God is Faithful

It's been a long time since I've posted...since August, just before our son came home from boarding school, as a matter of fact.  I'm sure there are a few people that are curious as to how our family is adjusting, especially in light of my relative silence, but I assure you there have been no major catastrophes that have kept me away from blogging. 

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.

Important

I stayed home from church this morning because my toddler threw up last night.

All. Over. His. Crib.

Ah, the joys of parenting.

He actually threw up the night before, too, but after an entire twenty-four hours of puke-free bliss, we assumed it had been an isolated event and fed him accordingly.

Alas, we were mistaken.

I have to say, my husband is the best puke-picker-upper in the whole wide world.  I don't do well with puke.  When I'm around it, it takes everything in me to not become a sympathy puker, if you know what I mean, and while I'm positive that my husband doesn't enjoy scrubbing vomit from various textures of fabric and floor coverings, he does so immediately and without a word, leaving me to tend to the distraught little puker.

I really love that man.

Anyway, my poor baby, my little Mr. K, is two-and-three-quarter years old.  Not old enough to explain that he's feeling nauseous, not old enough to understand that he's about to throw up, and definitely not old enough to aim for a bucket, hence the crib-full of nastiness. (Mr. K is not a fan of his puke bucket, not even after we decorated it with vehicle stickers to make it more "inviting").

One thing Mr. K does know at his tender age, though, is that Mama and Daddy love him and will take care of him...no matter what.  He is unmistakably secure.  As soon as I heard him scream last night, I rushed up the stairs and into his room.  I picked him up, I carried him to the bathroom, I wiped his face and his tears, reassured him, gave him a bath, dressed him in clean jammies, sang to him, and snuggled him until he was ready to go back to bed.  Then Daddy brushed his teeth and carried him back upstairs, tucking him into his freshly washed bed.

He felt safe.
He felt loved.
He felt like the most important person in the world.

While bathing my pruny toddler last night, washing away all evidence of sickness with bubbles and giggles and rubber duckies, I couldn't help but compare this situation with the first time Miss M was sick in our home, only months after she came to us.  She was four years old.  Like Mr. K, she got sick during the night, after we had put her to bed. 

We found her in the morning, wide awake and caked in dried vomit.

Why?  Why didn't she call for us?

She didn't feel safe.
She didn't know she was loved.
She had learned early in her life that she wasn't the most important thing to anybody.

Heartbreaking.

Attachment is a real thing, people.  It isn't just a parenting style, it isn't a belief, it isn't some sort of philosophy about never disciplining your children and letting them do whatever they want.  Attachment is something that every single child needs, and especially in those critical first three years of life. Children need to know that their cries will be heard and their needs will be met and that they are important and valuable and priceless just because they are, and not because of what they do.

Hug your babies.  Hold them.  Rock them for hours, sometimes even in the middle of the night when your eyelids will hardly stay open and all you can think of is sleep.  You'll have the rest of your life to sleep, and only these precious few years to shape your baby's world.  Give your babies your time.

And those toddlers, discipline them in love.  Don't spoil them, teach them to obey and to help and to do nice things for others, but also read books and share secrets and plant sloppy zerberts on their bare little bellies.  Hug them and wrestle with them and tell them you love them. Every. Single. Day. Spend as much time with them as you can, treasure them, and they will learn that they are treasures.  Give them the best chance at life: teach your little ones that they're important.

  



It took several years, but Miss M now readily seeks us out whenever she doesn't feel well or is in pain.  We can't always fix it, but we're so thankful that she now knows that we love her and seems to understand that we want to take care of her.  We're working on helping her to believe that she is priceless...a child of the King, created in His image, and worthy of being loved.

Mama and Miss M

My blog has been hijacked this past year by often-dreary accounts of Mr. J and his attachment-influenced journey into adolescence.  I'm kind of an emotional writer, and, especially when I don't have a ton of spare time (any homeschooling mamas with five kids at home want to vouch for me?), I tend to sit down to write only when the emotions are high and I feel like I'll burst if I don't get them out.

Which is why my fourteen-year-old son, who has frequently dominated my emotions, has also dominated my posts for a long while.

In my preoccupation with Mr. J, though, I'm afraid I've neglected to update on something miraculous and incredibly important:

My daughter, Miss M, is doing really, really well.

Actually, if I'm being completely honest, Miss M and I are doing really well.

This fall, I began my third year of homeschooling Miss M.  This means that she and I have been predominantly together since June of 2011, when she finished second grade. 

It's been two years and five months. 
That is a  l o n g ,  l o n g   t i m e .

In the beginning, I wondered how I would ever survive being with my daughter nearly every waking moment.  If you recall, she was an extremely difficult child to be around.  I'll leave it at that, but if you look up any posts about Miss M from a few years ago, you'll get the picture. (Look under the RAD posts tab at the top of the page if you need a refresher).

On top of that, at the time that God asked me to homeschool, I was a frustrated, hurt, angry, bitter, traumatized and (more than I care to admit) unforgiving Mama. 

No one likes to talk about it, but parenting RAD kids often brings out the worst in us.  The beautiful intentions of helping and healing and loving that hurt child get pushed to the back burner as each day - day after day, year after year - becomes a matter of survival.  You become a control freak, because all a RAD child wants (every waking moment) is to control you, and you start to become paranoid about the motives behind every little thing your child says.  On top of that, even "good days" are not good days, because of the anticipation of them becoming "bad days" in a moment or less. 

There are no easy, relaxing days in a family with traumatized children; RAD parents are constantly on edge.

So, needless to say, after she finished second grade, I felt like I needed to - even deserved to continue to send Miss M to school, even though it was a toxic environment for her. 

But God had other plans for us.

Miss M is reaching for healing!

Two years and five months into this journey of forced togetherness, my daughter and I are (for the most part...tween drama aside) peacefully building a mother/daughter relationship.  Things aren't perfect: Miss M still has goals to accomplish on the path to her healing, although she's come remarkably far, and I definitely have a ways to go on my journey to become like Christ, but we are both moving forward.  Together.

In the beginning, I doubted that it could ever be true, but I'm a better person for having spent these last twenty-nine months with my little Miss M, and she's a much healthier and happier girl for having spent it with me.  I thought God was crazy when He asked me to give up my life, in a sense, for this child.  I understand now that the best place to be is always inside of God's will.  Follow His leading, trust Him, and the rest will somehow fall into place. 

I'm very proud of my daughter; of the vibrant, empathetic young lady I've seen emerging from the broken shell of RAD in recent months.

And I'm very thankful to God for using Miss M and her struggles to overcome some of the worst in myself.

I'm beyond excited to see where He takes us next.

One Year Ago Today

It's been a year. 
One year ago today was the last day our son set foot in this home, the last day he woke up under our roof, the last day he was so close that I could touch him...

...and yet my touch could do nothing to soothe the long-buried rage that erupted from deep within.

One year ago today was the last day these walls...and our little children's eyes...lay witness to the violence that had become almost commonplace in the months before. 

Violent rage had become the routine.

So sad, looking back.  Sad that our little ones knew what to do when he flew out of control.

Go to the school room.
Close the door.
Strap the baby into his booster seat.
Pick out a movie.
Turn it up loud.
Wait for Grandma to get here.

My parents, ten minutes away, had been "on-call" for much of the summer.  One year ago today, Grandma was here, in the room with the kids.  Papa was upstairs helping Scott with Mr. J. 

Angry and frightened and more traumatized than I realized at the time, I had been firmly instructed to get away, go downstairs.  I was pregnant, and he had already threatened to kick me in the stomach more than once.  It would be months before I would stop involuntarily jumping at the slightest sound.

Trauma goes both ways, you see. 
The traumatized child becomes the traumatizer. 
The victim becomes the aggressor.
And the family that refuses to give up on love will come out on the other side with the battle scars to show for it.

We will never be the same.

Some changes have been good, have taught us to be more like Christ...
...to rely more fully on Him. 
But other changes are just layer upon layer of hurt and fear and pain and uncertainty...

...making me long for Heaven. 

One year ago today, we called the police, and they came. 
When they left, they took our son with them.

A difficult day, to be sure, but also a day of relief.

It's been a year of peace and healing. 
Of letting our guard down and actually living again.
We've been able to reflect, reevaluate, and gain new perspective on the events of last summer.
We've been able to breathe.

Our son is not grown up yet.  He's not secure and healthy and happy. 
He still needs us.

May this time of refreshment prepare us for whatever lies ahead.

Progress

I broke my camera.

Not to worry.  It's currently at the camera hospital, and I'm hoping it will make a quick and full recovery.  However, a broken camera means that it's really super hard for me to give an update about our trip to see our son.

Why, you ask?

Because I'm a photographer. 
And a perfectionist. 
And my brain can't process the thought of doing an update without pictures...

...and I have pictures on that camera that I desperately want to include in this update.

(In hindsight, I probably should have purchased a card reader so I would never be in this exact predicament.  Hmmm.  Might want to do that before I go and break my camera again.)

Anyway, several people have been asking about our trip, and some have indicated that they're waiting patiently for this post.  And since my camera may be gone for another week or two (is it weird that I feel a little lost without it?), I'm going to go ahead and write it. 

For your amusement, though, I thought I'd punctuate the post with a few pictures I uploaded from my little point-and-shoot camera...which I let my kids use on the trip.  Enjoy!

First off, some awesome news:

Our visit with Mr. J went really, really well!

Yay!  We weren't incredibly nervous this time.  Not sick-to-your-stomach kind of nervous like back in April.  But still...with everything we've been through with Mr. J, there are always a few nerves involved.  We needn't have worried; the good behavior that he's been exhibiting at school transferred beautifully to being off-campus with his family.

We had some great conversations with the rest of our kids before we saw Mr. J on that first day, too.  Miss J, age seven, summed up what most of us (me, Scott, my mom and dad, Mr. C, 5 years) were feeling.  She said:

               "I'm really excited to see (Mr. J) today...
                   ...but inside I feel kinda nervous, too."

Exactly.  The only one who didn't have age-appropriate emotions was Miss M, which is no surprise.  Emotionally, Miss M is far younger than her eleven years.  She's very black-and-white in her thinking, and couldn't understand why we would be nervous since Mr. J has been "being good" recently.  It did give us a chance to explain (again) how your actions determine how much people trust you in the future, and how damage can be done to relationships.  One of these days, we're hoping the empathy and emotional intelligence piece kicks in! 



Baby A, Mr. J, Little K, and Daddy's beard.

We'd planned out the four-day visit beforehand, trying to balance fun activities with quiet, quality family time in a way that wouldn't overwhelm anyone.  One of our biggest concerns was how Mr. J and little Mr. K would respond to one another.  Our oldest son has always adored his baby siblings, but Little K was less than eighteen months old when Mr. J began having serious difficulties, and he hadn't seen his big brother in almost a year since.  We were afraid that K wouldn't remember his brother, would be fearful or timid, and worried how that could make Mr. J feel.  So, Scott and I headed out that first morning to see Mr. J with only the two littlest guys.

Little K was a bit timid at first.  It took him a few minutes to realize that Mr. J was the same brother that he has told us "lives on da phone" or is "working hard on da school bus" (we pray daily that he's working hard and healing at school).  It didn't take long for him to realize that his brother liked him, thought he was funny, and wanted to spend time with him, though, and he was at ease in no time at all.  Mr. J was surprised by how much he's changed.  K was barely talking a year ago, and now he doesn't stop!

With the first hurdle jumped, we left the school with our oldest son in tow.  It was a strange sensation to actually have him with us!  We eventually met up with the rest of the family at a park, where we had a picnic and spent the afternoon catching crayfish, playing Frisbee and catch, and munching on treats - all things we've always enjoyed as a family.  It was a good first day.

A lovely portrait of our oldest and youngest sons.

The rest of the visit was a bit of a blur.  We spent Sunday with Mr. J at his school, attending church with him, eating lunch there, and allowing Mr. J to give the family a tour of the animals on the ranch.  Monday morning, we had a professional family picture taken, which was one of my biggest goals for this trip. 

RAD kids try so hard to push away the people who love them, especially when they feel unsafe or out-of-control, that I was eager to make this statement by getting our portraits taken:

"In spite of everything, you are still part of our family and we are still here for you". 

Besides the picnic at the park and the family picture, we also made a quick trip to the zoo during our visit, went out for a couple nice family dinners, went bowling, shopped for new shoes, and sat around our cabin while the kids played UNO.  Basically, we tried to do all the simple things we've missed doing together as a family.  Mr. J played with each of his siblings, frequently wanted to hold the baby, wrestled with five-year-old Mr. C (who has missed his wrestling buddy terribly) and was respectful and agreeable the entire time.

There were a few tender moments, too.  Moments only for me and my son, that can only be evidenced by the tears running down my cheeks as I write this.  I prayed then that God might help me treasure those moments and ponder them in my heart, just like Mary, and this remains my prayer: that I might cling to what I know  is true and not hold on to the bitterness of last year. 

What I know to be true:

God is good all the time, and He's got my son in His hands. 

Despite all the heartache, the rage, the trauma, the bad choices and the threats, my son loves me.  He loves his family.  He wishes none of this had ever happened, and I believe strongly that, like every teenager, he's struggling to discover who he is and to find his place in the world.  It's just harder for him because of the trauma and uncertainty of his first seven years of life.

It's our job as his parents to stick with him as he figures out who he is, who he is in Christ, and what it means for him to be adopted... not only into our family but into God's.

Saying goodbye was almost unbearable this time.  Words of love and encouragement and forgiveness were spoken, hugs were given, tears were shed....except from Miss M, who basically said "See you in December!" :)  And then we walked out through the front doors one last time, leaving a piece of our hearts behind. 

We had never been together before.  Not all of us, since Baby A was born after Mr. J was gone.  I will never again take for granted the simple blessing of having my entire family in one place at the same time.  The blessing of eating dinner around the same table, of looking back and seeing all six of my children riding together in the van.

It was amazing to finally be a complete family of eight...
...a preview of what's yet to come, Lord willing...

...even if this time, it was only for four days. 

_________________________________________________________________________


Please keep praying for our son.  He's made tons of progress since our first visit in April.  He actually wants to succeed, and has even moved up another "rank" since we left two weeks ago!  We aren't under any delusions that everything is perfect because his behavior is good, but we are really excited to see him in control of himself once again.  Our hope all along has been that Mr. J would be able to regulate himself, control his rage, and would get to a place emotionally where he's willing to start the long road to healing.  More importantly, willing to let God work in his life.  Pray that he's truly headed in that direction!

And for your enjoyment, a few more noteworthy photos I found on my camera:


A goat.

A sidewalk?



A dead zebra head mounted on a brick wall.

Pretty sure this is the tablecloth...

A tortoise.  Or rather, a tortoise leg.

 Oh, how I want my camera back.  :)

 

I'm Driving Her Crazy

I really shouldn't be writing right now.

The very fact that I am writing right now, when I have a bajillion different things I should be doing, is the perfect illustration for what I've got to say.

Which is this:

Sometimes, an ADHD Mama can drive a RAD kid crazy.

I know, I know, I know.  Usually it's the RAD kids that spend their time driving their mothers crazy.  They feel this desperate need to control everything that goes on around them, and totally flip out/melt down/cease to function/become confrontational/annoy the pants off you/etc. when they can't.  Fact is, they need to learn that they can't control everything.  They need to learn that they can trust you to make the best decisions and to take care of everything they need.

And Miss M is learning. 
S l o w l y.  But definitely learning. 

Today, though, I feel just a bit sorry for the poor girl.

We're getting ready to leave for our trip to see Mr. J, and my method for trip preparation is making my control-seeking daughter insane.  To be fair, I really have no solidified method, which (I suppose) could drive any number of organized and schedule-keeping people crazy.  Do you know any of those super-focused and un-spontaneous people that never learned to just fly by the seat of their pants?  Maybe you even are one?  Would this drive you crazy, too?

Here's my ADHD-influenced method of packing for seven people:

1. I wake up at the regular time on the morning of the day I think we might leave.
2. I plan a departure time of "later tonight" or "sometime in the middle of the night" or "possibly tomorrow morning".
3. I begin doing all the laundry in the house.
4. As the laundry comes out of the dryer, I figure I'll put whatever we need into duffel bags.
5. I forget to change the laundry.
6. I spend an hour choosing DVDs for the car ride.
7. I gather things (completely randomly and one-at-a-time) as they come to mind.
8. When packing books, I get distracted and begin reading a book.
9. I forget to change the laundry.
10. I make a delicious fresh veggie tray.
11. I realize I still have to pack all our clothes and toiletries.
12. I write a blog post.
13. I forget to change the laundry.

   
"Mom, when are we leaving?  In the morning?  After nap time?"

"I don't know. When we're done packing."

"When will we be done packing?"

"I don't know. When I can't think of anything else to bring."

"Are we almost done?  Are we staying in a hotel tonight?  Are we driving all night?  Are we sleeping here?  Why can't you just tell me what time we're leaving?!" 

"I don't know what time we're leaving! Quit bugging me! We'll go just as soon as the mood strikes me!"


It's *almost* funny how much ADHD and RAD clash on a day like today.

Poor, poor kid. 

Guess I better go change the laundry.

New Hope of Spring

Last fall was undeniably one of the worst seasons we've experienced in our history as a family.  Circumstances felt so bleak at times that it was difficult to see joy in any situation, impossible to grasp it, hold onto it, and coax it out from beneath the dark veil that clouded every aspect of life. 

Our family was so traumatized last fall that we were scarcely able to function.  The pain, anger and uncertainty bled over into everything we did, everything we said, everything we felt, and for one of the first times in my life, I understood what it meant to feel desperately hopeless.

But we were never completely without hope.

While we were exhausted and afflicted, God sent others to hope for us.  They prayed for us, prayed with us, held our hands, and listened to the mourning of our hearts.  They brought us meals, brought us groceries, offered to watch our children, accompanied us to meetings and appointments, and sent us cards and letters of encouragement.  They helped us financially, and committed to it in the future as well.  They thought of us, Bibles in hand, and shared scriptures that lifted us up when we were at our lowest. 

The people of God loved on us like crazy, and it was beautiful; the body of Christ working together the way God intended.

One of the most beautiful things that was done for us in the midst of our darkness was done by some precious friends, friends with a rambunctious young family much like our own.  They drove an hour just to be with us, and spent time filling the garden around our house with bulbs that would bloom in the spring.  They prayed over each of those bulbs as they planted, and they reminded us that spring comes after every dark season, and spring is filled with new life and new hope.

I was moved to tears often as I thought about those bulbs during the winter.  Our son's behavior was still out of control at his school, and I kept thinking "Okay, God. Spring is almost here!"  I eagerly anticipated the day when we would see the first shoots of life springing from those bulbs, breaking through the dirt and on up towards the sun. 

And that day finally came - the week before we left to visit Mr. J at school for the first time.  Coincidentally (and by coincidentally I mean not coincidentally in the least), it was around the same time that we heard the first positive news from the staff at our son's school. 

Mr. J appeared to be trying.

Scott and I had a great visit with our eldest son over Easter weekend.  We played games, toured the school, talked cordially about nothing serious, and introduced Mr. J to his new baby brother.  There were no deep conversations and no apologies, but there were no fits of rage or irrational behavior, either.  There were even a few moments of tenderness, when our son couldn't keep the tears from running down his face, and when he let me comfort him.  When we had to say goodbye on the final day, we left him sitting at the table, head buried in folded arms, sobbing.  I did the same in the parking lot.

Yet in spite of all the tears, or perhaps because of all the tears, I finally have a new hope of my own.

The biggest sign of hope God has given us is that somewhere between last fall and this spring, our son has moved from "I'll kill you if I come home" or "I'm never coming home" to "When I come home...".

He's written that he wants to change his life so things will be different when he comes back, and although he's still struggling frequently with anger and irrational outbursts, he seems to be recovering more quickly, picking himself up, and trying again.  We remain hopeful.

Spring is here at last.

If you are one of those people that brought hope to our family last fall and continue to do so as we walk this difficult journey, we thank you and love you more than we could ever express.  Please continue to pray us through this process, specifically for Mr. J's continued change of heart, and for his eventual emotional and mental healing.  He still has a long way to go.  Please pray that we can offer grace and unconditional love in spite of everything our family has been through.


  

Labor of Love

It's starting to hurt again.

The bad days, the bad behavior, the bad attitude.
The disrespect, the lying, the words spoken out in absolute unreasonable anger.

It's hurting like crazy again, which means I've allowed the walls around my heart to crumble.  Crack.  Crash down to the ground, which scares the heck out of me.

My heart is unprotected.

I've done it again.  I've allowed the love I have for this hurt little girl to get the best of me, and it makes the good days oh so much better...beautiful, really.  It makes my heart soar.  It makes me happy, and my daughter happy, and it breathes a spark of life into the precious bond that's blossoming before my eyes.

The good days are so good right now.
But the bad days are so bad, and I can't even explain how much it hurts.

It sounds cruel, perhaps.  It isn't purposeful.  When someone hurts you day after day after day for years on end, rejects you, spews hate at you, I suppose it's human nature to protect your heart.  To not allow yourself to get too close or to care too much.  To become almost hard-hearted and indifferent, building walls sky-high, for then you aren't caught off-guard when the inevitable happens again.

A sturdy wall never leaves you shattered and broken, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your heart. 

But a sturdy wall never leaves room to build a bridge between two wounded hearts, either. 

My pain is necessary for my daughter to heal.  

Like the birthing of a baby, when the labor pains are so excruciating you feel you can't possibly go on for one more fraction of a moment, and then somehow you endure, and you persevere, and you set all the determination of your spirit on the one thing you know you must do.  At the end of all that pain, there's the unspeakable joy of having brought a whole new child into the world, and you know you would go through all that pain again and again for the miracle of that child.

I didn't birth this daughter, but I'm laboring for her all the same.   

At the end of all this pain, this labor of love, I believe I'll have the unspeakable joy of having brought a whole new child into the world.  A whole, happy, healthy, loved and loving, securely attached child. 

And I know I'd go through it all again for the miracle of that child.
___________________________________________________________________


I cried out today: "God, help me to love her whole-heartedly, with everything in me.  I can't do it on my own.  No matter how much it hurts, Lord, help me love her with my whole heart."

Softly, He spoke to my soul:  "You already do."

My Father is so good to me, He's with me on my way.
He watches every step I take, He hears each word I say.
Sometimes He smiles at my attempts, sometimes He hangs His head,
Sometimes His strong arms hold me up when I've left myself for dead.
No matter all the ugliness that's left my sinful tongue,
No matter all my gross misdeeds, the sorry tunes I've sung,
My Father has not left my side, not even for a day.
He'll walk with me through this dark night. Oh, Father, lead the way.

Mine

If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have cried tears of joy as soon as I knew you were growing inside me.

If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have stayed up late at night dreaming about you: who you would be, what you would look like, who you would become.  I would have sung lullabies to you, and Daddy would have read books to my tummy as I rocked gently in my rocking chair.

If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy and I would have walked through the baby store, hand in hand, making plans for you.  I would have been so proud of my big baby belly, and thrilled with each tiny kick from inside.  As the time grew closer for you to come, we would have been so excited; we hardly would have been able to wait to meet you.

If you had been mine from the beginning, Daddy would have held my hand, lovingly urging me on as I struggled to bring you into the world.  Your first cry would have filled us with a joy like no other, and I would have cried happy tears as I held you in my arms for the first time.  Recognizing my voice, you would have looked up at me with your beautiful, trusting brown eyes...

...and you would have known instantly that I would love you forever. 


If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have held you close to my heart: nursing you, covering your downy baby head with millions of tiny kisses, marvelling at all your perfect little fingers and toes.  I would have held you for hours, drinking in your warmth and your sweet baby smell. 

If you had been mine from the beginning, your new-baby cry would have broken my heart.  I would have spent hours soothing you, if you needed to be soothed.  I would have rocked you and held you and changed you and fed you and burped you and kissed your sweet baby face another billion times.

If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have spent hours looking into your darling face. I would have cooed at you and smiled at you, and Daddy and I would have gazed down at you with love in our eyes, and we would have celebrated those first little sounds that you made...and every little thing you did after. When you rolled over, sat up by yourself, clapped your chubby hands, spoke your first words, took your first steps...we would have been right there cheering you on.

If you had been mine from the beginning, I would have kept you with me always.  I would have made up a gazillion silly little songs to animate our days together, and I would have read books to you and dressed you up and put tiny little bows in your hair.  As you grew, I would have taught you your numbers and your colors and your ABCs, and I would have pushed you on the swings at the park.  You would have laughed and squealed in delight, and looked at me with your beautiful, chocolate brown eyes...

...and you would have known that Mama would love you forever.


If you had been mine from the beginning, you would never have worried that someday, you might be abandoned.  You wouldn't, deep down, think that you're worthless and unlovable.

If you had been mine from the beginning, you wouldn't feel the need to control everything.  You wouldn't be so full of anger and fear and you wouldn't have the need to fight against me and Daddy and against everything we ask you to do.

If you had been mine from the beginning, things would have been so much easier for you...and for me...and for our family.  You would have been a happy, care-free child.  You would have let the adults worry about adult things, and you would have spent all your energy on simply being a child.

If you had been mine from the beginning, you would trust me, and you would trust my decisions.

You would trust that I'll love you forever, no matter what.


It's been a tough day, huh, kiddo?
It was the kind of day that makes me cry out to God, asking Him to take away the suffering I see in your heart.  The suffering that's in my heart, too.  I wish life could be easier for us, and especially for you, dear one. 

But I know you're going to make it.
We're going to make it. 
I believe in you, and I believe in us. 
We're fighters, you and me.


Oh, girl.  How I wish you had been mine from the beginning.

No matter how many days like today we have, no matter what you do or how angry I am or how horrible you feel, I promise you...I'm so thankful that you're mine now. 

Mama loves you, Butterfly. 
And I'll love you forever...no matter what.






  

Angry

One of my sisters is dead.

Not my biological sister, not either of my sisters-in-law, but my sister nonetheless.

One of my RAD sisters, who understood the heartache of loving a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder.  Understood the pain and the long road, the uncertainty and the suffering that seems to have no end.

One of my sisters, DEAD, presumably at the hands of her RAD daughter.


I didn't know her well.  Had never, in fact, even met her.  We were bound together only by a support group full of parents raising children with RAD....all sharing that invisible bond of friendship that comes from finding someone...finally...who understands.

This group of friends has supported me in ways that no one else could, giving me that calm understanding and sometimes needed advice;  a safe place in which to vent the strongest of emotions.

Every frustration, every failure, every horrible day, every small victory. 
Shared trials and triumphs.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Tears.

They pass no judgement, for they are also on the frontlines, living the same uncertainty as I.

And now one of us is dead.


Today this hits me incredibly hard.  It has, after all, been only a few months since my own son threatened to kill me...and my husband...and our baby son.  Sure, it's easy to pass those threats off as simply a way for our son to manipulate; an attempt to get his own way and force us into action.  Such threats are usually just that.  Manipulation attempts.

But sometimes they aren't.  And then what?

I'm angry right now.  Angry that no one seems to take us seriously...the hurting, stressed, vigilant, exhausted and abused parents of these emotionally impaired kids.  'If only we loved those poor kids enough.  If only we were more structured as parents, or less structured, or more permissive, or less permissive, or more understanding, or more forgiving, or more this or more that.  If only, if only, if only.' 

So many people pass judgement and yet would be unable to stand up for a moment in the shoes of a RAD parent.

Yes, I'm angry. 

Angry that there is so little help to be found for these traumatized kids. 

Angry that so many mental health professionals have no training in attachment issues and don't understand RAD enough to make a difference.

Angry that we spent months making phone calls to everyone and anyone that would possibly listen, and yet our family, church family and close friends are the only ones that came to our aid.

Angry that our insurance (which is considered the best) won't pay for the only therapist in our area that specializes in adoption, attachment and RAD because the letters after his name aren't the "correct" letters. 

Angry that the adoption medicaid that is supposed to pick up the cost of anything our child needs has also refused to pay for our therapist simply because the insurance company would pay for someone else...none of whom specialize in adoption related issues.

Angry that insurance refuses to pay a cent for residential treatment for our son's severe mental illness, or any mental illness for that matter, but would gladly pay if he was an alcoholic or a drug addict or had an eating disorder.

Angry that the adoption agency and the foster care system from which our son came have no resources or motivation or desire to help.

Angry that the state of Michigan was going to force us to bring our violent, threatening son home for in-home counseling before they would help in any way.  They are more willing to put our five little children (and ourselves) in danger than to part with a single dollar.

Angry that even if the state of Michigan HAD agreed to fund treatment, it would not have been at a facility that specializes in RAD because they are all more than 200 miles away.  No exceptions would be made.

Angry that the only option the state of Michigan gave us if it was truly too dangerous to bring him home for counseling was to "Let the Juvenile Courts have him."  He is mentally ill and needs help, for crying out loud...not JAIL! 

Angry that the only way to get him into a facility that could help him through the Juvenile Court system was to actually abandon our son to the courts, leaving us open to charges of neglect.

Angry that no one seems to take mental illness seriously until an entire first grade class is murdered, or the parent of a RAD child is found stabbed to death in her home. 

And I'm angry that there is now one less person on the planet that understands what parents like us go through.  One less, instead of one more.  When what we desperately need are more.

It wasn't that many years ago when autistic children didn't get the help and intervention they needed, when insurance refused to pay for necessary, life-altering therapies, and when people didn't really understand what it meant to be autistic.  It wasn't too many years ago when children with learning difficulties were labelled "retarded" and were given no extra help...no chances to succeed to the best of their abilities.  Mercifully, these things are beginning to change.

How many systems will have to change, how many people will have to die, before children with mental illness get the help they need?  When will the insurance companies and the state agencies begin to care about what is best for the families and not about the dollars involved?  And all those parents...the ones in my support group, who are persevering through the worst...when will their concerns be taken seriously? 

Today I am rattled.  I hate to admit it, but whenever I hear a story like this, my heart skips a beat.  It hits too close to home, because my family is walking a similar path as that of this poor woman who lost her life.

God, please don't ever let that shattered family be mine.  


________________________________________________________________________


Sister, you truly had a Joyous Heart.  Thank you for trying to make the world a better place and for all of your efforts on behalf of a traumatized child.  Thank you also for your input and your many words of encouragement.  You will be missed.

 

Waiting

Our baby is due any day now.  He would already be here, if I had my way.  For anyone who has ever been pregnant, you know what I'm talking about when I say that my body is so sick of its current condition that I'm actually, in some way, looking forward to labor and delivery. 

Well...maybe I can't go that far.  I can't imagine looking forward to labor.  I'm at least looking forward to not being pregnant anymore; to the day when I can say to my husband, "Honey, could you please hold the baby for a while?"

This waiting game is driving me crazy.

And yet, I think I'm going to have to get used to it, because I have not one, but two sons that I'm waiting to see delivered from their present circumstances.

We had word from Mr. J's school that he's been acting out horribly.  A "terror", they called him.  We aren't surprised, as the choices he's been making for the past six months have been overwhelmingly horrible.  But it is a bit unsettling to hear this description from a school that deals regularly with unmanageable teenaged boys; they've seen it all and are phased by little, and yet our son stands out from the crowd. 

I have mixed feelings about this news.  It's a good thing that he's not hiding this side of himself from other people like he used to, pretending to be perfect.  He needs to be honest about what he's thinking and feeling if he's ever going to get to a place where he's ready to work on healing....until then, all the therapy and common sense in the world would fall on deaf ears. 

I feel sad for my son, obviously.  He's an emotional wreck teeming with hormones and rage that he can't handle.  The traditional mental hospital couldn't handle it, the police couldn't handle it, Juvenile Detention couldn't handle it, and the state of Michigan refused to even try.  As much as it pains me to say it, our family could no longer handle it either. 

Which leads me to the other overwhelming feeling I'm flooded with on a daily basis: relief.   Our family is safe, our other children are starting to relax, and I've finally stopped jumping every time I hear a noise from somewhere in the house, adrenaline pumping with the expectation of a full-blown rage.  For a while, at least, someone else is dealing with the behavior that's dominated our lives for so long.  Somewhere where there are many, many adults to help at any time, and no small children to be caught up in the middle of the fury.

And so we wait, and we pray. 

We place our faith in Christ, trusting that in His own time, he will deliver both of these sons into our hands.  

If I had my way, the waiting would be over, and they would both be healthy and whole in my arms at this very moment. 

Crazy?

So, we did it.

We took the giant leap of faith.

Are we crazy?  I have the feeling some may think so.  I understand that it sounds crazy and irresponsible to the world in general to send your son away to a boarding school when the funds aren't in your bank account. 

Perhaps it would have been a better financial decision for our family to let the courts have him.  It would have required less trust and blind faith, that's for sure, but it also would have required leaving all the decisions about our son's future in the hands of people (albeit competent and over-worked people) that don't know our son, don't love our son, and don't really, truly care about our son's heart and his long-term healing.

We felt it was best to leave the decision-making to God, whose love for Mr. J is as incomprehensible as a galaxy full of stars.

And so, in the last few days, we began this new journey of trusting God; of stepping out in faith, and believing beyond a doubt that somehow, God will provide.  Funding, yes.  But mostly, we're trusting God to provide a measure of healing in Mr. J throughout this next year.

We're placing our son, whom we love, securely in the hands of God. 

Yesterday morning at about three o'clock, my husband, my dad, and two of the best friends my husband could ask for set out to pick our son up at Juvenile Detention and to transport him to the facility.  It's about a twelve hour drive, and no one expected Mr. J to be compliant.  In fact, because of his recent violent behavior while incarcerated, everyone feared the worst.  I have to say, though, that God showed up in an incredible way.

And so I share the story of the first miracle of our journey, although I'm going to let my husband tell it, as written to our group of prayer partners last night:

Hello friends, family and prayer warriors,

Forgive me if this rambles a bit or doesn't always make sense - I got about 2 hours of sleep last night.

I don't know how else to say it - we experienced a miracle today.  From the moment J was released from Juvenile Detention to the moment I said goodbye, we had NOT ONE issue the entire 12 hour trip.  I'll say it again - NOT ONE!!!  After all of the violent and assaultive episodes of the past 4 months, there wasn't even a single attitude problem, let alone a violent act.  Considering the God we serve, though, we shouldn't really be surprised.  According to several facebook messages and emails, God was waking people up at various times all over West Michigan, just as the trip was beginning, to cover us with prayer.  On top of all of this, it just so happened that the detention center employee assigned to help J as he was being released was R.  You may remember that R was the believer who prayed for J and talked him through an angry outburst during a visit a few weeks back.  It was no accident that he just happened to be with J this morning.

All of us on the trip were impressed with the facility and staff.  It is absolutely founded on rock solid Biblical principles.  They believe that they are not the ones to help these boys but it is the Holy Spirit working through the Word of God that will accomplish it.  Rather than spending a year away from God in a faithless institution, J is going to be absolutely surrounded by the Word of God and strong men of faith.  It will not be an easy place for him as they require complete obedience in everything, even down to the exact way each student's bed is to be made.  Pretty soon, possibly tomorrow, he begins physical exercise and work detail. 

Please continue to pray for J.  I am sure he is completely terrified right now.  After he said goodbye, he began his time at the facility with Julio, a staff member.  J attempted to manipulate Julio with lies about us, deflecting all blame to others, intimidation (which, considering Julio is built like a Sherman Tank, proved fruitless), tears, and bragging about being tough by assaulting police officers.  This manipulation did not work on Julio, who has seen it all before.  Julio deeply challenged him after J reported that he was already saved.  These challenges actually brought out some real emotion and sadness, which I haven't seen or heard in a long time. 

Please pray for safe travels home tomorrow for four very tired and joyful guys.  We can't get over the fact that God showed up in such a huge way.  I am full of hope because J is where the Lord wants him right now.  After the events of today, I firmly believe it and have more peace than I have had during this whole ordeal.

Thank you for praying.  Please don't stop!  Though we finally can rest a little knowing where J will be, this is only the very beginning of the long road to healing. 

In Christ,
Scott

So that's where it stands right now.  And have I mentioned that I adore my God-fearing husband?  I love him like crazy!

And speaking of crazy...to those who think we are crazy to trust some "supernatural being" with providing for our family and healing our son, I would challenge that you simply do not know the God we serve.  His goodness, His mercy, His depth of love and faithfulness...they are unfathomable.  It's impossible to "foolishly" trust in Him, as long as you are walking in His will.  I would absolutely love to introduce you to the Almighty God of the Bible, and specifically to His son Jesus.  Just drop me an email at mamaandmissm@hotmail.com, and I would be happy to explain our brand of crazy to you!




  

Stepping Out in Faith

Earlier this week, we celebrated our little daughter's seventh birthday.  I can hardly believe that it's been a solid seven years since that beautiful moment when they placed that tiny squalling baby on my chest, when everyone commented on the generous amount of hair on her darling peanut-shaped head.  Seven years have passed since I first cradled that tiny pink bundle in my arms, since I sat in a hospital bed and watched as her daddy changed his very first diaper ever, little limbs flailing every which way, creating a bigger mess than the one that needed to be changed. 

Yes, seven years have flown by since that nerve-wracking snowy car ride, the one when I sat in back and checked every few seconds to make sure she was still breathing.  And those first few hours when I couldn't believe they would just send us out the door with a tiny little person that we had no idea how to care for. 

My first baby.  The first piece of my heart that left my body and took on a life all its own.

And it's been seven years now since I first had to let go of my previous belief that I was in control of anything.

I wasn't in control of whether or not I could nurse this baby, of the weight she would or would not gain from one appointment to the next, of the jaundice that forced her to be lit up like a glow-worm for days, or the constant blood draws needed to check those dangerously high bilirubin numbers.  I wasn't in control of how long she would sleep at one time, how much she would cry or spit up, or when a blow-out diaper would put a wrench in my plans for the day.  And as I fell into a routine of checking in on my little baby daughter every hour to make sure she was still breathing, I was painfully aware that I was not even in control of the next breath she would take.

I had to place her in God's hands and learn to trust in Him.

Having a baby required us to step out in faith.

When our daughter was only a few weeks old, we felt the pull from God to pursue adopting Mr. J and Miss M, who were foster children in my sister and brother-in-law's home.  In all honesty, it seemed like a really outrageous idea, considering that we had just given birth to our first child and were perfectly content with our new little family.  And these children had been through so much; we knew they would be challenging for anyone to raise, much less young, inexperienced parents like us.  But God's will for our family was blatantly strong and evident, and the pull would not diminish no matter how much we tried to reason it away.  So we began our next journey in faith and trust, knowing full well we didn't have all the answers.

When the kids came to live with us, our baby daughter was almost eleven months old, and we learned pretty quickly that we were not in control of these new children, either.  We weren't in control of whether a tantrum would cause us to be several hours late for Thanksgiving dinner, of whether or not requesting that a child brush her teeth would result in hours of rage, or if we would be hit, kicked or bitten by a raging child.  We couldn't control whether or not our son had a melt-down at school or kicked the teacher's desk, or whether he would steal money from the girl he sat next to in class.  And as some of these behaviors and attitudes threatened to dominate our lives and our family, we became painfully aware that no matter what we did, we were not in control of whether or not these traumatized children ever began to change or heal.

We had to place them in God's hands and learn to trust in Him. 

Adoption required us to step out in faith.

And now, we're being stretched and tested yet again.  Coinciding with puberty, our traumatized son's internalized rage and fear has finally caught up with him, and he is out of control.  First in our home, then in a mental hospital, and now at Juvenile Detention, where he is currently locked in his room because of his violent outbursts.  He continues to insist that he'll kill us if he comes home, and so obviously, it isn't safe for him to be here, either. 

We want him to get help.  We want him to learn to take responsibility for his actions.  We want him to be forced to work hard on getting himself to a place where he can even begin to let God heal the hurt that lies deep inside of him.

And we feel that we've found the best option: a highly structured, highly disciplined, military-style therapeutic boarding school that is built on the truth of God's Word. 

Getting him to this school before his court hearing on Wednesday would cancel the hearing and essentially drop the charges that are against him, which are severe enough that they will otherwise follow him into adulthood.  It would also keep him out of the juvenile criminal system for at least another year, giving Mr. J the chance to allow God to work in his life before then and to make better choices upon his return home.  Our hope would be that our son would come back from this school with the desire to be a part of our family again and to finally begin to work on healing the wounds from his past.  But we realize that we are not in control of his choices, his actions, or in how much he allows God to influence his life.

We aren't even in control of whether or not we can afford to send him to this school.

Here is the struggle of trust and faith that we're currently facing: our church family has offered to pay the admission fees and the first month's tuition.  They have also set up a fund within the church to continue raising money for tuition, but there is no guarantee that the $2,400 per month tuition will be there each month when it is due.  We are currently strapped and have very little income to spare, yet would be required to sign a contract stating that our son would be at the school for at least one full year.

So the question we're asking ourselves today is
                             "How much do we trust God?"

Do we just leave our son in the juvenile court system and allow them to do with him as they choose?  We don't believe this gives Mr. J the best chance to succeed.  It feels more like giving up and allowing him to start his life as a criminal at age thirteen.

Or do we place the needed tuition solely in God's hands, knowing that He is in control and trusting that the money will miraculously be there in the fund each and every month? 

Please pray with us for God's wisdom and clarity in this situation.  We only have a couple of days to decide, and we struggle with the possible financial ramifications for our family.

It's really hard, this stepping out in faith.

Perfect Plans

It's been a while since I've updated, since I've even felt enough emotional energy to write, and I guess it's partly because I feel like very little has changed.  We're still dealing daily with the ups and downs of Reactive Attachment Disorder in the form of Miss M, who's done so much healing in the past eighteen months and yet still saps so much of her pregnant Mama's ever-decreasing patience and energy. 

On the bad days, enhanced by the pregnant emotions brought on by another RAD child that I love, I can hardly hold myself together.  No doubt Miss M is effected by her brother's behavior and absence as well. 

On the really bad days, I wonder why God ever chose me to mother these hurting kids.  Blunt, matter-of-fact, stubborn and strong-willed me...who has so much trouble exchanging my selfish will and my sinful feelings for His perfection.  What could He possibly have been thinking?

And yet, on the good days, I'm so profoundly encouraged by the bond that I know is blooming between my eldest daughter and myself; the hot tears of remorse and the hugs of forgiveness, the ease of conversation and the honest questions, the non-existent lapse of time between frustration and transitioning back to that crazy new love-and-acceptance-thing again.  I'm so thankful for the new-found evidence of compassion, empathy and conscience that I see awakening in my daughter.  And, if I'm being honest, I'm thankful that God is growing these things within me as well.

Two years ago, when God asked me to spend nearly every waking moment with a disrespectful, controlling, rage-filled, attachment-disordered child, I thought there was no way that we would both make it through the year in one piece.  And now we're well into our second year of homeschooling, and, minor daily difficulties aside, I am really proud of how far we've come.  Slowly and often painfully (for both of us), Miss M is healing.

All glory to God for miracles I can't even comprehend.   

For the present, I'm keeping busy at home with school and toddler-wrangling and Christmas shopping and gathering recipes and craft ideas for the upcoming month, and our minds are turning to decorating and organizing and preparing for the celebration of the birth of baby Jesus...and also for the upcoming birth of our own sweet baby boy in less than seven weeks.

The irony is not lost on me that at the same time my heart feels like it's losing one son, I'm preparing to welcome another into my arms. 

Trusting is so hard.  I lack the patience and the discernment needed to see what God is doing in my family right now.  I miss my oldest son...the son he used to be, the son I thought he was.  I ache that he's missed his birthday, the anniversary of his addition to our family, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and countless family memories so far.  My heart cries at the thought of celebrating the birth of Jesus...and the birth of our littlest son...without him.  I can't see how God is working in this.

But two years ago, I laughed at God when He told me to homeschool Miss M.  I fought him.  I tried to tell him that it wasn't possible for me.  That there was no way.

What I found out is that God's plans often don't make sense to me.  But they're perfect plans.

I'm putting all the energy I can muster into trusting God right now; trusting that somehow all this junk and suffering and senseless hate and violence has something to do with healing Mr. J.

Join me, and the rest of my family, in trusting that God has a perfect plan for our oldest son.

And please continue to pray for us all.


There is a hearing scheduled for December 12th where Mr. J's near future will be decided.  Because he is a threat to our family and to the community, he will most likely be made a temporary ward of the court if other arrangements are not made for him before then, in which case he would also be assured of having a criminal record follow him into adulthood.  Our hopes are for God to intervene before then, providing funding to allow us to send him to a therapeutic boarding school (where he has already been accepted) and retain our parental rights.  There is a strong chance that the charges would be dropped if this happens.  We hope that in heading this direction, our son (who is only thirteen) will be given a second chance regarding his criminal history, his relationship with his family, and his journey towards healing.  Pray that God will reveal His perfect plan for Mr. J's future. 

  

Finding the Funny

My funny bone has been fractured and is in dire need of repair.

That's a common side effect to living in crisis mode, I would suspect.  But for someone who thrives on seeing the humor in life and who loves almost nothing more than a long drawn-out fit of giggles, having serious, grown-up issues to digest and comprehend and sort out at almost every waking moment is getting a bit old. 

My current default emotions are anything but funny.
And it's wearing me out.

If we don't find something to laugh about, it's all too easy for my hubby and me to mentally curl up in a dark, cob-webby corner and lose ourselves in sorrow.  So we're having to make a conscious effort these days to "find the funny" in our lives...even in our current situation.

Let's face it: there is very little humorous about our son going off the deep end, assaulting people, and being locked up in Juvenile Detention.  We get this.  We understand.  Our son's future, his choices and his violent behavior are not a laughing matter...

               ...but sometimes...

                                  ....we still need to laugh.

For starters, it's amazing to hear how every single thing that's happened is not our son's fault.  I'm beginning to see how the jails are full of people who 'didn't do it', but I'm also a bit concerned about all the seemingly law-abiding people walking around free...you know, all the ones who are actually to blame.  Like me.  And my husband.  And the police officers.  And the caseworkers.  And the cat. 

It's just a teeny tiny bit humorous (to borrow our son's rationale) that it's acceptable to threaten to report people to CPS just for looking at you funny, and that when any authority figure doesn't do what you want, it's perfectly logical that you should threaten to kill them. 

We also discovered recently through acquired documentation of his hospital stay, that after our son had been ripping up all the carpet squares in his hospital room, he went into a rage and furiously demanded that he be moved to a room with nice carpet.  How dare they keep him in a room with ruined carpet?  Seriously?!  I find this hilariously unbelievable, and yet so consistent with what we see at home.

A few weeks ago, we came upon a question on a form asking us: "What five things concern you the most about your child's behavior?"

Without missing a beat, my husband writes in:

#1.  He wants to kill me.    

The absurdity of it all sent us both into peals of laughter until tears were nearly running down our faces.  I mean, really, is it necessary to list four more concerns after that one?

#2.  He wants to kill my wife.

#3.  See #1 and #2.

#4.  "

#5.  "

Hee hee.

And then there's the funding issue.  The payer of last resort.  We're still researching residential treatment facilities and therapeutic boarding schools and what-not, and have participated in at least ten twenty thirty gazillion different conversations with various people about what is going to happen and who is going to fund it since insurance won't.  The state of Michigan adoption subsidy?  Community Mental Health?  The Juvenile Court system?  The Department of Human Services? 

After talking to countless places in-depth, each of them has claimed to be the "payer of last resort".  How can this be?  How does that even work?  If they all can pay, but are only the "payer of last resort", are they all going to refuse to pay until someone else does?  Or are they all going to decide to pay at the same time?  Is that even possible?  I don't think it makes any sense...but at least we've got an awesome new catch phrase in our home.  And when we're grocery shopping, you better believe that I'm gonna let my husband get his debit card out before I do.  I'm pleading my case as the "payer of last resort".

In all seriousness, there have been very few things to laugh about with everything our family has been through in recent months.  But laughter is therapeutic, and we believe that God made us with an innate need to laugh and to seek out joy in every situation...so we're trying. 

I've started to look around at all the other little people in my life with an incredible thankfulness for the joy that they offer to me freely, whenever I remember to watch and listen.

Just this morning, my 10-year-old daughter asked me what date the Fourth of July was on..."Is it July 24th?"   Hmmmm.

And my six-year-old has a new fondness for knock-knock jokes, none of which make sense to anyone besides her four-year-old brother.  And they laugh and laugh and laugh until they're both red-faced and teary.

My four-year-old son insists that counting by tens and reciting the days of the week can only be done while hopping up and down on one foot, ending up in a heap of giggles on the floor.  :)

And my 21-month-old continues to lift up my shirt regularly (even in public) to "see" the baby, demanding that "Baby come out!"  How great is that?  I don't think he really gets it...but he sure does love to pat my belly, say "Baby!" and ask to "See it?"

And I'm learning that joy really can be found in the midst of every "hopeless" situation...it just doesn't always come as easily as I'm used to. 

Usually, the world is knocking on my door, waiting to reveal the next episode of silliness to set me off laughing... 
 
...but now that the world is turned a bit upside-down, sometimes I just have to work a little harder to find the funny.


Keep laughing with us, keep loving us, keep believing alongside us.  As read in a comment on this very blog:  You, our prayerful friends and family and concerned strangers, are our "Aarons"...holding us up with your own strong arms while Scott and I are at our weakest.  It's a beautiful picture of the Body of Christ at work, and we're so blessed by and thankful for each of you.

The Fall

My son will be spending his thirteenth birthday in Juvenile Detention. 

I've thought about this "thirteenth birthday" milestone for the better part of a year; tossed around ideas of what would be appropriate gifts for such a significant birthday.  I've wondered what kind of cake I would bake and how I would decorate it, which is a big thing in our family.  My husband had even been planning a sort of "man trip" this fall to mark our son's passage into the teen years.  They were going to go to a professional baseball game and a car museum and eat big burgers and do all things "manly".  They were going to discuss Biblical manhood and what that looks like in this fallen world.

And now our son is incarcerated. 

Of all the ideas whirling around in my head for Mr. J's thirteenth birthday, I can honestly say that this scenario never entered my mind.

Now I can't get it out of my mind.

How do you celebrate a birthday when your child has been threatening to kill you?  When he's threatened your baby and your husband and is smashing windows in your home?  How do you say "Happy Birthday!" and "Welcome to the next stage of becoming a man!" when he's assaulting police officers and being arrested and refusing to cooperate or even be civil to any adult charged with his care?

How do you celebrate that?

2010 - and a very pregnant good witch!

And there's even more than that on my mind this month.  Mr. J and Miss M came to us two days before Halloween.  On that first night, less than two weeks shy of six years ago, we carved our family pumpkin together, ate donuts and apples and drank cider, and watched the Charlie Brown "Great Pumpkin" movie.  It was the first thing we did as a family, and it became our first ever family tradition.  We always make a big deal of "family togetherness" at Halloween, completely avoiding any of the dark aspects of the holiday and focusing on being together.  As the years have gone by, we've turned costume-hunting into a family affair, too, choosing a theme and doing it up in grand style.  All of us.  Together.


We have so much fun this time of year.  Gathering final costume pieces, warming ourselves around a bonfire, apple orchards and cinnamon donuts and pumpkin pie and hot apple cider.  And there are hayrides and snuggling barn kittens and the crunch of cold apples plucked from the tree, piles of freshly-raked leaves just begging for romping children, Artprize and Halloween at the zoo and hunting out the perfect pumpkin from the pumpkin patch...always an agonizing decision.  This year, for the first time, we're choosing from our very own pumpkin patch that we planted as a family in the spring. 

And then we don our coordinating costumes, and tramp through the store to get our picture taken amid laughs and cheers of intrigued on-lookers.  We soak it in and laugh along, because this is our family, and it's what we do.  Our family is happy and silly and fun.

2011

And this year, our family is broken.

We'll be celebrating half-heartedly, doing our best to keep our traditions and our smiles for the rest of the kids, hoping that next year there will truly be a happy birthday and a season of whole-hearted celebration. 

I'm choosing to trust that God is doing something big right now, in His own time, and that the joy will be overflowing in the morning.  I'm clinging to this with everything in me.  Begging God to make it be so, to keep the hope alive inside me and inside my husband and our kids.

Please God, give me the faith to believe that this time of suffering will someday come to an end, and that there can be joy for our family in the morning...

...and if not in the morning, Lord, then maybe by next fall.


Mr. J will be incarcerated until the end of the month.  He has five charges against him, and remains hostile towards staff.  We have had very little contact with him, although my husband was able to visit him for a short while this past Sunday.  Mr. J maintains that he is doing "good", and would like us to believe that he's having a grand time, although the reports from staff, his probation officer, and social worker prove otherwise.  He continues to blame his actions on anyone and everyone else, and seems unable to relate consequences with the choices he's made.  His cause and effect thinking appears nonexistent.  We have been working tirelessly to make arrangements for him when he is released, are working with many agencies and Mr. J's therapist, and are exploring every avenue we can find.  The unified goal is residential care, but the timing and funding are yet to be determined.  He may still be coming home.  Please continue to pray for God's guidance and wisdom, and for healing and safety for our family...especially for Mr. J.