Well. Four months can go by as fast as a greased pig. Not that I've ever had experience with greased pigs, but it seems like a fitting analogy. I could certainly win "Most Inconsistent Blogger of the Year" award. I'm not promising this post will lead to a blogging marathon, but I am hoping to write more frequently.

In the last four months, we have said goodbye to our fosters, found out my dad has cancer, visited friends and family from Virginia to Georgia to Mississippi, celebrated Jacob's 11th, Ellie's 9th and Lucas' 14th birthdays, and started school. It's been quite a busy summer!

We are now knee-deep in school, soccer, music lessons, and church activities. Lucas began high school this year, which I'm not certain I still fully grasp. He is taking half his classes at a homeschool co-op. He loves being with friends and having a teacher besides Mom, and I love that I'm not dissecting frogs or pigs in my kitchen. Win-win. Jacob and Noah are still fully at home. I think I'll have to pry them away in a couple of years to take classes out the house. Ellie is at home this year as well, after three years of public school. I have much to say about that, but it will have to wait. There is a whole lot of commotion going on that probably needs my attention.

Pushing through

When I'm running, hills are my nemesis. I hate them. Until recently, I would often just give up and walk until I was at the top. And then one day my wiser-than-I-am husband said "Don't give up. Put your head down, run and just push through" I admit I wasn't quick to take his advice. But, recently, I have been. You know what? It works. Sure it doesn't make it easy. It's still just as hard. But with my eyes looking only a step ahead of me, I am able to just push through and get to the top without giving up. 

This week of fostering has been like running up a hill. A very steep, incredibly long, no-end-in-sight hill. 

Tantrums and the silent treatment have left me bewildered, exhausted, and second guessing this decision. 

Yes, we've had some great laughs, fun, and breakthroughs. Probably more of them than the negative behaviors we see. And I will be sure to document those soon. 

But those negative behaviors can seem insurmountable in the middle of the moment.   

So I've taken a cue from running to get up this hill. I've just put my head down and am pushing through. We aren't at the top. I'm not sure we ever will be. Even in exhaustion, confusion and, yes, sometimes anger at the situation, I know God hasn't left us to do this alone. He loves these girls. He has equipped us. He is our strength. He is our hope. 

And with my eyes focused on that, and not the top of the hill, I can keep pushing through. 

Pray for us and the girls, please. Our God is able. 

Beautiful and broken

A few days ago, two little people walked into our home for the first time. Scared, confused, and not exactly happy to be here.

We smiled, welcomed them in and tried to make things seem normal. But we all felt it. This was anything but normal.

It's not normal to be taken away from your family. It's not normal to walk into a stranger's home and be expected to be a part of the family. It's not normal for that family to accept you with no conditions. 

No. Nothing about this is normal. But, it's reality everyday across the United States.

Our world is a very broken place. And in this part of the world, we try to remedy some of that brokenness with foster care. It's beautiful and restoring and healing. But it's also broken and heart wrenching and just. plain. hard. It shouldn't be needed. But it is.

We believe God calls us all to care for orphans and those who can't care for themselves, and this is how we will respond to that for a season. We are taking a risk and stepping out of our comfort zone. The past 4 days have been hard and emotional and exhausting. Will it be easy? No. Will we want to give up? We've already wanted to. Will it be worth the investment? Totally. Still - we're excited and scared and unsure of the months to come. 

But one thing we know - as broken as our world and this process are, our God is bigger. He can bring healing to these children and their family, and that is our prayer. Will you join us in praying for them? 

13

Dear 13 year old son,

So today hasn't been such a great day. You think I'm much too strict, too nosy, and too overprotective. I tell you what you can't eat, can't wear, and can't watch on television. I monitor the websites you go to and put filters on anything that even has a chance of connecting to the internet. 

I even banned the trick you came up with on the trampoline. That definitely didn't make me your friend. You stomped up the stairs mumbling under your breath. And I'm fairly certain it wasn't to rise up and call me blessed.

What I want you to know, son, is that your Dad and I?  We aren't the fun police, contrary to the rumors you hear. We aren't here to make your life a prison sentence that terminates when you turn 18. We aren't even here to be your best friend. (WHAT?!?!)

One day, I'm guessing, you're going to see the reason behind it all. You may never tell us, but I guarantee at some point you'll find yourself saying "I get it." 

Until that day please know that we set boundaries because we've seen the world out there that fights for your heart and mind and allegiances. We know what can happen if you eat pizza and hot dogs every meal for 10 years. We also know that you honestly believe you're invincible. We have rules and limits in place for you to protect you. God has given us this amazing responsibility to parent you. With His direction, we do what we do. 

We are crazy about you.

Love, 

Mom

If you give a girl some paper

If your 8 year old daughter has severe ear pain on a Saturday, you might just take her to the after-hours clinic. And while being examined, the doctor may comment on the amount of wax in said daughter's ear. This will probably lead to an hour long session of "let's see if we can get this hardened, packed wax out of her ear so I can see her eardrum." The doctor may even ask multiple times "Are you aboslutely, positively sure you haven't stuck anything in your ear???" After over an hour in the exam room, the doctor will prescribe an antibiotic even though she still can't see the eardrum.

After ten days on antitbiotic, you will take your daughter to her regular pediatrician for a follow-up visit. While looking in her ear, the doctor may comment on the amount of wax in little girl's ear. This will again lead to a few minutes of trying to remove the hardened wax. Once again, you might hear the doctor ask "Is she sure she hasn't stuck anything in her ear?" And you will probably feel like you are experiencing dejavu. Eight year old daughter will answer that she is absolutely, positively sure she has put nothing in her ear. Ever. Never, ever, ever. Until the doctor leaves the room. Then your daughter might say, "Well......maybe, I think, I did put something in there. Hey - that's why I can't hear!!" And after an intense interrogation, you will discover that the 8 year old did indeed stick a piece of paper in her ear. She will probably have no idea when she did this or where or what kind of paper it was or how it got so far into her ear canal. Leading you to wonder if she has suffered amnesia at some point.

The doctor will smile knowingly and begin to tell your daughter how big and brave she is for telling the truth and call her a truth hero. All the while you will be smiling on the outside, but inside you will be screaming "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD, CAN WE NOT MAKE HER OUT TO BE A SUPERSTAR? SHE IS EIGHT YEARS OLD AND STUFFED PAPER IN HER EAR!"

While the doctor attempts to remove the paper from her ear, your daughter will have a nosebleed. Not a quick little drop of blood that is easily cleaned up, but one of the most intense, gushing nosebleeds ever. The nurse will feel extremely sorry for her and offer her hot chocolate, crackers, stickers and Hello Kitty coloring sheets.

Finally, the pediatrician will tell you she cannot rescue the paper and send you to the ENT on the other side of town. On your way to the ENT, your daughter might just smile and proclaim this the "best day ever" because she isn't in school and now has approximately 5.2 billion stickers. You should probably know that this will not make you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Once at the ENT, the doctor will see that little girl has had a nosebleed and question you as to why she's never been brought in before now to remedy this. You will stare at him and not answer. After looking in your daughter's ear and confirming what everyone else already knows, he will proceed to numb her nose in preparation for cauterizing the blood vessels. Next, he will finally retrieve three relatively large pieces of disintegrating paper from your daughter's ear. You may think to yourself that you should take a picture to document this moment, but you'll be quickly rushed off to begin phase two of the appointment and never have a chance.

The ENT doctor will cauterize your daughter's nose and then may even tell her to "take it easy for a few days." When she hears this, little girl will turn to you and grin. You will not feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

On the way home, your daughter will ask if she can get in her pajamas and watch movies the rest of the day. You will concede because it is now well into the afternoon, and you need time to sit and process the fact that, once again, your eight year old daughter wins the award for doing something her older brothers would never dare to do.

At the end of the day you may finally crack a smile and slightly laugh to yourself as you write your next blog post in your head. However, you will definitely fall to sleep dreaming of the medical bills you have yet to see - all because of a little piece of paper.

An open letter to birthmothers everywhere

Dear birthmothers everywhere,

I was reminded today that Sunday is "Sanctity of Human Life Sunday" in our churches. And while many churches will show emotional vidoes speaking out against abortion, or have a handout with the latest abortion statistics stuck in the bulletin (only to be thrown on the floor or left behind in the chair), or mention how much God hates abortion (which He does, by the way), probably very, very few will mention you. However, you are never far off in my thoughts.

As an adoptee, I certainly appreciate my own birthmother and her sacrifice. She wasn't married and didn't have the greatest support system. Raising me alone would have been extremely hard. I wasn't what she had asked for. I wasn't conceived the way she hoped her first child would be. I definitely wasn't part of her future plans. Abortion would have been the easy way out. Getting rid of "the problem" would have been the world's answer for her. But, you see, just like the rest of you, she didn't see me as a problem to erase. She saw me as a life that mattered, not something to be thrown away. And I'm forever grateful that she did.

As a mother of biological children, I cannot imagine the sacrifice of giving a child up for adoption. After carrying a child for 9 months, feeling the kicks and movements inside of you. Knowing that this baby - who was infintely more than a wad of tissue at the moment of conception - is part of you. Part of your DNA. Yet, knowing that another woman would be called Mommy. Knowing that you would not raise the one that made you uncomfortable at night, gave you heartburn and swollen ankles, and 25 extra pounds. Then, laboring to deliver this same child. Hearing his first cry. Seeing her smushed, wrinkled, beautiful face, but handing her over to someone else. I just cannot imagine the sacrifice and amount of selflessness that requires. 

As an adoptive mom, I am eternally grateful to a woman I don't know. I look at my feisty Eliana. Her dark eyes that sparkle with each smile. I watch her facial expressions, hear her giggles, see her victories and cry with her in her heartbreak, and I think about her birthmother far away in another country. Does she wonder about her little girl every day? Does she think about what she looks like now? Does she worry if she's safe and happy? I want to tell her, yes! But, more than that, I want to say thank you. Our prayers for a little girl were answered by you. God used you to give us what we longed for. Thank you for seeing her life as one not to be wasted. She is a dynamic, strong-willed little girl who God is going to use in mighty ways. Thank you for your sacrifice. 

Birthmothers, know that you are special. You are loved. Thank you.

On your side,

Rebecca

The Asperger's Road

Ten years ago I wrote this blog post. 

And 3 years ago, this one.

You would think by now, I would have learned the lessons God has been teaching me all these years.

But you would be wrong.

If I'm being honest, the diagnosis of Noah's Asperger's broke me. I did not want to think about my then seven year old being anything but "normal." There were too many dreams I had for him. And Asperger's didn't fit into any of those plans. I was a bit angry, and I let God know it.

How was he supposed to do all the things "normal" kids do when I was being told he'd much rather stay in his own little world. How was he going to play sports, like other boys, when most Asperger's kids want nothing to do with athletics? How was he going to change the world when he most likely wouldn't want to leave the confines of his own home?

I was determined that Asperger's would not defeat Noah. Or me. 

We took one day at a time. Some days were better than others. We dealt with routines, obsessions, behaviors, social cues. Things like greeting someone, answering the telephone, and listening to other people's concerns didn't come naturally to him. But, they weren't things he couldn't learn. So, we taught these skills and a whole lot more.

Little by little, God began to break me. He revealed the pride in my heart. The ugliness of comparing my son - this gift I was given - to others. Wanting the picture-perfect child to show off to the world. He reminded me that Noah is "fearfully and wonderfully made." And I began, supernaturally, to let go of those dreams I had for my son and look forward to seeing God's plans for him unfold. I accepted him for the amazing child he was, instead of wishing for different circumstances.

We've walked down this road for five years now. Sometimes, it's still a struggle. Watching my middle-school aged child relate better to younger children can leave me in tears. Watching the reactions on the faces of kids his age when Noah talks about not-so-normal things - breaks my heart into pieces.  Sleepless nights due to a newborn are expected. By the time your child is in 6th grade? You just expect those issues to be gone. But they're not over in this house yet.

Then there are those moments when I look at him and see his pure heart. His innocence. His brilliance, creativity, and insight into things of God. He'll go through his routine of telling me "Good night. I love you. I love you." and blinking his eyes twice before bed, and I'll smile. He'll pray the same prayer at bedtime that he's prayed the past 2,000 nights - and I'll hear his 2,000th request for a woman in Thailand, who has believed a lie, to hear truth - and I know that God is smiling, too. 

Through it all, God reminds me that Noah is His child, and He loves him more than I ever will. His plans for him are far more amazing than mine could ever be.

Noah may not ever change the world, but he has definitely changed mine. 

A couple of months ago, I was introduced to singer/songwriter Andy Gullahorn at a concert at our church. He wrote a song for a friend whose son had been diagnosed with Asperger's. Kyle and I both sat and listened and were taken back in time to all those emotions. Here it is. (Even though it's called Sleeping Sound - and Noah is not usually doing that. :))