Monthly Archives: March 2019

Second Chances

28 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by in Death of a child, Grandfostering, Parenting

≈ Leave a comment

img_2946

Baby B at 15 days old.

 

Baby B had arrived.  It was March of 2017, and once again, I had the joy of taking care of this second foster for much of her first five weeks.  But this time I had the routine down from the beginning.  And she came over to my house more than Baby A had, which made it easier to keep up with my own life.

If you’ve had more than one child added to your family, you may remember the novelty of everything the first one did, how you wrote down every milestone, took tons of pictures, told everyone the new things they were doing.  And when the second came along, you noticed things, but didn’t take time to write them all down because for you they were no longer as surprising, and you were too tired.

With my daughter’s foster babies, I also felt changes from the first one to the second. With the first foster it was like having our first child:  a totally new experience that I had no working knowledge of how it might go.  But with the second, even though I was savvy about bottles and car seats and various gadgets to lay her in and use to keep her clean and comfy, it didn’t fully equate to the feeling of having a second child.

An obvious difference with Baby B is that Baby A was no longer in the home, so there wasn’t the need to divide time and energy between two babies like when we had our second child.  There was still the newness of getting to know another unique person, learning her noises and cries, watching for any signs of feeding problems, getting adjusted to her sleeping and eating schedules, all the things any family has to learn about a new baby.

The biggest difference was that I knew all too well the possibility that this child may not be with us for very long.

And I have to admit, I felt myself guarding my heart a little, not with the love I showed her, but with the love I allowed myself to feel.

This was not new to me.  Nineteen years before I felt the same dilemma.  Our third child died and was miscarried in December 1997, and unknown to us we were pregnant again only seventeen days later.  We were grieving the loss of our much-loved, much-wanted, tried-for-seven-years-to-conceive child.  The whole family went on a scrapbooking weekend where the kids played around with Dad while I recorded our brief one month of having this child living inside me.  It was a necessary exercise, giving thanks and remembering and recording all our joy and sorrow.  It helped us all, me especially, be able to move on.

And after that early January scrapbooking weekend, it seemed we were able to look up from our hurt and timidly ask God what was next.

Just weeks later I was feeling hesitantly sure that we might be pregnant again, so at the end of a very busy day I managed to take a pregnancy test at our favorite coffee shop hang-out, where we all crowded into the bathroom to watch the lines appear, and then celebrated with the baristas who knew our struggles.  And as we waited for our drinks to be made we decided to nickname this baby “Joy” while he or she was growing inside me.

In case it’s rubbing you the wrong way, whenever we were expecting, we always talked about how WE were pregnant.  There were two people involved, both committed to raising any children God chose to bless us with.  And the meaning of pregnant that I always loved was “full of expectation!”  My husband and kids were as full of expectation as I was!  I was just the one full of baby as well.

So in that season all those years ago I knew what it was to be deeply in love with a baby I had just learned existed, and then to have to commit that baby completely into the hands of God, trusting the plan of the one who created us all.

And then the joy filled reality that I was carrying another unique person that God was forming in my womb moment by moment!  I was truly feeling all the feelings.  When you know the finality of loss in this world, it tempers joy.  It doesn’t eclipse it, but it lets you remember the sting that is possible.

It was time to put aside my sorrow and focus on taking care of myself and this new baby.  God had allowed me that oblivious time of mourning to process my hurt and gratefulness for being allowed to carry our little one even for a short time, to feel that connection again.  And I was back at the midwife’s office, arguing with her backup doctor that no, this wasn’t a twin of the baby I lost, I was sure this was a new pregnancy, and taking daily blood tests for a while to prove it, and then we were all amazed at how quickly I had been able to conceive again.  After seven long years of infertility.  It was truly two miracles in a row, and I was able to feel joy again.

Still I felt myself guarding my heart a little.  I was already past the time when I’d miscarried, but to ease my mind that I was doing all I could I waited for various milestones to come and go, letting more and more of my heart  be captured with hope that all would go well this time.

So two years ago, being immersed into life with Baby B felt much the same.  I knew the possibility of loss after Baby A moved on so quickly.  The circumstances were not ever in my control, but I could watch and see, could try to understand the system and how it all worked, and little by little I let myself begin to hope that we might be able to care for this child longer than the first foster baby.  Beyond a couple of months, I had no experience or knowledge.

And my heart, I know my heart wanted so badly to be all in.

Why Celebrate Recovery?

21 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by in Recovery journey

≈ Leave a comment

I used to have my life under control.  I always knew the right thing to do.  In fact, I was right all the time.

Yet for nearly the last four years I have been consistently working on recovery from my hurts, habits and hang-ups.

I haven’t talked much about recovery here – yet.  Because it’s hard to know who I can trust with the deep things.  But I’m choosing to trust you, because I’ve reached a place where I’m ok even if you don’t understand or get defensive or are uncomfortable.  Because I’ve been and am all those things at times, too.

The thing about recovery is that it is very self-focused.  It has to be.  I can’t fix you and you can’t fix me.  And it is also about being surrounded by people who will listen and let you vent and rant and cry and break through to healing.  Also because it has to be.

I had attended a different recovery program several years ago.  Same place, but I didn’t have to focus on my own issues.  It was a Christian alternative to Al-Anon. I enjoyed the sessions as those who wanted to talk shared their issues and ongoing struggles,  but  I never did more than dip my toe in the healing waters of recovery.

What I wanted was to talk about a couple of things from my past that I had never really shared with anyone, and then get over it and move on.  But I wasn’t comfortable talking about it in front of the men in my group.

So after almost two years I drifted away for a while.  And a couple of years later I was in a frustrated time of my life.  I was honestly ready to walk away from my church and find a new one, but even though I begged God to make me feel good about that, he didn’t.  So I decided to at least go to Saturday services at the church that had hosted the recovery program.

My husband and I went just before Easter four years ago, and as we walked in, I thought I recognized one of the greeters.  During the service the pastor asked each person to write the answer to the question “What is keeping you from being all God wants you to be?”, and leave it at a cross at the exits.

I wrote “paralyzed potential”, and prayed that God would show me how to use the gifts he had given me to fulfill what he wants me to be, as I left it at the cross.

I walked back out the same door, and introduced myself to the familiar man, the co-leader of my group at the old recovery program.  He remembered me, and invited me to come to Celebrate Recovery “because we can use more good leaders.”

Well, wasn’t that a swift response from God?  I knew I was capable of  so much more than others were seeing in me, and here was someone who recognized that.  Recovery ministry was one I felt sure I could help lead.

Because my life was under control, I knew the right things to do, and I was right all the time.

Well, I still thought that.  Up until the next Friday when I attended my first Celebrate Recovery.

At that time CR had been in existence for almost 25 years.  It had stood the test of time, and had a well-organized format that worked because every Celebrate Recovery group agrees to conduct their meetings sticking to some non-negotiables, with leeway for each local group to infuse their own flavor.

Even though I was confident I would be able to move into leadership of some kind quickly, I was actually nervous at my first meeting.  It was in the same area where the old program met, and  I found a table out at the edges intending to sit by myself.

Except a woman sitting with a couple other people motioned me over and asked if I needed a seat, and encouraged me to pull up a chair and sit with them.  We all introduced ourselves, and I said I’d sit at the next table over.  But it was obvious this group was friendly.

Then another woman sat beside me and opened up about some of her personal struggles, and my first thought was that this was a different kind of recovery program.  These people were serious about getting past the pleasantries and diving into their issues.

I sat through the large group program, was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the information I heard, and then picked an open share group to participate in.  I thought I’d just sit back and listen, like in the old group, and let the regulars talk.  But this was organized differently.  It was all women.  And along with a couple other guidelines, we  would each have 3-5 minutes to talk about whatever we needed and no one was allowed to interrupt.  Wow.  That was different.

I was able to hear a few other women share before my turn came, and I have no idea what I said, but it was so freeing to have the chance to say anything or nothing.  It was time to focus on myself.

Several of the women talked about something called a Step Study, and how a new one for women had just started.   I showed up for it the next Tuesday.  But instead of just one 3-5 minute time slot, we went around and answered question after question from the workbook.  The other women dug deep.  And I gave very shallow, protective answers.

Because after only one Friday and a few days of soul-searching questions, I came face to face with a few things.

I may not be right all the time.  I may have a sense of what the right thing is to do, but I’m better at telling other people than doing it myself.  And I was just beginning to see that I was not in control of much of anything.

Celebrate Recovery is based on 12 Biblical steps and 8 Biblical principles.  Principle 1 is:

Realize I’m not God; I admit that I am powerless to control my tendency to do the wrong thing and that my life is unmanageable. (Step 1)
          “Happy are those who know that they are spiritually poor.” Matthew 5:3a TEV

After that first meeting and Step Study class, I was beginning to see that I had a long way to go before I could lead anyone.

Celebrate Recovery was already changing my life.

 

 

Freefalling

14 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by in Grandfostering, Parenting

≈ 1 Comment

img_1917-1

I grew up hearing a phrase, “Once burned, twice shy,” and like all things words I had spent some time trying to parse out what it meant.  I certainly had been burnt many times: candles, electric stove burners, oven racks, fireplace, car cigarette lighters, heating irons.  The things that burn you may be things you really need or want to be able to use.  So I had come to realize the phrase referred to caution, a hesistancy to stick your hand into something you knew would burn you.

So after Baby A left my daughter’s home in February 2017, I was ok with time passing before she took her next placement.  Burned maybe isn’t the perfect analogy, but the grief when she left certainly felt like surviving as if through a fire.  And I was hoping for time to heal before exposing myself again to being all in with a new baby. The second time around, yes, shy.

I wanted a couple of months or more before my daughter started entertaining the idea of taking in a new baby.  I hoped, for her heart, that she was able to work through her feelings and be emotionally focused on the next child, and I didn’t want her to feel rushed or forced to accept a placement if she wasn’t yet ready.

She started getting calls that she declined for good reasons.  When she told me about those coming in, my heart beat faster until I heard she turned them down.  Take your time, wait for the one that feels right.  It had barely been a month.

There’s another saying I heard as a child, “In for a penny, in for a pound.”  That one I deduced had to do with British currency, and how if you were willing to invest a small amount, why not go big and take a real chance?  That’s how I felt when I got the call.

Could I come over early evening that day?  Because a new baby girl was to be delivered by a caseworker to her home less than an hour before my daughter needed to leave for work.  Could I stay with her for a couple of hours until she got back home?

Just three months earlier, I was brand new to bottles and formula, but after two months with Baby A, I was a pro.  So with younger daughter in tow, we headed over to start the next big adventure.  With penny in hand.

Meeting Baby B was such a different experience from the first foster baby.  Same general circumstances: a baby in need of care, fresh from the hospital, just a few days old.  But we were all completely changed from three months before.

I was relieved to find my daughter just sitting with the baby.  Not worrying about getting everything prepped.  She only had a few minutes to greet this child, and I was glad she was spending it gazing at her, learning her little features, before running off for a few hours of work.

For me, I was ok not holding her right away.  I guess that was the same when meeting Baby A, when I was not sure what my heart would do once my arms embraced her. Only this time I knew, and I felt myself holding back, willing to be in for a penny, but not sure if I would be able to chance my heart on her, if there was room in there with Baby A.

Maybe you’ve heard someone express that idea, that adding a new baby would be too hard because how could you possibly divide your time and resources between two or more?  And the implication is, how could you divide your love?

I heard it as a parent, the protests increasing with the imminent birth of each of our five children, how hard it would surely be to raise more than the number of children the speaker was comfortable with.  There seemed to be a widespread misconception that the more kids you have, the less able you are to care for their needs.  But that wasn’t our experience.  In fact, I felt like it got easier as there were more people to look out for each other. And since I didn’t pay attention to how expensive children are supposed to be, I was always content to see how “again God provided for bills he’d incurred.”

So here we were, my younger daughter and I, meeting foster baby number two.  I let her hold Baby B first, watching them, taking some pictures, getting one of the premixed bottles from the hospital ready to feed her.

I was amused by the downright grumpy look on her face.  This child definitely had her own opinion of this outside world she was now a part of.  Her dominant expression was a scowl, though she was dry, warm, held gently, talked to quietly.  Still she looked mad at everyone and everything.  For a brief moment I thought maybe it would be possible to hold my feelings aloof for a while, just in case this didn’t work out.  I knew nothing about her circumstances, and as with the first foster I knew my daughter’s hope was to be able to reunify this little girl with her mother.

So when it was evident she was ready to eat, I took her into my arms for the first time.  I looked into her skeptical face, trying not to match it by smiling into those eyes as dark as my daddy’s had been.  I’d always wished for a brown-eyed baby, and here she was.

She was impatient for milk, and as soon as I got the nipple into her mouth she sucked vigorously, emptying the small amount in less than two minutes.  Yet another way she was different from Baby A, who had a perpetual dribble of milk out one side of her mouth, who took a long time to finish any bottle, needing burped often.  Baby B was certainly her own person.

In my younger years, before husband and children, I imagined myself to be an adventurer, a risk-taker.  I would list the things I expected to do in my adult life: skydiving, hang gliding, skiing, surfing.  All things I never got around to doing.

And then, bottle finished, I lifted up this tiny bundle, wrapped my arms around her, and my heart leaped off the ledge.

 

 

 

 

 

Being More Undignified

07 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by in Childhood, faceliftbook journey, Gratefulness journal

≈ Leave a comment

My teenage daughter can back me up on this.  I don’t know how to dance.  But that doesn’t stop me.

And three times in just over three months I’ve been to concerts with that daughter, finally, after way too many years.  I have found it much easier to be a dancing fool at this stage of life than I did as a younger woman with feet that could take all the bouncing around.

Growing up as the daughter of a Free Will Baptist preacher, it was drilled into me that dancing was bad.  Worse than playing cards, but not as bad as drinking.  So I danced with my girlfriends in their homes, but never in public.  The bump and the hustle were our favorites, ones where you stand next to each other and all do the same moves.  And moving to the music felt so good.

I  didn’t go to the same concerts as my peers.  Dad was big into southern gospel music, promoting “gospel sings” at local churches, high schools and other venues.  So I was around a lot of music and musicians my whole life, hanging out backstage with the bands, even performing on stage with my family during intermissions.  I regularly helped unscrew microphone stands and carry them out to the buses to pack up after concerts.

Music was important to my parents, who were often part of a gospel quartet, and Mom played piano at church.  Dad helped start a local Christian radio station that is still operating, where I spent a lot of time since Dad was the first general manager, and our church often held events there.  I knew the music and the people who made it.  I had an autograph book  filled with illegible scrawls from dozens of southern gospel performers.

I was probably twenty before I went to my first non-Christian concert, Speedway Jam, an all day mid-summer festival that drew in more alcohol and drugs than I’d ever seen, passed around freely.  I remember there was a lot of flat-out stupid behavior that went on, and I participated.

A girl near our island of blankets and coolers had drunk so much that she passed out.  I recall feeling helpless.  Her “friends” were oblivious to her condition.  Her skin was getting burnt in the hot sun so I rigged up a makeshift shade cover by moving their coolers near her head and draping a beach towel over it.  This was before cell phones, bottles of water, and I think even before 911 in our area.

I remember being struck with how stupid we were all acting, pursuing pleasure without regard for others, without really caring about ourselves, drinking in the hot sun, burnt and dehydrated and acting like complete fools.  The first part of Titus 3:3 could have been written about our gang:

For we too were once foolish, disobedient, deceived, enslaved by various                             passions and pleasures…

Shamefully undignified.

I made it to a few more concerts but I could never forget that girl, and I gave up my senseless partying behaviors after that.  I still enjoyed my 70’s and early 80’s rock music, but I had no desire to venture back into the culture of alcohol and drugs that went with that scene.

More than ten years after that, Dad, who was still hosting a Sunday morning radio show before church time, mentioned a new Christian station was starting in town. Southern gospel no longer appealed to me, so I wondered if contemporary Christian music was more like my rock music.

And in the fall of 1992  YES-FM went live on the air  with Steven Curtis Chapman’s “The Great Adventure”, and that’s what life has been every day ever since!

That moment, listening when YES-FM went live, stands out as one of those mile markers  where I think about life before and after that point.   I can honestly say that in these almost twenty-seven years, the music and artists I’ve discovered, the concerts I’ve attended, the DJ’s and employees of the station I’ve heard and met, the prayers that have been prayed for me, the privilege of praying for and supporting this ministry, have been THE MOST DIRECT way God shows himself to me.  I would not be as in love with Jesus as I am without YES-FM.

Just thinking about it makes me want to drop to my knees in thanksgiving.

In the early years of YES they had several $5 concerts every year, and we went to almost all of them.  But after we had more little ones, it was years between concerts, and once my two oldest kids moved out I didn’t have anyone willing to go with me.  Until I talked my youngest into using one of the tickets I’d won (on YES-FM!) to go to Big Church Night Out in November.  And then Winter Jam mid-February and Toby Mac Hits Deep Tour two weeks later.

When I have the opportunity to be totally immersed in something good, that has gotten me through the deaths of my loved ones, that has given me hope that whatever I face will somehow work to draw me closer to the one who created and loves me beyond measure, I don’t know how I can do anything less than dance with abandon.

King David got it.  In II Samuel 6 he had been trying to bring the ark of God home. This was a serious thing because in the days before Jesus came it was where God told them he lived.  After some mishaps David finally went after the ark himself and brought it to Jerusalem, where he celebrated its return.

For me God lives in music.  I love studying the Bible and a good, challenging sermon, but where I feel fully in the presence of God is while singing at the top of my lungs.  And for most of my life, up until that day in 1992, that place where God lives so transparently in me was out of my reach.  Music and songs  spoke to me, but not of God or of his desires for me, only of those old passions and pleasures.

In one pivotal moment the presence of God was brought into my life, through music on YES-FM, the every day miracle of a relationship that changes me continually.

So my response to getting to be in the loud, bright, pounding, screaming, reckless presence of God in a way that gets around all my defenses, that opens me up to pure praise and humbling worship, uninhibited and abandoned, drenched in love and gratitude, is much the same as David’s famous answer to the disapproval of his wife for his own celebrating: I will become even more undignified than this!

And look eagerly for the next chance to dance in the presence of God.