failed adoptions {week of thanks}

I wish there was a better word. One that says, “something we tried that simply didn’t work out” but doesn’t actually say “failure”.

This is the part of adoption that so many don’t know. When a child is identified, there has to be a certain level of understanding and knowledge before an adoption is pursued. Especially in the cases of older children (i.e. five and up). In other words: some semblance of bonding takes place even if you never meet.

When we learned about a five year old, originally from an African country, who needed to be placed in a new home—we sent out an inquiry. We then received over fifty pages of information about this child. After reading and discussing many of the ramifications of such an adoption, we sent back a request for further information. Somewhere in the middle, after loads of paperwork and phone calls, the process halted.

The child was placed and we did not get him.

It was okay. But it was hard.

So, why am I thanking God for this, and other, failed adoption attempts? Because I’ve learned some hard, brutal lessons that I am grateful for.

• I’m thankful that I’ve learned the foolishness of the words, “just adopt”. Mark this down: it is not that simple.
• I’m thankful that I’ve begun to catch glimpses of how deeply God views prayer. All that time and all those prayers spent on each child would be worthless except that it goes deeper than human eyes can see. It reaches further, touches depths, and builds faith in ways that I can only begin to understand.
•  I’m thankful for the lesson of open hands. Holding palms upward, fingers forced down. There, in this position of surrender, hurt is bearable. The moment fingers curl upward to cling and long and grab—breathing stops. Oxygen cuts off. Desert-lostness and dying-thirst exudes.
•  I’m thankful for the knowledge that it is not an accident that we are childless. If we never pursued and doors never closed there would always be a “what if” in our minds. Now, there is not. We surrendered everything, knocked at every door, prayed, sought God, opened our hearts and our home—and the doors stayed shut tight. I can say with confidence: God’s will for me today is to not have children.
• I’m thankful for the comfort of a God who loves. One of the adoptions that we looked into was for a set of twins. And in the midst of the waiting and longing and hoping… we found out that one of my dearest friends, Julie, was expecting her own set of twins. When it became evident that we were not going to get our own babies, I cannot tell you how comforting it was to know that Julie would soon have her little ones. It was like God saying, My loved-one, I am still here. Because, you see, Julie also once walked the road of infertility and if I could not bear my own children, the next best thing in all the world, is one of my best friends having them. What a gracious God I serve. 

This post could go on for quite some time. There are many lessons. There have been many God-moments. And today, I am thankful for each and every failed adoption. And I believe and say, again, that God is good. 

Can you say, in the middle of your hard things, that God is good? Why or why not? 

a week of thanks

This year as I contemplated my posts for the week of Thanksgiving, I felt a distinct leading to do something different. There are so many things to be thankful for. I have lists that number over a thousand of tastes of beauty and God-moments in everyday.

But for this time in my life, I felt the Lord clearly say, Thank me for the hard things. 

The hard things? Oh, Lord. I’d rather focus on the pretty things. On sunlight hitting the wood floor and the crackle of the fireplace and evenings of laughter.

Yet, over and over, these past few weeks the words have come. Thank me for the hard things. 

So I am kneeling and writing words that leave tear stains. I am pulling apart depths when I want to just skim over the top. And I am seeing God. I am trembling at God-moments that rival any I have ever felt. And the beauty is so thick that I can close my eyes and smell and taste the glory of it all.

I hope you’ll join me between now and next Thursday… staring at the wonder of the hardest things in my life made beautiful.

Limited Finances

Failed Adoptions

Farming

Infertility

When Women Cry

I grew up with three brothers. No sisters. I was a girl, no doubt, but I was a tough kid. Cowboys and Indians, dirt piles and tree climbing, pigtails and pink ribbons. I cried when I was angry or bleeding.

I was thirteen when I found out about women and tears. My first ladies meeting. Mama said I was old enough, so holding my pink Bible and feeling nervous I walked with her to the church beside the palm trees.

Mama pulled out chocolate and a box of Kleenex.

And I found out why.

It seemed that every woman who talked cried. I’m sure my eyes were as big as my face. Who knew that women were like this? I mean, the things they shared were hard things, to be sure, but all these tears?

By the time I was in my twenties, I was used to it. Tears came with groups of women. Not my tears, usually. But it was okay. I had faced hard things in life. I got it. I cared. I loved. I just didn’t quite understand the constant drips of salt water.

Then I got married and faced my first really hard thing. The word that I had feared since my doctor’s appointment when I was nineteen and having medical problems. Infertility. The word that spoke deeper words. I might never give my husband a child. I may never be called Mama. I might never, ever, hold my own baby.

I tasted a lot of tears that first year. Bitter, deep tears. And they left stains.

Not too long ago I sat in a group of women. A gathering of ladies to talk about the book One Thousand Gifts. I sat curled on the love seat with my crocheting in my lap, balancing my Bible, journal and book on the armrest beside me.

We talked. Laughed. Took turns reading our favorite passages. Challenged each other to live eucharisteo. And somewhere, in the middle of the talk on giving thanks, the hard things cropped up.

And tears started.

I understood.  I had my own tear stains.

They were hard things. Really hard things. Unbelieving husbands. Hysterectomies. Accusations. Miscarriages. And the last one. “It’s a tumor,” she whispered, “in her lung.” And tears stained her cheeks. Who can ever say goodbye to a mother?

Then another voice spoke, “Jesus, Jesus…” The prayers started. Hands lifted. Women calling out to God from all corners of the room.

I wasn’t thinking of me, not right then; but the prayer came anyway from somewhere on my right. “Lord, you said we have not because we ask not- so I’m asking that those who have been unable will bear a child…” And my name is spoken. And my tears run paths down my cheeks.

Someone handed me a box of Kleenex.

Women cry because they feel. Deeply. There are stains and scars and sorrows that spill out.

And I find my thanks, my moment of eucharisteo, my taste of redemption, right there:

That I serve a God who hears when women cry.

Even me.

[the.real.thing]

He gets these crazy ideas sometimes. Walking into my kitchen with that look in his eye. “New York Pizzeria.” He says. “I’ve had a hankering all day.”

I glance at the clock. Milking time. Right now. It would be crazy. But I shrug. After tomorrow I will frown on such thoughts (since I will be on a strict diet for thirty days, at least) but tonight, today… let’s be crazy. 

I love it when crazy ideas turn into God-ideas. Or maybe they were all along but we just didn’t know it.

We’re driving down the road when the phone call comes. He’s in the free-stall, working (I think for a moment, like we should be). Husband says, “Pizza”, and I hear laughter through the phone line. Seems this love of mine is not the only one craving Italian.  Our trip just got longer.

We walk into the pizzeria and there are only workers. We order. Large pepperoni, with sausage on half. (those farmers like their meat) The owner is sitting there. He speaks with a thick Italian accent. We sit and chat.

First the weather. Then business. It’s been slow. Then the taxes. Yes, taxes. What else could there be to talk about?

We talk of our ideas to reform society. [we all have ideas, right?] And when it is all said and done, as the pizza is being handed over… it happens.

That man of mine, he says the words- “In the end, there is only one thing that matters…” And the gospel story spills out. We just need the blood. Need to be forgiven. Need so desperately, Him, Jesus Christ.

The man listens. Nods his head. Did he understand? I don’t know. Perhaps it is not my business to know. Not part of my story. But here is a story I do know, spoken by Paul…

 I planted the seed, 

Apollos watered it,

but God has been making it grow.

So neither the one who plants

nor the one who waters is anything,

but only God,

who makes things grow.

1 Corinthians 3:6&7

And the thing I am most thankful for today, on this Thanksgiving Day? That I know the story. That I know the thing that matters in the end.  

A few minutes later we are standing in the free-stall, giving pizza to a hungry farmer. We’re laughing and talking and I’m remembering… this is another story I do know.

This farmer-friend. The one who grew up without knowing. The one who now knows. Because someone, somewhere, at sometime- told him about the only thing that matters in the end. And the seeds were watered and they sprouted. And God made this one grow. 

Maybe today we planted. Maybe watered? But there was a time that we harvested. And as I watch these men of God- these great warriors [dressed up as farmers] I am, again, thankful.

—————————————–

[week.of.thanks] do you know The Story? [read it here] 

May this Thanksgiving be a time of blessing to you, your family, your friend and neighbors. And may all know what matters in the end. 

[laughter.in.truth]

It was dark outside. The truck lights shining a path as we journeyed down the road. The men were talking. They usually are. I was sliding the crochet hook in and out, making material out of yarn, feeling my way across.

We were running a bit late. Trouble in the barn but not our trouble this time. We went to pick him up, the farm hand on the neighboring dairy, and he wasn’t quite ready. So we sat and waited and talked— my Husband and I. He’s a good person to talk to. Full of wisdom. Solid and unwavering. (I’m a bit in love with him.)

We arrived then. Slid out of the vehicle. Me, carrying my bag of yarn. She opens the door before we get there. Her, with the flowing skirt and flowing hair, smile stretching and eyes dancing. She picks up the smallest dog who is wiggling at her feet, welcomes and ushers us into her home.

The men follow me inside and walk into the kitchen that is glowing with candles and warmth.

The last one is there waiting, tall with red hair. He is telling a story before I even set down my bag and we are all laughing and smiles are spilling.

We wait there in the kitchen for the water to boil. No one stops smiling, not once. When the tea kettle lets off a fog horn instead of a whistle, laughter echoes again. (I want one of those tea kettles!)

We settle in the sitting room. Husband and I on the love seat. Orange spice tea cradled in my hands, piles of yarn at my feet.

She walks in with a plate of chocolate cake and cloth napkins. My Husband’s eyes widen. Chocolate cake. I can make many things but I have yet to master chocolate cake. (perhaps because I don’t care for it?) He is ecstatic.

She sits in the office chair, sliding it backwards slightly. Once the teaching video is started, she settles back with her purple yarn and knitting needles.

Something warm and deep spirals through me. I look about the room. The farmer holding a mug of hot chocolate in large callused hands. The real estate agent with the stories and joy and contagious laughter. And my Husband. I’ve told you of him. Of his wisdom and unwavering faith.

My gaze goes back to her with the knitting needles and gentleness. She looks up at me and we share a smile across the room.

An hour passes and we listen and talk about deep things. What is evil? Who is man? What do we really believe?

And from each of the occupants, truth becomes defined.

When the hour is late and we’ve laughed so hard our sides ache, we start the drive home. Again I sit and listen as the men talk and the yarn I am holding grows into material. They discuss what it means to be men of God who walk with boldness in a lost and broken world.

And I thank God, yet again, for friendships that are safe and warm and good. Friendships that breathe new life into me again and again and again.

poem on my wall, (by Meg)

For men of God who I can respect and depend on. For women who long for the King with the same passion and hope that I do. For evenings when we can all gather and look at His Word and His goodness and His truth.

friendship journal from the teenage years, (with Brianna)

magnet on my fridge that tells a friendship story, (with Delite)

[week.of.thanks] do you have friendships that are drawing you closer to Jesus? Have you thanked Him for them? The Bible says we are “not to forsake gathering together” with other Believers. There is truth and light to be found in relationships that have a common goal: Jesus Christ. Take time this week to thank those around you who have worked to maintain relationship with you and with our King and Redeemer.

 

letter to Brianna, the one whose friendship kept me growing...

[like.eden]

[from my journal, September 2011. This is slightly reminisce of the blog series I did earlier this month on my journey through infertility– but I find that it is a continual battle. So, I’m sharing another story of another day when I had to look carefully at life and death and all its messy tangles and choose life.]

 

One Thousand Gifts is sitting open on my kitchen table beside the piles of sliced tomatoes and the sweet smelling Vidalia onions.

Somewhere in the pages, God spoke again. Truth echoing around my kitchen. Maybe it is her story being in words that I can understand. Maybe it is that God has been molding and changing and now I’m ready… the soil has been plowed, tended, seeds sown, water pouring in great gushing streams and gentle fragile rains until the truth has grown and produced and all is ready to harvest.

Regardless of the reason, I’m here.

The lessons on thankfulness and blood and salvation have hit their mark and my pen is lifting- my Bible opening- my heart accepting.

I wanted to begin simple. To gently dip my toes in the waters as the author did. But I know my story is different. This isn’t the beginning- not for me- God has been working and changing for some time- this is simply the naming of what I have learned.

It’s time to jump. Not holding my breath or plugging my nose, afraid of drowning. It’s time to breathe deeply, opening, surrendering to the waves that crush and mold and change, and allow my shore-lines to be redefined. So my pen scratches on my journal page the number.

1.

And for some time I stare at the blank beside it. Is it true? Will this be the completeness, the fullness, the wholeness of salvation that God has been promising? I know there is only one way to tell but I attempt this last time to be reassured, to be promised. And as I whisper prayers in my heart, I hear the repeating of the story.

“the Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed,

took bread, and when he had

given thanks he broke it…”

2 Corinthians 11:23-24 emphasis mine

Given thanks in the moments before the blood-bath begins. Before the pain that rips and claws and scrapes. The sorrow so deep it drowns and fills and leaves holes of emptiness. The promise that only in the emptiness can we be filled.

Truth calms me again. I’m already drowning. Why do I fear the water? I am jumping from one ocean to the next. Except this new water carries the hope of life! My pen lifts again and the painful writing begins.

1. no, let me begin earlier. Let me do this right.

My One Thousand Gifts

Given and Now Fully Received

1. An empty womb

In those three words an abundance of sorrow crests and falls, like a wave that stomps upon the shore. The small pile of dreamed-on baby clothes, stuffed at the bottom of the closet. The untouched toys. The moments when I stared at those two pink lines all those months ago. The blood and mountains of sorrow that came afterward.

But I said it. I scrawled it on the page.

Thank you God for…my pain.

And it is named. Just like at Eden.

My breath falls heavy and I listen to the birds outside my window. The quiet hum of the fan. Then the silence breaks as Donkey, who is trimming the front yard, lets out a bray to shake the house slightly- and I laugh.

2. Donkey, who reminds me of Haiti and all I learned there.

How fitting that my Husband brought Donkey home on Mother’s Day. He is part of my journey. The reminder of those sweaty days in a cement house on a tiny island in the Caribbean. The days when I sat with my head bend low over Scripture, searching, longing for something to ease my pain.  The sacred God-moments when I stared at truth and felt my heart transformed.When I hurried to pull the shoes from my feet. To touch the holy ground on which I was standing.

3. bowls of vine-ripened cherry tomatoes
4. walking through fields to collect crispy sweet apples
5. arm loads of green peppers
6. handfuls of fresh cut chives
7. canners full of water
8. bright yellow sunflowers in glass Coke bottles

and God speaks again in the sigh after the laugh, as the world tilts back to normal…

“He who sacrifices thank offerings

honors me,

and he prepares the way

so that all may know him

the Salvation of God.”

Psalms 50:23

For more on thanksgiving in pain:  [go here]

[week.of.thanks] is there something in your life that causes you deep pain? Can you find a way to be thankful for it? To admit that you, in all your limited knowledge, can’t see the beginning or the end. To trust that the God who created you , formed you, breathed life into you… the one who chose to die so that you can live– has a plan and purpose that will prevail in spite of pain? To find healing in the fact that God allows pain- not just for you- but for himself as well?

The greatest lie that the enemy uses when we’re facing pain is that we’re all alone. You’re not alone. I promise. You’re not alone.

[of.knots]

It was going to be a scarf. That was the plan. Sometimes plans get changed.

He walked in the room, that strong wonderful husband of mine, looked at the red yarn dangling from my hands, and said, “You’re making me an afghan?”

Two seconds of silence beat through the room. My gaze focused on his hopeful expression, at the smile curling his mouth. “Yes,” I answered, “do you like the color?”

He responded that he did and then went back to his business. Later I told him that my plan had changed. No longer a scarf for me, instead a blanket for him. His gaze grew warm and gentle and he held me close. “Thanks,” he whispered into my hair.

A week later, I sat there again. My crochet hook slid in and out, making a series of knots—all bound together. There was quiet in the room and I stared at the cloth in my hand. For some reason it really hit home. All I’m doing is making knots. One knot after another after another.

Thank you, God… that sometimes knots become a blanket. Sometimes the messy tangles of life eventually, with enough time, can become warm and safe.

My hand reached to loosen the yarn from the skein and nothing came. I shook it again, leaning over to the see. The ball of yarn had fallen to the floor but that wasn’t the issue. The carefully wrapped green had become tangled. I pulled it up and tried to loosen the great wad. I fussed and yanked until it was undeniably worse than when I started.

My husband looked up from his spot at the kitchen table. He stood, walked over, “Here,” he said quietly. His callused hands took the yarn and gently, patiently, he began to unwind. I relaxed and continue crocheting as he handed me length after length.

Thank you, God… that when my life becomes a hopeless mess—you’ve given me a man who is patient and loving and very, very good at untangling.

“Therefore we do not lose heart,

Though outwardly we are wasting away

Yet, inwardly we are being renewed

Day by day.

For our light and momentary troubles

Are achieving for us

An eternal glory that

Far outweighs them all.”

2 Corinthians 4:16-17

————————————————–

[week.of.thanks] Have you thanked your spouse lately? Told them how much you appreciate them? So often I just march through life, focused so intently on the tangled mess around me- and I forget. I forget that my Husband has supported me, championed me, spoken grace over me and untangled my messes over and over… 

I thank God for making beauty from ashes. And I thank my husband for seeing something beautiful in me, when I’m still covered in soot.

[Week.of.Thanks]

This is the week of Thanksgiving. A holiday that I’ve been thinking a lot about this year. Well, at least the name. Thanksgiving. The act of eucharisteo.

In many ways this year was different than the years before. This was a year of new perspectives. A year of wholeness. A year that deserves a bit of remembrance.

So I am scratching out words again. Writing my story the best way I know how. Not because it is special or unique—but because it is mine and it is all I have to offer. So, take a walk with me this week, into my messy beautiful life and we’ll see what there is to be thankful for. My prayer, as always, is that somewhere in the middle of the stuff that makes up me, you’ll see a bit of you and a whole lot of God.

For everything God created is good

And nothing is to be rejected

If it is received with thanksgiving…

I Timothy 4:4

 

All of this is for your benefit

So that the grace that is reaching

More and more people

May cause thanksgiving to overflow

To the glory of God.

2 Corinthians 4:15

If you have a minute—read [this]. If you have more than a minute—buy [this book] and read the whole thing!

Posts in this Series

[of.knots]

[like.eden]

[laughter.in.truth]

[the.real.thing]