A Word to Graduates (And to All of Us)

For five years, Jamie and I served our church in youth ministry. This last week, the girls I began with graduated from college. Others who were in our lives, graduated from high school. These kids made us want more of Jesus, and when everyone told us we had lost our minds for pursuing this new way of life - they cheered us on. Here is something I shared at one of their events so many years ago, and I still have it posted on my bathroom mirror because it's applicable to all of us.

Over the past month, God has had me meditating on Hebrews 11, the "faith" chapter. It's an easy chapter to skim over because we've titled it as such. But it's so slam full of God's grace and compassion as He uses broken, ordinary people for His kingdom purposes to bring Himself glory. But more than that, as a daughter (and son) of the High King, this is your lineage, your heritage, and your genealogy.

As I've camped in this chapter, God clearly gave me the prayer for our seniors of Hebrews 11:38, "that the world would not be worthy of them." 

My prayer and charge to you today is to live your life so that the world would not be worthy of you. This is not because of who you are, but because as you grow increasingly more hidden in Christ throughout the course of your life, you become unseen, and He is seen. The older I grow, the more I'm aware this life of faith isn't a sprint; it's a life of step by step faith, often as Abraham in this passage, of going to the unknown places, relationships, and broken parts of this world.

Remember that as God's precious daughters (and sons), having been bought with a price to become the bride of Christ, you were created so that the world would not be worthy of you.

You were designed with a purpose: your emotionalism, your logic, gifts, talents...they were all specifically designed by God so that you may carry His mercy and truth to the lost and dark places He leads you to, in a way that only you can.

Remember this world is not your home. You were made for more than this. Don't settle. You were made for beauty, for intimacy with the Father, and for perfect fellowship with the body of Christ. On this earth, you will ache; even the beautiful moments will lead you to a deeper ache, because of their tastes of the Father; cling to those things, and know that as a daughter (and son) of the King, you really will look like Jesus one day.

So as you recognize these things, be courageous, and boldly serve and be the incarnation of Christ to the loveable and unloveable, the appealing and the untouchables. And know that because of your willingness to let Jamie and me be in your lives, we have tasted deeply of Jesus and long for Him so much more.

At the Center of God's Will

My fridge is flooded with graduation announcements and invitations. It's the joy of past youth work and of being a teacher. I love it.

As I've been asking these young, spry graduates how I can pray for them, one answer is always, "Pray that I would know God's will for my life."

And here is my response...

With each passing year, I'm grasping a little more that "God's will" is His word and commands. Yes, you have to seek His face in prayer, and yes, there are the BIG decisions to make, but I'm confident that our Americanized Christian culture has cushioned this term for our own definition, rather than the Father's.

When Jamie and I set out from Briarwood, we were each so confident and arrogant in our own disgusting ways. We were "seeking God's will," and because of that we were entitled.

We said and did the roles very well, and even prayed the words that we were told to pray, without understanding, "God lead us in your will. Break our hearts for what breaks yours. Make us different."

If I'd only known what I was praying...

From there God began chipping us, slowly shaping us into His image, and it was painful. For the longest time I fought it and continued wondering if I was "outside the will of God" because things just weren't working for me. I wanted "God's will" in my context.

And on the day of my youngest sister's high school graduation, I broke. Jamie and I were falling apart (in our own eyes. We didn't realize God was breaking us to mend us more beautifully). And as I was wondering where we went wrong, I slammed into a Briarwood board member's SUV on the way to graduation.

And there I said it before I even stepped out of the car, "I'm done trying to make my will, yours, God. Help me embrace wherever you take us."

If I had known that, that prayer would lead through the valley of the shadow of death, literally...

If I'd known that God would close the door to more biological children...

If I'd known, it meant taking in a teenage Chinese daughter who couldn't speak English or girls who have been "damaged" from the sins of the world...

If I'd known that it would mean a lifetime of loving, to only let go, of being messy, of facing my sin head on...

If I'd known my boys would have to do hard love right in their own home...

If I'd known I'd bought into a lifetime of holy grieving,

If I'd known God's "will" for us at the time, I honestly never would have prayed that prayer.

But God knows my heart is deceitful, and He knows my thoughts are finite, so He doesn't reveal all His words and commands to me all at once, but one day at a time, one item of paperwork or class at a time, one YES at a time. And each time we follow Him, we are terrified, but He is always faithful.

The reality is, as Sara Groves sings, "Pain is no measure of His faithfulness." I believe every disciple can attest to that. But if we know the depth of that valley at the very beginning, I think many of us would flee in the black of night.

But as we follow one day at a time, we suddenly look up and realize His glory is seeping through our wretchedness, and our broken messy lives are proclaiming the Gospel of Jesus from the rooftops. And God's will is no longer about the house I should or should not buy, or the career, or the schools (though the Father cares about all those things), but it's about the fact that I am really being formed into the image of Christ, and in the process others are seeing Him face to face.

And so I say YES to the chipping away, to the discomfort, to the true joy, because that is the Will of God.

Beauty Defined

According to Merriam-Webster's Dictionary,
       
         BEAUTY -
                     1: the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses   or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit : loveliness

                     2 : a beautiful person or thing; especially : a beautiful woman

                     3: a particularly graceful, ornamental, or excellent quality 

Caleb will be nine in two weeks (GASP). Ask him who the most beautiful girl in the world is (besides me :), and he will answer without hesitation -  a tall, lanky Chinese teenager who's his older sister, even though she doesn't live here.

A couple of months ago, I was raving about how horrible everyone had been acting as I drove down the highway. Caleb replied, "But Mommy, isn't it so beautiful what God is doing in Big Sis R's heart. I mean, it's amazing the difference."

The truth is, I had missed it.

For years, I have defined beauty as the moment our daughter would be placed in my arms, take on my husband's name,  and the opportunity for God to grow her in our home from infancy would begin.

In word, I laid it all down when we began this journey of foster care. But, I nursed the hope that the trade off would be the crowing jewel of a daughter added to our pretty cool family - smile.

Or, I dreamed of that precious international adoption photo where everyone's shoes are lined up, and darling pink ones awaited the orphan we would pursue across the ocean. 

Honestly, I'd take either (though I'm fully aware that neither are completely beautiful on the other side. Both carry their own griefs and sorrows).

But, in fact, I'd take about anything, except what is actually in my home. 

And now the tears fall. Because His thoughts are not my thoughts, and His ways are not my ways. (Isaiah 55:8)

It's 2 in the morning, and I can't sleep because the work of God molding - no, hacking - my image of beauty away is so painful. The sculpting of His answers to my prayer of anything are gutting me from within.

And so beauty becomes...

                   

          Her frizzy hair and crooked teeth.

          Her chubby legs crammed in ballet tights.

          The opportunity to catch them in their sins, and they catch me in mine.

          The wailing of my soul, as God strips me of my dreams, and implants His own within me.

In these early morning hours, I'm fully grasping that my vision of a "beautiful" family, even in the context of our crazy lifestyle, is not for certain anymore - according to the old dictionary, and in utter honesty, I'm silently weeping over than, grieving it. Really, it never was certain, it was only the birth of vision God was growing in Jamie and me.

My selfish soul wants our little girl in a smocked Roll Tide outfit, and it wants to hold her before the church as she is committed to the Father as an young infant. It wants a chance to get her heart, before the sorrows and griefs of this world set in. None of these things are innately "bad." But when I look myself in the mirror and scream at the horror that I'm not sure I can die to that - it's bad.

But praise God, who is rich in mercy, that He doesn't do things the "beautiful" way. The disciples were not the beautiful ones; they were doubtful, prideful, self-absorbed followers, desperate for redemption.

Sounds like me.

Praise God, He led His son, not to an easy comfortable method of saving His creation, but He led Jesus to a death of gore, pain, and abandonment.

All for the beauty, that came in the morning.

I'm not there yet, but I'm beginning to glimpse, to taste the reality of the ways I could miss the true beauty He purposed me for because I've chased after another's beauty He designed for them, but even more so...

I've clung to Webster's definition and missed Caleb's realization of the true beauty being birthed before my eyes.

What it's all about...A Tribute

It's that time of year....
                     When you feel like you're losing your mind.
Seriously,
                     Baseball games, piano recitals, ballet recitals, end of year parties, grading, tests, exams, birthdays, Mothers' Day, registering for camps....multiply all that times five (Baby J doesn't count), and you get the picture because you're there too.

In the midst of the insanity, I almost lost the vision, almost.

Two weeks ago we had Little Sis R's ballet recital. She was a redbird sight to behold, but the greater vision was me, sitting next to Momma, crying together.

And that day, Momma heard and saw the gospel. And anyone who knows our story, saw the gospel being lived out on our sixth row of a preschool ballet recital... because my heart was being changed.

Last night was the AWESOME Mrs. Jane's piano recital. Jamie and Caleb played a duet to Chris Tomlin's "Forever." I cried. No, it wasn't perfect, but it was perfectly beautiful.

And Big Sis played, and down my row of 10 sat me and James, the boys, my Mom, R's Momma, her friend, her friends' two daughters, Baby J and Little R.

For a moment, I forgot all about the growing pains of this year. For a moment, I forgot she has two Mommas. For a moment, I looked at her Momma's face crying, and I smiled as R glowed and bowed, and once again the name of Jesus was heard, and there on that back row of Alabama Piano Gallery, the gospel was seen, and light is shattering dark places.

People keep asking how we do it all. We don't...

But this year there was a ballet teacher who loved my daughter well, when I was weary. And spoke the truth at a recital when I didn't have the heart. And a family heard of a Savior who loves them. All because a ballet teacher said, YES.

And this year there was a piano teacher, who served and spoke truth when I was done speaking, who gave grace when I didn't have an ounce left in me, and who loved my daughter well. And a family saw the hands and feet of Jesus at work. All because a piano teacher said, YES.

Thank you for being the hands and feet of Jesus to a watching world.

My Favorite Post of the Year - 51 Reason Why I Love Being a Mom

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

- By American Poet Emma Lazarus, 

and engraved on the Statue of Liberty

Three years ago, I prayed my home would embody something like this. When we moved into our home, I told Jamie I wanted it to become a safe-haven for anyone and everyone God opens a door too. 

"Who am I, O Lord, and what is my house 

that you have brought me thus far?"

- 2 Samuel 7:18

Why I have loved being a mother this year (51 reasons):

1. I. need. Jesus.

2. I had a daughter for seven months, who I fully gave my heart to. I am so honored to have been your Momma for such a short season, Baby M. 

3. I had the privilege of grieving her fully, because she was worthy of being grieved, and rejoicing in the new life God opened for her.

4. I sat and scratched Caleb's back in the early morning hours, when his heart was broken.

5. Benjamin and Daniel have become color-blind to skin color.

6. One of Caleb's baseball teammates fell down on the field. Everyone ran past him, but Caleb ran across the field to him and lifted him up.

7. My sons pray for orphans every day.

8. She tells me she loves me to the moon and back.

9. Benjamin wants to release balloons to heaven for PapaDick's Father's Day gift.

10. Daniel has an imaginary grandfather who has known him longer than any of us and has taught him everything he needs to know about life. He tells me a grandfather story every night.

11. I. have. no. control.

12. I have the honor of doing five loads of laundry every day, and I have six kiddos who help me build a "snow mountain" to slide down.

13. I stood beside my teenage daughter's forever mother and watched as she was baptized. I wept to think I have seen this beautiful girl spiritually adopted, physically adopted, and symbolically baptized into the Kingdom of God.

14. And that same daughter still calls.

15. She writes, "I love you, Miss Catie," on every piece of paper in the house.

16. My children have prayed for child after child in crisis as we've delivered clothes all across the city.

17. Benjamin read his first book.

18. Benj teaches me to take each hour, one at a time. I'm seeing his body restored before my eyes. He is a walking miracle.

19. I have the funds to grocery shop, even though I dread it, and cry every week.

20. My family never complains about turkey sandwiches.

21. I. long. for. Christ.

22. He reaches for me and smiles the biggest smile when he sees me.

23. In the last 18 months, I have mothered for some period of time 16 children in my home. To God be the glory, because His grace is more than sufficient.

24. I have an incredible group of friends who teach me how to be a Momma who loves Jesus more with each moment.

25. She glowed at her ballet recital, and I sat beside her Momma and cheered.

26. I had six mommas and grandmommas to shop for this Mother's Day, who were my children's families.

27. I took her on her first "real" shopping trip to a "real" mall.

28. My name is said 100 times an hour, easily.

29. My children have someone to scream at when they are angry.

30. My children have someone to tuck them in each night, and they are safe in a bed.

31. I. cling. to. Jesus.

32. They hear the name of Jesus each day, by the grace of God.

33. They forgive me every time I fail them.

34. My Heavenly Father is their perfect Father, and at best I will fail them.

35. I have the honor of pointing them to one who got it right for me.

36. The fingernail polish-covered carpet will always remind me she lived here. I won't fix it.

37. I have the gift of mothering mothers.

38. My family takes up an entire row at church.

39. One day I will laugh at Benjamin stories. One day.

40. My man is praying about the big bus.

41. All. for. Jesus.

42. I have the blessing of being my children's first teachers.

43. Her Valentine's, Christmas, field trip, and all the other school things I've been able to be there for.

44. The piano that bangs all day.

45. The baseballs that cover the back yard.

46. A man that rises to bless me.

47. Glimpses of my Savior that shatter every dark shadow of my home.

48. I have learned I can do hard...because of Him.

49. Having the gift of telling my children, their families, my husband, and our boys that it is not the end of our stories.

50. That I've been told one million times I have my hands full and asked every day if these are all mine. I never dreamed I would be able to hear those words 10 years ago.

51. He doesn't need me for any of this, but He's invited me to be part of His beautiful glory that will not be withheld. I only had to say Yes.

Birthmothers (and a little foster care etiquette thrown in)

It concerns me that I'm increasingly requesting you read to the end to form your opinions :)

This morning I sat in the car after my monthly three-hour, 3 a.m. Walmart trip, at Chick-Fil-A to fill my Coca-Cola fix, and I listened to caller after caller phone in to share memories of their mothers on Focus on the Family radio, and I realized I was crying. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the week, or perhaps it was the aching I felt knowing that some of my children could not, and may never be able to phone in and share memories. Perhaps it was that I remembered I'll be tucking in three children tonight who will wake to tell me happy Mother's Day, but their souls will be dreaming of another.

I'm aware there are numerous stereotypes of foster children, foster families, birthfamilies, and the whole sha-bang. Trust me; I've gotten the emails. But, I suppose I have been surprised by two things: 1. Our older foster children's willingness to own themselves as "foster kids," and the complete ignorance of the general public in regards to their situation.

Take One:

About a month ago I took the whole kaboodle to have our hairs cut. So, as I wrestled the three screaming littles and attempted to bribe them from kicking the kind hair cut lady in the gut, I asked Big Sis R to watch Baby J. We were making a scene, and a conversation something like this emerged according to R.

The lady next to her said, "My, your Momma has her hands full."

"Yes, always." I can almost imagine R rolling her eyes at this.

"Are all those children in your family?"

"I'm a foster kid." Bis Sis R has always been incredibly open about this.

"Well, has your foster mom not adopted you?" (Lady better be glad I was across the room.)

"I don't need to be adopted. I have a great mom who just needs to get back on her feet."

"Well, obviously, honey, your real mom has gotten into some trouble."

Enter me, as Bis Sis R runs out the door screaming, "You aren't allowed to talk about my Momma."

Take Two:

We had a precious little guy for respite last week. (Respite is when you provide short term care for other foster families so they are able to catch their breath.)

Obviously, we are noticeable at the baseball park with six kids under the age of 10. So, a well-meaning father approached Little Guy and asked where his mother was.

"My Mom ain't here. I'm a foster kid."

"Who do you live with?"

"Well, I live with other people right now, but Jamie and Catie let me play this weekend."

"Do you like living with them?"

"It's ok, but I really just want my Momma back."

Last and Final Take:

A little over a year ago, our Chinese 13-year-old daughter at the time hollered my name and said she had to show me something right away.

As I walked in her room, she lifted up her shirt, and pointed to a mark, asking what it was.

"Honey, don't you know? That's a birthmark."

"What's a birthmark?"

"Well, when God brought you out of your real mom's belly, her body left a mark on you when you came out."

Her eyes opened wide, and she said, "You mean this is a piece of my real mom?"

"Yes, sweetheart, it is."

"Maybe God let her make the mark so that I would never forget her."

- Be still my soul -

Some of you have messaged, commented or remarked to me of birthmother terminology, the brokenness of the foster care system, or even the pros/cons of adoption itself. Sometimes I become defensive and attempted to justify, but the truth is, my only adoption is spiritual. And I have not been a birthmother in a crisis situation.

But I have been somewhere some of you have not...

I've stroked her back as she cried that she just wanted to see her Momma before she went to bed.

I've stood there while she screamed at me, "I hate you because your not my Momma."

I've listened when she's asked to call me Mommy because she says she just wants a mommy so bad in her house with her.

I've watched in discouragement as Mommas' lives are paraded before family court, outlining their shames, their addictions, their every little flaw...their blankets of unbelief in something they have not even heard...or been told of.

And I've run home to nurse my own unbelief in the shadows, in the dark corners, where I know no one can see.

I know all the views and perspectives of the broken foster care system. I know of those who wish to speed up termination, and I'm aware of the great injustice.

But you see, when Jamie and I became foster parents, we bought it lock, stock and barrel. We became missionaries. We became broken, messy, damaged vessels with HIS vision of "repairing the ancient ruins, raising up the age-old foundations, being called Repairer of Broken Walls, and Restorer of Street with dwellings." (Isaiah 58:12)

The children aren't the ancient ruins, or the foundations, or the broken walls or the dwelling. The birthfamilies are, and so we show up for His love to restore, and so we open our mouths for His truth to repair, and so we lay out our hands and feet for His strength to rebuild.

He doesn't need us, but I'm so honored He's using us, teaching us, breaking us.

Through our children's Mommas and Daddies, I've seen the depth of my darkness. I felt the suffocation of jealousy. I've been Jonah in the belly of the whale, and then one day, the tables suddenly and unknowingly turn, and it's me who they are loving, and it's me who they are teaching, and it's me who they are inviting to be part of their lives.

And I realize I'm the one being repaired, restored, rebuilt.

Beware, a Deep One

I'm surrounded by sorrow.

I know it's not third-world sorrow, and sometimes that really frustrates me, but it's still sorrow.

Comfort, democracy, capitalism, independence and wealth can breed their own demons of sorrow, of loneliness, lies and despair.

A freshly widowed wife, friends' husbands who betray, children scarred by the sins of this world, by the sins of their fathers...
         
 ...by the sins of me.


This week I was grieving some things with a dear warrior in the faith, and she said, "I just don't know if I can do this. I just can't see anything, you know. I can't feel. Nothing is for certain."

I know.

Her words stirred me all week, and I began thinking, What if?


What if my eyes were never meant to see, but to behold His glory and beauty in the earth?
     
What if my mouth was never meant to defend myself, but to proclaim His goodness and praise?
     
What if my hands were never meant to feel a tangible outcome, but to be His hands of mercy and justice? And to create the beauty He allows me to create?

What if I was meant to see with my soul the things unseen, and hear from deep within me His whisper, "This is the way, walk in it"? And, to be led to act from a Spirit that stirs in my heart?

What if all these things I cling to, to bring me satisfaction of control - my sight, my hearing, my feeling, my words - what if they are only symptoms? And I have misunderstood their meaning all along?

What if they are only meant to carry out those things from deep within?

I'm just saying, What if?