Faith

My Sacrifice of Praise

My Sacrifice of Praise

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I was seven days late.

It’s only happened twice in my life. The other time was three years ago. The week before our foster son came home.

I woke up every morning, believing the “in due time” had finally come. That after all of these years, it was our turn. I was certainly going to see my belly start swelling in the next few weeks. I had calculated the due date and thought through every way I would tell my husband, family, and dear friends. I had imagined the look on their faces, like the ones standing around Lazarus’s grave.

Even after all the hoping and all the disappointment, I knew this new season our family has stepped in, has looked so different from the old ones. He’s doing a new thing in us, something He’s never done before. And hope never puts us to shame (Romans 5:5), so I wasn’t afraid to hope. Because my hope isn’t in a miracle, it’s a person, my Jesus.

This was the third test I took that week. All the other ones said the same results. But I wasn’t going to believe it wasn’t true, until I knew. And I knew on day eight.

Right before we looked at the test, Brandon said to me, “You know this doesn’t change a word out of God’s mouth about this.” And I knew that. Still do.

When the Load Feels Heavy

When the Load Feels Heavy

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I’ve been his mama and he has been my son now for almost two years, minus the two months he went back.

When I think back to that first summer he came, all I can remember is the rash that covered my body for six months. I used every cream and ointment you could imagine. I quit gluten and dairy. It didn’t matter what I did, the rash stayed. It was my body’s way of telling me it was too much.

I remember laying on my face every morning in my office, asking Holy Spirit for just enough grace to make it through that day. In those first days, it was minute by minute. I didn’t know how to be a mama to a then seven year old. And he surely didn’t know what it was like to live as a true son. He wasn’t used to boundaries and bedtimes, structure and routine. Love felt uncomfortable, like dipping cold toes in to warm water, it burned.

Although we have quite the journey ahead of us, sorting through so much trauma, and growing together in love, we’ve found our place together. I am his and he is mine. He’s settled in nicely to his place in our family. And we’re hoping one day it will be forever.

A Beautiful Unraveling

A Beautiful Unraveling

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I’ve been quiet around here lately.

It’s not because I don’t have any words, I do. A lot of them really. It’s just that they haven’t found their way out of my heart yet.

Also, it’s been a really hard few weeks.

I still haven’t learned exactly how to share the hard without sharing my children’s stories. In the very beginning of our journey, I shared a lot. Probably too much. As I grew as their mama and learned more and more about adoption along the way, I realized their story wasn’t mine to share.

When You Need to Feel Safe

When You Need to Feel Safe

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When I was younger, every single Sunday after church my grandma made a massive Sunday meal. In the summertime it was fresh salads, yummy vegetables, and cobblers. During the winter it was soups, roasts, swedish meatballs and butter rolls. People would become my friend, just so I would invite them over to grandma’s after church. When I left for college, I’d call her and bring a car full of my friends home on the weekend. I came home to her house during college more than I went to mine. I felt safe at grandma’s house. She was the one that was always steadfast in my childhood. She was always there for me.

In the summer I would take runs to my grandma’s house a few streets away. I cheered competitively in high school and college. I’ve discovered I’m an Enneagram 3 which means I do nothing half way. So I ran a lot in the summers. I remember the path I ran so vividly. I took a left at the stop sign and ran between two houses a little down the road on the right the next street over. I’m not even sure we knew them, but they didn’t mind. I ran through the woods and passed a pasture. We lived in the country, so I’d have to run through a little creek before I’d make my way up the next hill. I’d come out at the bottom of her culdesac and I’d get to my grandma’s house soaking wet with sweat. And every time she’d have a tall glass of ice water sitting on her island for me.

The New Year’s Goal You Can’t Mess Up

The New Year’s Goal You Can’t Mess Up

Go ahead. Tell me all the reasons I should make them. I know, I know. But just hear me out.

Here’s the deal. I used to be a perfectionist until God set me free. I used to find pieces of my identity in what I could accomplish, what I could create, what I could produce. I would strive and work and strive and work. I would make unattainable goals and when I would happen not to accomplish them, feel like a total failure.

I was either finding my identity in the working towards the goals or the failure of not attaining them. Always feeling unsatisfied, and honestly really, really tired.

And then I started having revelation on my true identity, who God says I already am.

Looking Back

Looking Back

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2018 was so beautiful.

We started 2018 with a deep sadness. So much disappointment was felt in 2017 and our foster son that had been with us for six months left very abruptly. But we welcomed 2018 with full hearts, expectant of all God had for us. We heard Him say this year would be a year of harvest. And we definitely saw that. It was beautiful. We saw the first fruits of all the good seed we have been sowing for so many years. It was a year I’ll deeply cherish.