It's been an emotionally and physically draining few months. Not in a bad way, to be sure, but in a way that reminds both my husband and myself that due to PTSD, we still have some healing to do ourselves. We're also expecting our seventh child within the next two weeks, so needless to say, I'm a bit worn out. But beyond that, I've been feeling like it's time to give my RAD kids a little more privacy as they're both working through what Reactive Attachment Disorder means for them in their day-to-day lives and in their futures. They've made tremendous strides toward healing in the past couple of years, are participating in therapy and conversations with us about behavior and motives, and are both headed in the right direction. I couldn't be prouder of them.
I may from time to time write about RAD and trauma-related adoption in general, but will probably not be sharing a whole lot of specifics. I don't ever want my kids to be defined by their failures; I want them to be defined by their strength in being able to shoulder the burdens placed on them by their birth parents. By their courage to pick up the pieces and keep going after they've lost their way for a short while. I want my kids to be known as overcomers.
I do want to share one thing with you tonight, though. It was two years ago this past week that my husband, my dad, and a couple of great friends picked up our hurt, angry and defiant thirteen-year-old son from Juvenile Detention and transported him to his therapeutic boarding school. It was one of the darkest days in our family's history, especially when measured by the number of tears that fell from this broken-hearted Mama's eyes, but we knew that God was with us all, and we knew He would be faithful.
More of this Mama's tears were shed today, as I thought about what life was like two years ago. This morning, you see, I sent my son away again, but this time with laughter and love and a hug and kiss as he and my husband left for a father/son trip to see the Lions play the Vikings at Ford Field. My son...the very same son that was so wounded two years ago that he couldn't function at home or at school or at life. My son...the one who is now getting good grades and is being respectful to his teachers, the one who is doing his chores with very little complaining and listening to his therapist and loves playing with his baby brothers. The one who never passes up a chance to hug his Mama and lights up whenever he makes me laugh.
Life is not perfect. It never will be, for anyone.
But life is good.
And blessed.
And full of second chances and hope for the future.
And we serve a God that is faithful to the end.
