Monthly Archives: May 2019

Who does she resemble?

30 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Grandfostering

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I’ve talked before about how easily my heart jumped into loving Baby A when my daughter began fostering, and how I tried to hold back at first with Baby B.

There are people whose jobs involve working with lots of little people, and I’ve often wondered how they manage to balance their professional duties with their hearts. Although I’m not the preschool teacher kind of person, I know lots of them, and I marvel at how much love it is possible for them to feel for so many children at once.

But even so, a school year ends or a child ages out of a daycare or preschool class, and their time with them ends.

In fostering, if and when there may be an end is never something you know. At least not with much warning.

Baby B actually helped a little in my attempt to keep my head in control of my heart. When I arrived at my daughter’s house to care for her for a few hours that first evening, this child was a totally different personality from Baby A.

The earliest pictures of her show her classic stink-eye looks. She was not happy. She was not shy about letting you know that. She looked ready to fight the world.

Ah. A challenge. I could take a breath and focus on the tasks at hand, figure out the things that may bring a more calm, chill expression to her face.

My younger daughter was with me that first evening, and had the first turn holding her while I got a bottle ready. And unlike Baby A, who tended to lose little streams of formula out the side of her mouth, this child sucked that first bottle down in a heartbeat. She was all business, and intent on getting her stomach filled.

But even then, the scowl remained. Maybe it was just her newborn face. Maybe there was no connection to any unease in her body, or maybe she was just tired of being messed with and moved from one place to another.

So we passed her back and forth, changed her diaper, looked her over, noticed differences in the way her little hands and fingers, feet and toes looked from Baby A’s. Tried to figure out what her birth parents may look like, marveled at the richness of her skin color and her hair.

Very soon she was ready for more milk, and the second bottle went down as quickly as the first. Even burping didn’t relax the lines in her forehead.

For that first evening anyway I was able to concentrate on the baby’s comfort, on getting her to relax and open her eyes and be willing to take in her new world. Deciding how I felt about it could come later.

Just like with Baby A, the first five weeks of her life I took care of Baby B, at my daughter’s and sometimes at my house. The routine was less of a challenge for me, but for my teens at home it was a stressful time.

We were still fresh from the loss we all felt at Baby A moving to a different home, and there was a long time of aloofness before everyone was able to handle new feelings, fresh love for another foster baby.

Added to the schedule were visits with the birth mom, which was a first, one I had no frame of reference to show me how to navigate.

Here I was, grandfostering another newborn, love growing by leaps and bounds in my heart, despite my caution, and now needing to develop a relationship with the woman who gave her life.

Should I let on how deeply I was falling in love with Baby B? Should I put on a front of being just a caregiver with no strong attachment? Should I not communicate anything about my relationship to this child?

There were no classes for extended family to learn these ropes.

So here’s how I had to look at this.

No matter what the reasons might be for this baby being removed from her birth mom, there were some undeniable positives. This baby had no evidence of drug or alcohol exposure. Her mom had carried her to term without using anything that affected her negatively, that could be detected.

She chose to let this little girl live.

Mom did a great job carrying her and caring for her throughout her pregnancy, and every time I changed or bathed or dressed or fed B, I marveled at what a beautiful, spunky baby she was.

I do not know any of this for fact, but the proof was in my lap or held up on my shoulder or cradled in my arms day after day.

I am forever grateful to her birth mom for the healthy baby my daughter was caring for, from just a few days after her birth.

And love for the woman who bore this child also grew in my heart.

Baby B’s response to us changed quickly, and soon we were getting full-face smiles from the little charmer. She loved being held and looking into our eyes more than about anything.

And when I looked into her birth mom’s face, I could see some of the same expressions. I must admit, more of the furrowed brow mad at the world looks than the smiles, but nonetheless I could see the physical resemblance that will always be a part of her.

Reminding us that this child, like all of us, is a unique combination of her physical parents, and of the way she will be raised. And the tricky part is to bring out the best of all she is made of.

Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

23 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Childhood, Recovery journey, Relationships

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I’ve had the privilege over the last few weeks to attend two Celebrate Recovery programs in cities I was visiting.  The differences in the way each place presents their large program and open share groups was refreshing to see.  I learned there are lots of ways to approach how we encourage each other in recovery.

At each location I felt the freedom to talk about my own issues, my recovery journey, in an honest and open way.   The regular attenders and newcomers at each place also seemed open to sharing in the presence of a stranger.

I really cannot explain this phenomena any other way than to say that when you get involved with CR you discover a forever family.

Four years ago when I started coming to CR, I instantly felt a connection to other women who had been through some of the same things I had.  When someone can understand your point of view without having to explain everything that happened to you, that creates a deep bond, a connection that I don’t think can be broken.

I will always know these women and they will know me in deeper ways than my family of origin knows me.

One of my ongoing problems is that I have trouble trusting women, making friends with women.  The exception is at a CR meeting, when I am not afraid to expose the real me.

I think  I’ll know I am healed of this issue when I’m able to be as transparent with women outside CR as I can be at a meeting.  God continues to show me how to get rid of the things that keep me from being open and loving with other women,  and I look forward to making more true friends.

It’s like peeling back an onion, going deeper into why I isolate or set up walls between me and other women.  The oldest and most obvious layer to me is that I was abused by older teenage girls when I was young.

It’s been a long road, facing and naming the experiences that had such a deep impact on me, but it has also been freeing, as I’ve been able to let go of any desire to see them receive justice for the things done to me.  Instead I’ve found it necessary and possible to forgive.  And I have.

The layer I’m working on right now has been harder.  It’s one that has nagged at me for much of my life, that I haven’t wanted to explore.  But God tells me I’m ready, so I’ve been stepping out with faith in where he’s leading me.

Following last week’s post about Mother’s Day, I have a confession. Though my mom died almost three years ago, I don’t miss her.

And I must say clearly that I love my mom and she loved me.  No question.

Mom lived a good long life.  She did the things she wanted to do.  She shared Jesus with lots of people, traveled around the world, stayed active with her church and volunteer work as long as she could.

These are reasons I have given myself for not missing her.  She was ready to go when God took her home.

At first I was situationally depressed, after the constant time spent at the nursing home those last weeks, talking and caring for her, singing and praying with her, remembering lots of our stories.  I still have no desire to step foot in a nursing home or hospice.

Then after a little rebound time my life was plunged into the new adventure of grandfostering when my daughter began her foster adventure.  So I put aside the thoughts I’d had, wondering why I never thought about my mom, though I think about my dad every day, even after almost twenty-six years that he’s been gone.

When Mom died, I had completed a Step Study, working my way through the twelve steps and eight principles of Celebrate Recovery.  I had worked on the issues that God brought to mind over the nine months of the study, mainly my childhood abuse, and I was continuing to work on issues as they came to mind.

The only thing I felt I couldn’t finish about my Step Study was discussing it with my mom.  By that time her dementia was getting worse.  She always knew me, but she was easily confused about what was happening around her and would drift from the past to the present.

I wanted to ask her what she knew about my abuse, since I never admitted anything or told anyone.  I wanted to tell her about it, but I didn’t think it was fair to possibly hurt and confuse her with information she may no longer have been able to process.

So I was amazed when God took care of that for me.

One night my younger daughter and I were sleeping over at the home, and Mom started asking me questions.  Why weren’t we as close as she had always wanted us to be? Something had happened to me as a child.  What was it?  She wanted to know.

Here was my opportunity.  I made sure she was asking what I thought she was, and then I gave her a simplified, gentle description.  I almost forgot my daughter was there listening, but it was something I had told her before.

Mom’s response was tears and kisses, she held my hand and raised it to her lips to kiss over and over and we hugged and wept together over my lost innocence and her inability to do anything since she never knew what had happened.

But now I’m beginning to explore her first question, the one I answered with brief summaries of conflicts we’d had over the years. I’d assured her  that I didn’t hold anything against her.  But the distance between us was real.  My words reassured her, and placated me.

I realize now I was still holding things against her.  And I’m not beyond it yet.

Friday night you can find me at  CR, talking about whatever pieces of the puzzle that is me God has revealed to me that week, that day.

Recovery isn’t something that happens once and you’re all done.  And it doesn’t happen instantly.  It’s truly a journey.

So whether I’m at my local CR or visiting one in another city, I am eager to spend a little time speaking out loud how God is leading me down this path.

Because it speaks life against the death the enemy desires for me.

And it gives hope to the person who is just stepping foot on her own journey.

This Day That Defines Me More Than Any Other

16 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Childhood, Parenting, Relationships

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I have a hard time with Mother’s Day.

I suspect greeting card companies were in on its creation in some way.  It has always seemed manufactured and awkward to me.

When I was a girl Dad mostly remembered to help us pick out a card and make our marks as best we could.  There would be a carnation given to each mother in church that morning, and potted plants for the mother with the most children present, the oldest mother, and the mother with the youngest child.

I never noticed the other women who didn’t get recognized.

It became our tradition as we got older to pick out a hanging basket for Mom, usually a fuchsia, but we never got extravagant gifts, and I felt like she didn’t expect them.

But there were years Dad forgot to get the card.

I remember one time, maybe it was one of those years, when Mom cried most of the ride home from church.  I was never sure if she was mad at us or him.

Or maybe she had other reasons altogether.  Reasons she never shared.

Reasons many women identify with.

There have been years when I would rather have crawled back under the covers until Monday than face the onslaught of grinning-faced “Happy Mother’s Day’s” coming from every direction.

Because, no, it isn’t for every woman.

Someone, years ago, thought to honor them by having a day when everyone recognized and acknowledged their mothers.

But is this reasonable?  Who is most likely to remind children to do something nice for someone?  Or plan the menu or pick a restaurant where everyone will agree to eat?  There are dads and extended family out there who are conscientious and thoughtful, or at least well-meaning, but I feel like moms are more invested in pulling off special days and celebrations.

And more aware of when they don’t go well.  Because we hold ourselves accountable.

Just watch “Mom’s Night Out” if you want a visual.

So the day comes. Grown women hope their children will miraculously behave, and suddenly have a burning desire to speak and write and sing out their love and respect for their mother, their awe for her selflessness and sacrifices, their realization that no person could ever love them more deeply than she does.

And then they wake up.

As a child, we were our only family.  Our relatives were almost all in North Carolina, so we never visited my grandmas on Mother’s Day.  But as adults, there was the expectation we would spend most of the day with my mom, when I would rather have just enjoyed my children.

There’s a vulnerability about letting the rest of the family orchestrate the day.  Will there be any genuine feelings expressed?  Will we make some sweet memories?  And with too many things on the agenda, will any of the moms involved make it through the day without some kind of breakdown?

That this is the proper, sometimes the only, day for expressions of love and appreciation to moms is too much to ask.

In my youth, I went from liking the smiles on Mom’s face, to feeling her disappointment with my impatience to move on to my own pursuits after the card was opened and the flowers presented.

Then I was married, and dreaded those well-meaning greetings that hit me like a slap in the face, making me keenly aware that I still wasn’t pregnant.

Until I was.  Those few years were bliss.  I could revel in the glow of motherhood glorified in my swelling belly, or leaking milk, or babes crying for me.

But then many more years followed of infertility, and no matter how I tried to avoid the well wishes, I felt like a traitor to the children I had to long for the ones not yet here.

And the bittersweet May when I was both mourning the recent loss of one child, and ecstatic at the healthy growth of another in my womb.

I sometimes think we should do away with Mother’s Day.  Not because moms don’t deserve a pat on the back.  But because it isn’t enough.  And it doesn’t require enough.

It is too easy to share a sappy tribute to moms on Facebook, or to buy a card and sign it “love, me”, or to eat a meal out that you would have eaten anyway.

The title of this post is a direct quote from me on a long ago Mother’s Day when, yes, my husband forgot.  Maybe the card, maybe the plant or the gift.  Maybe to have the kids say the obligatory words.  And my response was, ‘How could you?!  On this day that defines me more than any other!!’

But does it?  It’s not about a day.  It’s about a life.  It’s a hug when I’m tired or overwhelmed.  It’s hot cookies after a good supper.  Or doing any chore without being asked.  Putting laundry away within a week of it being washed, carrying in groceries, laughing at my jokes.  Cutting fresh lilacs during those brief spring weeks, filling the house with what I hope foreshadows the fragrance of heaven.

Don’t expect mothers or kids to be ready or able to celebrate this on one day in May.

But please, do celebrate.  When the joy overflows, the gratitude, the contentment, don’t wait for one day.  Say it, write it, sing it out.

That’s way better than a greeting card holiday.

Ready for a Good Night’s Sleep

09 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Gratefulness journal, Recovery journey

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I had a really busy week.

Sometimes I actually write this blog a couple weeks in advance.  Sometimes I’ve had three or four stacked up, able to leisurely edit and schedule way ahead.

This week it’s 10:15pm on Wednesday and I’m just starting the post that will go out right after midnight my time.

Since I’m too tired to come up with something deep and thoughtful, you get the highlights of my week since last Thursday.

A year ago I had a life-changing experience that continues to truly bless my life.  I had gone a day early to an annual women’s retreat I like to attend, and since I was the only one from my church, I hoped I’d get put in a room by myself.  I was ready for some me time.

But after a long, hard volunteer work day pulling weeds and tidying up garden beds, barely able to walk because I had way overdone it, I was angry when I came back to my cabin and found other people’s belongings on two of the other beds.  I was working myself up into a really bad mood, when one of the other women walked into the room.

I recognized her as someone I had seen at family camp, whose family we’d been praying for, and I asked how things were going.  As part of her answer, she recited the entire long version of the Serenity Prayer, and I joined in it with her.  We ended up having our own little recovery meeting that night.

God had better plans for me than just time alone, dwelling on my own thoughts and plans.  He let me talk and listen to someone who instantly understood so much about me, and who had great wisdom to share.  And finding someone I was comfortable telling my deepest secrets was a gift I never expected.

I made a new friend.

So for the past year we’ve called and texted and prayed for and thought about each other, planning from that first retreat together to be roomies again.  This time on purpose.

This past Thursday involved getting packed and ready for my dear friend to pull into my driveway after the two hour drive from her home, and let me take over the next leg of the trip to camp.  We left plenty early to get settled, and then hit a local Celebrate Recovery meeting together, something we’d both looked forward to.  We did work projects the next day, and then enjoyed the women’s retreat, making a new friend together.

I was pleasantly surprised to reconnect with another friend who also came to the retreat, and it was one more example of God’s timing being perfect.  I was able to run some things by her that she was uniquely qualified to advise me on, and that will be valuable to me in a new venture I’m hoping to undertake soon.

The retreat went through Sunday, and after the drive home I had a couple hours to rest before my oldest son got home for a really quick visit.  Since he lives across the country, I love every minute I get to spend with him, but Monday morning and his leaving came way too quickly.

In the oddest three hours of my week, it took that long to find an Airbnb rental that was self-contained, near the college one of my sons will be attending in August, and available for move-in weekend.

I guess that was a much-needed space to breathe, as Tuesday morning I was up way early for me, and at my favorite radio station, YES-FM 89.3, to chat with the deejays during sharathon.  I cannot say enough good about this station and the music I’ve found there, and it was a privilege and a huge adrenaline rush to get to be live on the air!

After sneaking away for brunch with my hubby, the rest of that day was spent organizing my thoughts to present an idea to my church about a ministry I’d like to launch.  More about that if and when it becomes a reality.  But feel free to pray!  And not for my will, but for God’s will to be done. (The prayer that never fails!)

On Wednesday  I took a me afternoon, meeting with my mentor and then spending an hour or so journaling at a coffee shop to help me digest our conversation.  And then dinner and trivia with my husband, daughter and granddaughter, who is sleeping over tonight, and I finally have time to write.

And another hour of my week has flown by.

Each person has their own pace where they thrive, and I have no problem saying this past week has moved faster than I like.  I’m more comfortable with lots of white space, as my husband calls it, room to breathe and let thoughts roll around in my head until I’m ready to do something with them.  I’m in no hurry.  I like being open to whatever I hear God telling me to do with my time.

And I’m grateful that my life has ended up being one where I’m able to live it at a slower pace, that I haven’t had to have a full-time job my whole adult life.  Many women thrive working long hours and having a husband and kids and home to pour into as well.  I’m blessed I got the life I always hoped I’d have.

But once in a while, a busy week can add some much-needed spice to life.

The Generosity of God

02 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in Childhood, Gratefulness journal

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I’ve been thinking about money lately.  Mostly in the big picture, ‘what will it matter in the long run if I die with lots of money or not’ perspective, and I find that the way I was raised to view money has made me into a person who doesn’t care about wealth.

But I want to die rich.

I was a preacher’s kid, when a pastor’s salary often needed to be supplemented with a part time job, or picking up extra income from performing weddings and funerals and preaching revival meetings.

As one of four kids, I not only did chores with no expectation of an allowance, I was expected to work in a fruit and vegetable stand where we sold produce from a farmer friend of the family.  Those years brought out parts of my personality that still serve me well.  I found I have an affinity for numbers and handling money, an attention to the details of division of labor, a desire to tithe off the top before paying ourselves, and enjoyment of the rewards of hard work.

My first job with a regular paycheck was as a salad girl and then a waitress at a local restaurant, one of a dozen jobs I held over the next few years.  They all blur together, none of them with much potential for a future career.  But they did teach me important lessons that still ring true.

Money is something you get in return for doing work worth paying for.  You then turn around and pay for things you think are worth having.  And for many of us, that means stretching the funds available to meet the needs.  For others, there is plenty for needs and generous amounts for wants as well.

So back to my original thoughts about whether it makes any real, lasting difference if a person has lots of money accumulated during their life, or if they leave this world holding in their fist the same amount they had in it when they were born.

In my life as a wife and mom, there have been many times when those old skills learned at the fruit and vegetable stand have helped me make sure every hand held out demanding payment gets satisfied.  Work would get done, money would come in, and stomachs would need feeding, bodies would need clothing and shelter.

Money has served a purpose.

One thing it hasn’t done for me is create wealth.  In fact, it has very little to do with whether I feel rich or poor, that balance in my bank account.

I’ve been listening to Sharathon on YES-FM that is going on these first two weeks of May, and some of the deejays were talking about scriptures that encourage us to be cheerful and generous givers.  I’ve heard these familiar passages many times, and I know the truth of them.

In my life I have felt called to give beyond what any practical person looking at the dollars in my pockets would think was reasonable.  And I’ll admit that when you read in the Bible about reaping what you sow it’s easy to think that could mean that if you are generous in giving money to good causes that spread God’s truth to others, God will be more generous in pouring out more money to you.

But giving back to God isn’t a get rich quick scheme.  Or it shouldn’t be.

What struck me as I was driving around praying for Sharathon to bring in the money YES-FM needs to run for the next six months, was that this ministry and the money I have felt called to give to it over the past nearly twenty-seven years have blessed me with so much more than just more money.

I have learned what it means to be a cheerful giver.  I often ask God to tell me a specific amount to give, and sometimes he does, but of course he isn’t required to grant my wish to know this for sure.  What he does give me is such a love for the music and the people involved with this radio station that I always want to give more.  And it’s always done cheerfully!

Wouldn’t it be great if every thing I did, every act of service, every moment spent listening to another’s problems, every detour from my agenda, could be an offering given back with happiness in my heart for the opportunity to pour out to others what God has given to me?

Because that’s what I think is happening.

I realize that in these many years of supporting YES-FM I have gotten far more out of it than I could ever repay.

Luke 6:38 Amplified Bible (AMP)

38 Give, and it will be given to you. They will pour into your lap a good measure—pressed down, shaken together, and running over [with no space left for more]. For with the standard of measurement you use [when you do good to others], it will be measured to you in return.”

It struck me today, after all these years, that so many times I use the wrong standard of measurement.  Even though God made everything, owns everything, is the only one who can claim ownership of anything in this world, he generously pours it out on me day after day.

And I forget to count it.

My bank account may not reflect it, but the often radical, hysterical giving God calls me to do has been outgiven many times over.  It is measured in ways I can’t detail as amounts in a ledger, as an exchange for work done.  It goes way beyond anything I have earned or deserve.

And it makes me want to turn around and give it all back to God, again and again.

It has made me rich in ways I never knew I could be.