "table setting" was the norm - stack of plates, pile of forks, no napkins, no knives, no spoons, no manners.
By the fourth night, I had to say something. "Does anyone is this house know what it really means to 'set' the table?" I asked the girls. "Yeah," answered the youngest one who had the chore that very night and had just slapped down the plates and forks, "I just did it." "No, you didn't," I told her, "You threw down some forks and plates. They do more than that for customers at the Golden Corral and it's a buffet." The girls looked confused as I explained that when I was a girl, setting the table meant a napkin to the left of each plate, a fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right. There was a little song that my mom taught me, Emily, and Becky when we were girls. The little song helped us to remember how to "set the table." As a girl, I thought the song was fun, as a teenager I thought the song was "stupid" and as an adult, I think the song was brilliant. Establishing order in a household, even through something as simple and mundane as placing silverware on a table in an organized fashion is a step toward establishing order for an entire lifetime.
I don't remember in all those childhood years (and teenage years) that we ever had a meal together where all three pieces of silverware, and a napkin, were not present. I further explained to my girls that on a few special occasions, my mom taught us girls how to set the table with everything from salad AND dinner forks, to fine bone china, bread plates, dessert spoons, and all. "What's China?" asked the youngest girl in the house. Oh, brother. "You know," said one of the others, "that big country where they eat rice all the time."
So here, my friends, is another fine example of why kids are in crisis. Families no longer sit down to a meal together. Kids are used to eating out of boxes or buckets, or paper bags. No one sits together to eat and talk about their day, instead they just scarf up whatever is around to eat, and go on about their business of watching TV or entertaining themselves.
I am so thankful that I grew up in a family where meals together were the norm. During these family dinners, we talked, we laughed, we shared stories about our day, or we just passed the food around and ate together. And I am also thankful that I knew "the fork goes on the left, the knife goes on the right, the spoon goes next to that, and now your table's set."
Thanks Mom!
The girls at the shelter have "chores" they have to do each night. They aren't difficult chores - just basic household things around the kitchen. One of the chores is "setting the table" for dinner. The first night, the young lady with this chore grabbed a stack of plates and a handful of forks. She haphazardly tossed them on the table and threw a fork on top of each plate. There were no napkins, no knives, no spoons. Everyone gathered around the table to eat and started grabbing whatever they found in front of them, never passing the serving dishes, just reaching over each other. On my second night, I gently asked if anyone would be upset if I said a blessing before dinner. They all said it was okay with them, so I offered a quick prayer. Then the girls did as the night before, digging and reaching and shoveling food onto their plates.
By the third night, I noticed the same "table setting" was the norm - stack of plates, pile of forks, no napkins, no knives, no spoons, no manners.
By the fourth night, I had to say something. "Does anyone is this house know what it really means to 'set' the table?" I asked the girls. "Yeah," answered the youngest one who had the chore that very night and had just slapped down the plates and forks, "I just did it." "No, you didn't," I told her, "You threw down some forks and plates. They do more than that for customers at the Golden Corral and it's a buffet." The girls looked confused as I explained that when I was a girl, setting the table meant a napkin to the left of each plate, a fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right. There was a little song that my mom taught me, Emily, and Becky when we were girls. The little song helped us to remember how to "set the table." As a girl, I thought the song was fun, as a teenager I thought the song was "stupid" and as an adult, I think the song was brilliant. Establishing order in a household, even through something as simple and mundane as placing silverware on a table in an organized fashion is a step toward establishing order for an entire lifetime.
I don't remember in all those childhood years (and teenage years) that we ever had a meal together where all three pieces of silverware, and a napkin, were not present. I further explained to my girls that on a few special occasions, my mom taught us girls how to set the table with everything from salad AND dinner forks, to fine bone china, bread plates, dessert spoons, and all. "What's China?" asked the youngest girl in the house. Oh, brother. "You know," said one of the others, "that big country where they eat rice all the time."
So here, my friends, is another fine example of why kids are in crisis. Families no longer sit down to a meal together. Kids are used to eating out of boxes or buckets, or paper bags. No one sits together to eat and talk about their day, instead they just scarf up whatever is around to eat, and go on about their business of watching TV or entertaining themselves.
I am so thankful that I grew up in a family where meals together were the norm. During these family dinners, we talked, we laughed, we shared stories about our day, or we just passed the food around and ate together. And I am also thankful that I knew "the fork goes on the left, the knife goes on the right, the spoon goes next to that, and now your table's set."
Thanks Mom!
Friday, October 7, 2011
Let my heart be broken for the things that break His heart.
I learned something during my first long shift at the shelter where I am now employed. It was my first time handling "intake" for a new resident. The young girl's probation officer delivered her to the shelter, and as soon as I saw her, I thought fantastic, another juvenile delinquent. And now I feel ashamed for even thinking this, but she came in the loose-fitting, elastic waist pants that kids wear in juvenile detention centers. She had a huge stocking cap on top of her head, and walked with her head hung low. She avoided my eyes. For the past week in my new role, I quickly learned that many of our "children" are teenagers who are one move away from long-term jail sentences. Perhaps in my mind I was going to be nurturing meek and broken young ladies who had been neglected and abused, and needed a safe home away from the mistreatment. In my mind, all of the girls were grateful and sweet. This is not quite the case.
When the girls went to bed, I had a couple of hours left on my shift. I cleaned up the kitchen and checked to make sure everyone was in their own bed. Then I took out the intake paperwork for our new resident. What I read broke my heart. She was born to a drug addicted single mom. From infancy until age five, she was in and out of foster care, passed around to different neighbors and relatives. She was sexually and physically abused. She was neglected. At age five she was adopted by a foster parent that she was never able to attach to. For the next few years she struggled in school, had frequent outbursts, had trouble concentrating, and began acting out sexually and physically. As she got older, she started running away from home, getting into physical fights with her adoptive mom, experimenting with drugs, and having intercourse at age thirteen. At one point, she stayed with a neighbor, until problems started in that placement. She was always missing school, getting into fights, and shoplifting and eventually ended up in a juvenile detention center. Her paperwork concluded with her psychiatrist stating that she suffers from "post traumatic stress disorder and reactive attachment disorder." That big stack of papers might as well have smacked me over the head. This child is not a delinquent. She is a victim. True, she has made her own choices and mistakes. But how many of these mistakes stemmed from an early childhood that was void of safety, security, compassion and guidance? After my first week with my new girls, my resolve is even stronger. I am completely certain that God has called me to parent children who have been discarded or let down by their original parents. And I am so thankful for my wonderful husband, John, who has joined me in this journey! Tuesday at our last appointment with our caseworker, we made a few changes to our adoption application. We were already "open" to all races and genders, but now we are also considering "all ages". We believe God will lead us to the children that He wants to bring into our family. Thank you for your prayers on our journey!
When the girls went to bed, I had a couple of hours left on my shift. I cleaned up the kitchen and checked to make sure everyone was in their own bed. Then I took out the intake paperwork for our new resident. What I read broke my heart. She was born to a drug addicted single mom. From infancy until age five, she was in and out of foster care, passed around to different neighbors and relatives. She was sexually and physically abused. She was neglected. At age five she was adopted by a foster parent that she was never able to attach to. For the next few years she struggled in school, had frequent outbursts, had trouble concentrating, and began acting out sexually and physically. As she got older, she started running away from home, getting into physical fights with her adoptive mom, experimenting with drugs, and having intercourse at age thirteen. At one point, she stayed with a neighbor, until problems started in that placement. She was always missing school, getting into fights, and shoplifting and eventually ended up in a juvenile detention center. Her paperwork concluded with her psychiatrist stating that she suffers from "post traumatic stress disorder and reactive attachment disorder." That big stack of papers might as well have smacked me over the head. This child is not a delinquent. She is a victim. True, she has made her own choices and mistakes. But how many of these mistakes stemmed from an early childhood that was void of safety, security, compassion and guidance? After my first week with my new girls, my resolve is even stronger. I am completely certain that God has called me to parent children who have been discarded or let down by their original parents. And I am so thankful for my wonderful husband, John, who has joined me in this journey! Tuesday at our last appointment with our caseworker, we made a few changes to our adoption application. We were already "open" to all races and genders, but now we are also considering "all ages". We believe God will lead us to the children that He wants to bring into our family. Thank you for your prayers on our journey!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Adoption is a beautiful thing!
| John's cousin posted this photo on her facebook page, complete with a sad story about a mother tiger in a California Zoo who was so upset over |
Mama Tiger is now recovering from her depression. According to Snopes, this story was fabricated, but it is based on a true story about a Tiger in a THAILAND zoo who nurses these piggies, as part of an experiment at the zoo. Personally, I liked the "fake" story better, but either way, I like this tiger/piggy photo. There is another one saved on my computer showing a dog nursing some tiger cubs. I always think it is really sweet how mothers' instincts kick in whenever a child needs mothering.
I had a wonderful first day at my new job. It was a short day- just a four hour shift, with some introductory training by an awesome staff member who is going to be my new Dahlonega friend. While talking to her, I learned that she has no children of her own, and a story not too unlike mine. As we talked, she shared with me about how she was "able" to love other people's children as her own. She told of raising her two nieces and a step-niece when their own mother's were unable to parent them properly. She said, "I couldn't have loved them more if they were my own." This is something I have frequently said, about all of my babies from Amanda on down to little Jeremiah. My kids may not be my flesh and blood, and they may not look like me at all, but I could not love them more.
Today I began my new job working with abused and neglected girls in the North Georgia mountains. I can't share identifying information about "my new girls," but I will say they are precious. One I was so drawn to, that I can't imagine how she survived the pain of her past. Just being able to spend time with them and love them was a treat for me. I am so excited that for this season of their lives I can be a mama figure to them.
One of the girls came and sat with me for awhile during my training. She shared with me that her biological mother "gave" her up, and she was adopted by someone who later abused her. The other staff member told me "her adoptive mother did not know how to discipline and was very mean to her." The little girl just looked at me with sad brown eyes and I said, "I'm sorry, sweetie. Some people don't know how to be parents. I am glad you are here and you are safe now."
Another wonderful story from today is that one of the girls moved out - on my very first day. Her mentor from the community has opened her home and heart to become her legal guardian! Now that is a story worth sharing!
Thanks for your prayers for the Line Household. I love you all dearly.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Here I go . . .
Obviously, I am not a person who moves around a lot. I lived in the same house from the ages of 4-21 with the exception of college. I lived in my little house in Winder from the ages of 21-31 when I briefly lived in Emily's basement "I live in my sister's basement . . ." and then married John and moved to Dahlonega where I remain. Jobs would be the same with me, since I worked in high school at Chic-fil-a "all the good Christian kids worked there," and later I was an intern @ FBC Vidalia where I did everything from change diapers to plan activities for the high school kids. Then I landed this sweet gig at my home church at 21 years old (not quite 21 if you want to get technical) and I have been there ever since.
So if you want to get right down to it, I've never done anything besides take care of children, make sweet tea and chicken sandwiches, or take care of more children.
Well, I've also done quite a bit of writing/ lesson planning, some basic first-aid (okay, that one surgery at camp one summer), cleaned up quite a bit of vomit, conducted some interventions, a few counseling sessions, testified in court, supervised teachers, trained teachers, put up quite a few bulletin boards (that were outstanding, in my opinion), and I've read and studied quite a bit, trained, attended and conducted countless workshops, and copied some coloring sheets. Working for a Baptist church all these years, I've also logged quite a few hours hugging people, shaking hands, sharing potluck dinners, serving at potluck dinners, organizing "fellowships" (get-togethers if you're not Baptist), teaching with flannel-graph, assembling "power bands," jamming to some Veggie Tales or The Sparks Theme Song, cleaning dry-erase boards, picking up puzzle pieces (wow, we have a puzzle for everything here!) and even some very odd things that you would never know happen in the course of a day at a Baptist church.
Once, the women's ministry director and I spent an entire day with a homeless lady who lived under the trucks that park behind Kohl's in Lawrenceville. We took her shopping for clothes and toiletries, and helped her fill out paperwork for government housing. Looking back, it now seems odd that we took her to eat at Longhorn. I can still remember when we pulled up to her "home" behind Kohl's and there was this trash bag of clothing and a bottle of scope - under a trailer in this space of about three feet where she lived. I was probably 23 years old, owned my own little house and had a nice job. I'm sure I was wearing "nude" control top pantyhose, hanging around back there with the trucks behind Kohl's feeling very naive.
Another time I held this little boy on my lap in the housing projects while some of the pastors were putting on a puppet show. Suddenly I realized he had wet his pants and mine too. So I spent the whole day out there with a huge pee stain on the front of my skort (yes, skort, it's a combination shorts/skirt and very handy in the summertime.)
There was also my stalker-friend, 59 year old Mohammed, who stuck around after Revival one night and scared the stuffing out of me, then followed me to Target in the women's lingerie department and scared me again before my mom called and told our then-Associate Pastor that I was NEVER to be left alone at an event again.
Ryan reminded me today about the Dean-O and the Dynamos concert - the WORST event we ever carried out, when there were about two thousand kids crammed into the DHS gym and the air conditioning went out . . . in late May . . . in Georgia. And then after the SECOND song, the two thousand kids lost interest in the music and the super-saved aerobic-dancing girl in her denim overalls and started ripping to shreds their Hawaiian leis . . . getting up to walk around the gym, chasing each other, mobbing the stage area, and making me a nervous wreck. Fortunately the show only lasted about two hours.
And I cannot forget Fort Bluff, the scene of the all-time most regrettable camp I've ever been a part of. There were the narrow triple bunks reminiscent of a Nazi concentration camp, the food that I stopped eating on day one when Vanessa Lopez met me in line for breakfast and said: "Ms. Melissa . . . there was a cocka-roach in my sausage biscuit!" and the crazy rules about coed swimming and the need for 8 year old girls to wear t-shirts over their bathing suits. My exact words to the camp staff "but all the kids look exactly the same at this age! Who cares?" It was, in fact, a camp with a nice brochure that was NOTHING like reality.
And while on the subject of camp, I will always laugh when I think of "Miss Karen" and the giant bag of poop "at least ten pounds in this bag," the little boy who pooped in the sink backstage during the talent show, (the year with all the Tavious kids at camp . . .) and the farting gymnast who got into an argument over who dealt it - with her gymnast partner- during the talent show. There was the year when fourteen different girls all tried out with the song "Jesus take the wheel," including a rap version and a ridiculous interpretive dance. I will smile when I think of little Josh Trainer, grinning as he won the first place trophy for "Fly Away," and the next day when he became a virtual celebrity in the cafeteria.
Truly this job has been my mainstay for the past 14 years. The people of this church have carried me through a horrendous first marriage that never should have happened. The people of this church have stood by me through my codependency and divorce. This church was a place where I could go to feel successful, sane, and busy. Sometimes this church was a place for me to hide, to get lost, or to blend in with the crowd. Sometimes this church was all that was left of me. Through my time back in schools, two ectopic pregnancies, the loss of two very precious souls, through a new marriage, the transition to step-parenting, and through every triumph and ordeal of my adult life- I've had this sweet gig. I once told someone, "I get paid to tell kids about the Bible. How sweet is that?"
Through this job I discovered that my life's work is to help abused and neglected children. And to parent them. Through this job I learned about forgiveness, repentance, healing, honesty, hard work, recognition, charity, compassion, pain, ambition, passion, creativity, trust, and loyalty. I've learned to work with people who are very different from me. I've learned to be part of a team. I've learned to balance time. I've learned to work for a common goal. And now it's time for this season of my life to end.
I will take so many wonderful memories, so many lessons, and so many important truths with me as I go. I am going to work full-time with abused and neglected children. I am going to further my education, but most of all, I am going to be more available to my family, and be more of a wife to my wonderful husband. I am going to where God has called me, and believing good things will come. So, here I go to Dahlonega! And just as I once stood on the outside of this season, not knowing when I accepted this position at 21 years old that I would still be here all these years later, with a heart full of memories - I don't know what the future holds. But I know who holds the future.
So if you want to get right down to it, I've never done anything besides take care of children, make sweet tea and chicken sandwiches, or take care of more children.
Well, I've also done quite a bit of writing/ lesson planning, some basic first-aid (okay, that one surgery at camp one summer), cleaned up quite a bit of vomit, conducted some interventions, a few counseling sessions, testified in court, supervised teachers, trained teachers, put up quite a few bulletin boards (that were outstanding, in my opinion), and I've read and studied quite a bit, trained, attended and conducted countless workshops, and copied some coloring sheets. Working for a Baptist church all these years, I've also logged quite a few hours hugging people, shaking hands, sharing potluck dinners, serving at potluck dinners, organizing "fellowships" (get-togethers if you're not Baptist), teaching with flannel-graph, assembling "power bands," jamming to some Veggie Tales or The Sparks Theme Song, cleaning dry-erase boards, picking up puzzle pieces (wow, we have a puzzle for everything here!) and even some very odd things that you would never know happen in the course of a day at a Baptist church.
Once, the women's ministry director and I spent an entire day with a homeless lady who lived under the trucks that park behind Kohl's in Lawrenceville. We took her shopping for clothes and toiletries, and helped her fill out paperwork for government housing. Looking back, it now seems odd that we took her to eat at Longhorn. I can still remember when we pulled up to her "home" behind Kohl's and there was this trash bag of clothing and a bottle of scope - under a trailer in this space of about three feet where she lived. I was probably 23 years old, owned my own little house and had a nice job. I'm sure I was wearing "nude" control top pantyhose, hanging around back there with the trucks behind Kohl's feeling very naive.
Another time I held this little boy on my lap in the housing projects while some of the pastors were putting on a puppet show. Suddenly I realized he had wet his pants and mine too. So I spent the whole day out there with a huge pee stain on the front of my skort (yes, skort, it's a combination shorts/skirt and very handy in the summertime.)
There was also my stalker-friend, 59 year old Mohammed, who stuck around after Revival one night and scared the stuffing out of me, then followed me to Target in the women's lingerie department and scared me again before my mom called and told our then-Associate Pastor that I was NEVER to be left alone at an event again.
Ryan reminded me today about the Dean-O and the Dynamos concert - the WORST event we ever carried out, when there were about two thousand kids crammed into the DHS gym and the air conditioning went out . . . in late May . . . in Georgia. And then after the SECOND song, the two thousand kids lost interest in the music and the super-saved aerobic-dancing girl in her denim overalls and started ripping to shreds their Hawaiian leis . . . getting up to walk around the gym, chasing each other, mobbing the stage area, and making me a nervous wreck. Fortunately the show only lasted about two hours.
And I cannot forget Fort Bluff, the scene of the all-time most regrettable camp I've ever been a part of. There were the narrow triple bunks reminiscent of a Nazi concentration camp, the food that I stopped eating on day one when Vanessa Lopez met me in line for breakfast and said: "Ms. Melissa . . . there was a cocka-roach in my sausage biscuit!" and the crazy rules about coed swimming and the need for 8 year old girls to wear t-shirts over their bathing suits. My exact words to the camp staff "but all the kids look exactly the same at this age! Who cares?" It was, in fact, a camp with a nice brochure that was NOTHING like reality.
And while on the subject of camp, I will always laugh when I think of "Miss Karen" and the giant bag of poop "at least ten pounds in this bag," the little boy who pooped in the sink backstage during the talent show, (the year with all the Tavious kids at camp . . .) and the farting gymnast who got into an argument over who dealt it - with her gymnast partner- during the talent show. There was the year when fourteen different girls all tried out with the song "Jesus take the wheel," including a rap version and a ridiculous interpretive dance. I will smile when I think of little Josh Trainer, grinning as he won the first place trophy for "Fly Away," and the next day when he became a virtual celebrity in the cafeteria.
Truly this job has been my mainstay for the past 14 years. The people of this church have carried me through a horrendous first marriage that never should have happened. The people of this church have stood by me through my codependency and divorce. This church was a place where I could go to feel successful, sane, and busy. Sometimes this church was a place for me to hide, to get lost, or to blend in with the crowd. Sometimes this church was all that was left of me. Through my time back in schools, two ectopic pregnancies, the loss of two very precious souls, through a new marriage, the transition to step-parenting, and through every triumph and ordeal of my adult life- I've had this sweet gig. I once told someone, "I get paid to tell kids about the Bible. How sweet is that?"
Through this job I discovered that my life's work is to help abused and neglected children. And to parent them. Through this job I learned about forgiveness, repentance, healing, honesty, hard work, recognition, charity, compassion, pain, ambition, passion, creativity, trust, and loyalty. I've learned to work with people who are very different from me. I've learned to be part of a team. I've learned to balance time. I've learned to work for a common goal. And now it's time for this season of my life to end.
I will take so many wonderful memories, so many lessons, and so many important truths with me as I go. I am going to work full-time with abused and neglected children. I am going to further my education, but most of all, I am going to be more available to my family, and be more of a wife to my wonderful husband. I am going to where God has called me, and believing good things will come. So, here I go to Dahlonega! And just as I once stood on the outside of this season, not knowing when I accepted this position at 21 years old that I would still be here all these years later, with a heart full of memories - I don't know what the future holds. But I know who holds the future.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Mom Power
I've been thinking a lot lately about the role of a mom, and the power of that role. The really deep thinking about mom power started about a month ago in Kohl's. I was looking around in the bedding section and overheard a conversation between a young woman, her child, and her mom who was riding around in one of those wheelchair-shopping-cart contraptions. Actually, I'm not sure if I could really call this interchange a "conversation", because it was more like a grumpy disabled grandma insulting her daughter and grandchild relentlessly. It's rare you get to witness this type of family dysfunction on your lunch hour- but I did. It started when the younger woman walked away from grandma and the child to look at some large framed paintings. I was just a few yards away and heard the grandmother fussing at the child. She was saying things like "Stay over here! Don't you dare walk away from me! What are you? Stupid?" And when I heard the last remark, I just turned and glared at her. The little boy was probably six or seven, and he was just doing what normal little boys do. He was touching the edges of pillows, running his finger along the wall, picking up random objects to look at them. He was as quiet as a mouse, and really not more than a few feet from grumpy granny at the time of her reprimanding. He came and stood a little closer to the wheelchair, and she continued on her tirade: "I knew if we came here, your mother would go off and find some crap she doesn't need to buy! Why are we wasting our time here? I didn't want to come in this store anyway! You don't need anything else for your house, it couldn't get any more cluttered!" Then she spoke to the child again, her words ice cold: " Don't even think of asking to go look at the toys! We did not come in here to look at toys! You have everything a child wants anyway! You need nothing else!" It was hard for me not to turn toward the ice queen and blurt out: "No, he doesn't have everything he needs. He needs you to be kind to him and stop humiliating him." But I kept my cool. I started to walk away when I heard the young mother start back-talking granny. She was as cold and sarcastic, but also worn down like she didn't care what verbal abuse her son had to witness. It was really very ugly.
It makes me sad to overhear or see a scene like this one. I just finished reading an awesome book called "Like Family" by Paula McClain. It is a memoir of her experience growing up in foster care, the middle child of three sisters who were abandoned by both parents, and spent their childhood and teen years living in different people's homes with different rules, different levels of dysfunction and so forth. This is a fabulous read (took me three nights to finish) and I laughed and cried, laughed and cried, through the whole thing. I read over one hundred pages the night I picked it up at the library, and woke up John several times giggling because of several funny stories and references to the pop culture of the early eighties when these sisters were growing up. But the reason I mention this book as part of this blog is because the girls in this book experienced all different types of moms. They had an absent mom, a stone-cold mom, a Nazi mom with endless rules, a permissive mom with no rules, a "wonderful" mom who was typical in every way, but eventually gave them back to the system (that was painful to read about.) They also had an abusive mom in foster-care, and yet with all of these moms, they yearned for a closer relationship, the bond they wanted to have so badly. You can feel the ache in the words of the writer, how as a little girl she longed for one of those "mom" figures to claim her, protect her, be affectionate to her, care for her when she was sick, and love her. Isn't this a basic human need? Don't we all want to have a mother care for us.
I am one of the lucky ones, actually, I am among the "more than lucky." I have a mother and a father that I would not change for anything. I am so blessed to have grown up in a home with two pretty normal people, who are still married today, and who were committed to not just each other, but to me, Emily, and Becky in every way. Today I am a well-rounded person with my father's sense of humor and work ethics, my mom's compassion and hospitality, and thirty-four years of wonderful memories because of two amazing parents. And there is not a sum high enough to convince me to call someone else my "mom" or "dad." I esteem NO ONE . . . not even among my relatives, the high honor of being labeled my mom and dad. Those titles are distinct and will not be given to anyone else in my life. But I know it's because of how blessed I was as a child (and still am today) that I didn't need a tribe of men and women to raise me. I had the best.
Mom and Dad are powerful people. They have powerful roles, their words are powerful and their actions will shape the foundation and future of the children they raise.
Just like grumpy granny in Kohl's (who is lucky I didn't roll her into the men's restroom) . . . words are powerful and mom's words are among the most powerful.
May God give me the words to speak to my precious stepchildren, my godchildren, and those children who "wait" for our family. May I watch my words, being ever mindful of the power they contain. May I always remember that when I hold my children I hold their future, their hearts, their tender minds, and their personalities.
Somewhere in the world today (maybe the state of Georgia, maybe elsewhere) are the children who will join our family through adoption. I pray that any damage or pain from the past will be comforted and eased when they are brought into our family for good. I pray that I will have the words to say that will encourage them and heal them, and make them always proud and happy to say "that lady is my mom."
It makes me sad to overhear or see a scene like this one. I just finished reading an awesome book called "Like Family" by Paula McClain. It is a memoir of her experience growing up in foster care, the middle child of three sisters who were abandoned by both parents, and spent their childhood and teen years living in different people's homes with different rules, different levels of dysfunction and so forth. This is a fabulous read (took me three nights to finish) and I laughed and cried, laughed and cried, through the whole thing. I read over one hundred pages the night I picked it up at the library, and woke up John several times giggling because of several funny stories and references to the pop culture of the early eighties when these sisters were growing up. But the reason I mention this book as part of this blog is because the girls in this book experienced all different types of moms. They had an absent mom, a stone-cold mom, a Nazi mom with endless rules, a permissive mom with no rules, a "wonderful" mom who was typical in every way, but eventually gave them back to the system (that was painful to read about.) They also had an abusive mom in foster-care, and yet with all of these moms, they yearned for a closer relationship, the bond they wanted to have so badly. You can feel the ache in the words of the writer, how as a little girl she longed for one of those "mom" figures to claim her, protect her, be affectionate to her, care for her when she was sick, and love her. Isn't this a basic human need? Don't we all want to have a mother care for us.
I am one of the lucky ones, actually, I am among the "more than lucky." I have a mother and a father that I would not change for anything. I am so blessed to have grown up in a home with two pretty normal people, who are still married today, and who were committed to not just each other, but to me, Emily, and Becky in every way. Today I am a well-rounded person with my father's sense of humor and work ethics, my mom's compassion and hospitality, and thirty-four years of wonderful memories because of two amazing parents. And there is not a sum high enough to convince me to call someone else my "mom" or "dad." I esteem NO ONE . . . not even among my relatives, the high honor of being labeled my mom and dad. Those titles are distinct and will not be given to anyone else in my life. But I know it's because of how blessed I was as a child (and still am today) that I didn't need a tribe of men and women to raise me. I had the best.
Just like grumpy granny in Kohl's (who is lucky I didn't roll her into the men's restroom) . . . words are powerful and mom's words are among the most powerful.
May God give me the words to speak to my precious stepchildren, my godchildren, and those children who "wait" for our family. May I watch my words, being ever mindful of the power they contain. May I always remember that when I hold my children I hold their future, their hearts, their tender minds, and their personalities.
Somewhere in the world today (maybe the state of Georgia, maybe elsewhere) are the children who will join our family through adoption. I pray that any damage or pain from the past will be comforted and eased when they are brought into our family for good. I pray that I will have the words to say that will encourage them and heal them, and make them always proud and happy to say "that lady is my mom."
Monday, August 29, 2011
Great Expectations!
Summer is almost over- finally! I am so happy whenever I go outside and feel that ever-so-slight breeze that signals the changing of seasons. I do love summer, I love taking my wonderful step-kids to the river, the pool, or the lake. I love how much longer the days are, so we can just enjoy a little more daylight. I love vacations, and the Fourth of July in Dahlonega - spectacular! But, this summer was so hard! I am so glad to see it go away. And it was also HOT! I am not a hot-weather girl by nature. I like fireplaces, snow, sledding, sweaters, a cozy blanket, and a cup of cocoa. So I say "Bring on the cooler temperatures!"
But I can also say that the changing of seasons in nature is reminding me of the changing seasons of my life. I have really seen some changes in myself over the past season or two. I have seen some changes in my "step-parenting", my marriage, and even in my friendships. For the sake of example, I will mention that earlier this summer one of my dear friends really encouraged me that I should "enjoy" my step kids more, instead of always fretting over the fact that they aren't mine "all the time," or that I struggle with infertility. The old Melissa would probably just be hurt by that, but this summer it has been a time of growth and change and I realized I really wasn't "enjoying" them or trying to get to know them. If I truly love kids as much as I say I do, why am I not loving the ones God has put right in front of me, in my house? This summer, some of my favorite memories will be of picking blackberries with Samuel (we picked four huge buckets in about two weeks, adapted the Southern Living recipe for blackberry cobbler and made it for ourselves, our lovely neighbors, Tom and Ginger, and for some other friends around town.) I will also treasure the memory of taking Mitchell to the junkyard just to "poke around" and see what treasures we could find. I will also treasure the back to school shopping with Georgia, and of her helping me color Samuel's hair. One particular memory that will also stand out is of the day the boys helped me take all the covers off the sofa cushions to wash them. Samuel and I left for the day, and when I returned home, Mitchell had dried the cushion covers and replaced every one of them on the sofa and love seat. I was delighted - perhaps ecstatic would be more accurate. All in all, despite the heartbreaking loss of our little ones, the transition of Hannah moving out, and overcoming the loss of Canaan, and losing my precious grandaddy, we had a life-changing summer. And now, this season is coming to an end.
The best part about this season ending is that the sorrow it brought us will only now be a sad memory. But pain is not always a bad thing, as I am learning through the books I am studying at home. Humans hate pain, and so we avoid it, and God is showing me that through pain we learn. Oh, how I hate this, but I know it's true! It's not by accident that I finally pierced my ears for the first time this summer, and gave blood for the first time this summer. I have "avoided pain" at all costs . . . even a silly little prick or minor stick with a needle. I'm not a fan of pain by any means now, but I know that you don't have to run from it. As silly as it seems, I found such victory in those minuscule brushes with pain. I embraced the pain, instead of running from it. And I learned that my fear of the pain was actually worse than the real pain itself. How many of us are running from pain and avoiding pain, and yet living with anxiety and worry over when it will actually hurt us? Yes, I am guilty of this!
One BIG area for me is this adoption process. Mom asked me two years ago when I lost Abigail, if I would "consider" adoption. I assume at the time she was talking of infant adoption. I remember saying, "I would adopt, but I still want the experience of having my own." I am sure all of you women out there can understand this longing. I wanted to feel the baby kicking inside me, feel it growing, see it on the sonogram, yes, even feel that pain of bringing him/her into the world. But most of all, I wanted that heart-stopping, breathtaking moment when I looked at my child for the first time in the hospital and felt the instant bond between us. I wanted that instant connection and intimacy.
But now I see that maybe that is never what God had for me. I have "fallen in love" with my step kids. I have "Fallen in love" with every other child I have parented short-term (23 counting Peniel and Jeremiah.) I have "fallen in love" with my CASA children, the kids I have mentored in schools, and my CR babies who break my heart. I did not love them the instant they came into the world - I did not even know them. But I fell in love with them as I came to know them, and learn all about them, and find out who they are.
And now I know that out there in the world, there is a child or children (I hope two or three), who do not know me, and who's lives have taken a turn away from what is healthy and ideal. They have faced pain, and insurmountable loss. I hope that in their pain, somewhere deep inside them, is a longing for me, and John, and a "forever family". And this fills my heart with a sense of great expectation!
I don't know how old they are, if they are boys or girls, or both. I don't know the color of their skin or their eyes, or their shape, or anything about them. I only know that God has planned for them to be mine through adoption and I am overjoyed at the prospect of finding them!
Between my two ectopic pregnancies, I have only been pregnant for a short number of weeks. It went by too fast. The joy didn't last nearly long enough. But I've had enough pregnant friends to know that there is so much "expectation" in pregnancy and there is so much looking forward, and yes, anxiety, but also a great hope for the future. I also know there is pain associated with pregnancy and childbirth (duh!) And since that is not the way God has chosen to make me a mother, I can either be angry about it, or accept this beautiful gift that is adoption. Accepting that gift means embracing more pain. There is pain in this process. There is sadness, grief, humiliation, anger, frustration - challenges I'm not always sure I can meet. But there is something wonderful waiting for me on the other side of this pain. And I am moving forward in great anticipation and with great expectations for the child(ren) God has for me.
Please pray for me!
But I can also say that the changing of seasons in nature is reminding me of the changing seasons of my life. I have really seen some changes in myself over the past season or two. I have seen some changes in my "step-parenting", my marriage, and even in my friendships. For the sake of example, I will mention that earlier this summer one of my dear friends really encouraged me that I should "enjoy" my step kids more, instead of always fretting over the fact that they aren't mine "all the time," or that I struggle with infertility. The old Melissa would probably just be hurt by that, but this summer it has been a time of growth and change and I realized I really wasn't "enjoying" them or trying to get to know them. If I truly love kids as much as I say I do, why am I not loving the ones God has put right in front of me, in my house? This summer, some of my favorite memories will be of picking blackberries with Samuel (we picked four huge buckets in about two weeks, adapted the Southern Living recipe for blackberry cobbler and made it for ourselves, our lovely neighbors, Tom and Ginger, and for some other friends around town.) I will also treasure the memory of taking Mitchell to the junkyard just to "poke around" and see what treasures we could find. I will also treasure the back to school shopping with Georgia, and of her helping me color Samuel's hair. One particular memory that will also stand out is of the day the boys helped me take all the covers off the sofa cushions to wash them. Samuel and I left for the day, and when I returned home, Mitchell had dried the cushion covers and replaced every one of them on the sofa and love seat. I was delighted - perhaps ecstatic would be more accurate. All in all, despite the heartbreaking loss of our little ones, the transition of Hannah moving out, and overcoming the loss of Canaan, and losing my precious grandaddy, we had a life-changing summer. And now, this season is coming to an end.
The best part about this season ending is that the sorrow it brought us will only now be a sad memory. But pain is not always a bad thing, as I am learning through the books I am studying at home. Humans hate pain, and so we avoid it, and God is showing me that through pain we learn. Oh, how I hate this, but I know it's true! It's not by accident that I finally pierced my ears for the first time this summer, and gave blood for the first time this summer. I have "avoided pain" at all costs . . . even a silly little prick or minor stick with a needle. I'm not a fan of pain by any means now, but I know that you don't have to run from it. As silly as it seems, I found such victory in those minuscule brushes with pain. I embraced the pain, instead of running from it. And I learned that my fear of the pain was actually worse than the real pain itself. How many of us are running from pain and avoiding pain, and yet living with anxiety and worry over when it will actually hurt us? Yes, I am guilty of this!
One BIG area for me is this adoption process. Mom asked me two years ago when I lost Abigail, if I would "consider" adoption. I assume at the time she was talking of infant adoption. I remember saying, "I would adopt, but I still want the experience of having my own." I am sure all of you women out there can understand this longing. I wanted to feel the baby kicking inside me, feel it growing, see it on the sonogram, yes, even feel that pain of bringing him/her into the world. But most of all, I wanted that heart-stopping, breathtaking moment when I looked at my child for the first time in the hospital and felt the instant bond between us. I wanted that instant connection and intimacy.
But now I see that maybe that is never what God had for me. I have "fallen in love" with my step kids. I have "Fallen in love" with every other child I have parented short-term (23 counting Peniel and Jeremiah.) I have "fallen in love" with my CASA children, the kids I have mentored in schools, and my CR babies who break my heart. I did not love them the instant they came into the world - I did not even know them. But I fell in love with them as I came to know them, and learn all about them, and find out who they are.
And now I know that out there in the world, there is a child or children (I hope two or three), who do not know me, and who's lives have taken a turn away from what is healthy and ideal. They have faced pain, and insurmountable loss. I hope that in their pain, somewhere deep inside them, is a longing for me, and John, and a "forever family". And this fills my heart with a sense of great expectation!
I don't know how old they are, if they are boys or girls, or both. I don't know the color of their skin or their eyes, or their shape, or anything about them. I only know that God has planned for them to be mine through adoption and I am overjoyed at the prospect of finding them!
Between my two ectopic pregnancies, I have only been pregnant for a short number of weeks. It went by too fast. The joy didn't last nearly long enough. But I've had enough pregnant friends to know that there is so much "expectation" in pregnancy and there is so much looking forward, and yes, anxiety, but also a great hope for the future. I also know there is pain associated with pregnancy and childbirth (duh!) And since that is not the way God has chosen to make me a mother, I can either be angry about it, or accept this beautiful gift that is adoption. Accepting that gift means embracing more pain. There is pain in this process. There is sadness, grief, humiliation, anger, frustration - challenges I'm not always sure I can meet. But there is something wonderful waiting for me on the other side of this pain. And I am moving forward in great anticipation and with great expectations for the child(ren) God has for me.
Please pray for me!
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