Category Archives: mothering

daylight savings: finding time in the riot and the resting

Posted on by March 13, 2024

Daylight savings threw us off again like it does every year, and the mornings are bright again – snow melting off roofs and pouring down eaves, gravity gathering it into puddles at the lowest common denominator.
daylight savings: finding time in the riot and the resting
Inside, the surfaces are covered in books, videos, craft supplies, and science materials, the products of last-minute school orders to meet our school’s deadline at the end of March. Stacks of books cover the coffee table and overflow onto the floor by the couch, waiting for us to be done perusing long enough to commit each one to their own shelf space. And I’m a little nervous looking at them, because there’s another stack of books right there – the ones I’m already in the middle of – and they’re staring at me.

“Can you believe it? Look at her opening up those new recruits already. She only read five pages outta me last night.”

“She hasn’t looked at me in a week,” mutters another one.

“Please,” Les Mis sighs. “She’s been working on me for over two years and still has 251 pages to go.”

It’s true. If I were better at book hoarding ordering, I’d bust my tail to finish a few books while waiting for an impending order to come in so that when they get here I can look at them guilt-free.

But there’s been no time. Over the last few weeks, the bathroom floor was torn apart and put back together, the water was turned off and turned back on again, the heat was messed up during an inspection and then put right again, all the repairs were finished, and we closed on the house. During those same weeks, we wrote (and edited) 160 thousand words for three projects. Vince took the month off for that purpose, and it was a blissful hurricane. But still, there was almost no time for reading.

And on a perfectly normal day (feel free to insert hysterical laughter over the reckless use of “normal” in this sentence) when he went back to work, we (and by “we” I mean one of the kids, absolutely not me, I had nothing to do with it) broke a shelf in the refrigerator door, spilling its contents all over the floor, but it was no big deal, mostly just glass and raspberry jam over broken kitchen tile, piece of cake, no biggie, and I didn’t even realize how disturbing it looked until I texted Vin a picture of it and he immediately replied, PLEASE TELL ME THAT’S NOT BLOOD.

It wasn’t. Jam, I told you.

The kids kept Finnegan out of the kitchen while I cleaned the mess. By the time I was wiping up the last shards with a damp paper towel we were almost in the clear for the day, but he skidded around the corner, slipped and fell, and tore his – ready for this? – frenulum. Yeah, I didn’t know what that was, either, but it’s the little attach-y thing between your upper gums and top lip. I made frantic phone calls while he was bleeding to two medically-experienced friends, and also learned that it’s a super common injury and generally heals without stitches.

I sent Vince a photo of it, too. He texted back, Oh, that. I’ve torn that plenty. Once knew a guy who cut it with scissors on a dare. To which I immediately replied, PLEASE TELL ME IT WASN’T YOU.

It wasn’t. But this is why his life insurance is almost four times as expensive as mine – because men are ridiculous.

The cost of life insurance was fresh on my mind because I had an appointment scheduled with our insurance guy that day, but somewhere between the fridge and the frenulum he called to warn me about possibly needing to cancel our appointment. An injured moose was in his backyard, and he was on the way to meet the troopers to assess if it needed to be shot and subsequently butchered – because Alaska is also ridiculous.

Like I said, just a normal day. No time for reading those books.

These are our seasons: phases of ebb and flow, resting and rioting, constantly overlapping each other. Usually our routines follow a schedule like the tide, but sometimes we go through a shaking – one area brooks a tidal wave, and its gravity sucks our time and attention away from everything else.

Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

– Matthew 10:34, ESV

He was talking about the contrast between the Kingdom and the comfort zone. It’s like Jesus was saying, Spoiler Alert, it’s going to get messy. Get your Xtra Tuffs on.

But this is the same Jesus who said:

Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful.

– John 14:27, ESV

Just for extra credit, I checked the Greek and He uses the same word for “peace” both times. But I checked the word for sword, too, and it’s the same one used when referring to the sword of the Spirit (aka the Word of God), here and here.

So we have peace, a sword, and the Word of God, and they merge together as events rock our world, sloshing us around like water in a stormy sea. He is always the anchorage in our unrest. He brings our peace through hearing Him, which leads to heart-wholeness, and this heart-wholeness, this calm we carry in the shaking, is the weapon we use. It wields wisdom, humility, maturity, truth.

He brought peace to men, not the earth, and the logbook of our days proves it. Today, for example – the only road from the Valley into Anchorage is shutdown from an 18-wheeler taking out an overpass, effectively turning Palmer and Wasilla into Hotel California – you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave…

In lieu of taking the seven (yes, seven, seite, onetwothreefourfivesixseven) hour detour, Vince opted to stay home for the day, resting in the riot. I mean, from the riot. But really, who are we kidding.

We’re using it as found time to help a kid through some tough-love heart issues, and to get some house projects done, and yes, to finish some books – but nope, probably not those school books. We’re wrapping up edits on one project this week before sending it off to the next phase…because books, too, have seasons, and they are also ridiculous.

P.S. Finnegan also learned to use voice-to-text this week, but fortunately he sent it to Vince. It read: PPQQRO HEY WHAT ARE YOU DOING ARE YOU VOICE TEXTING WHAT DOES IT SAY WOW

True story. And, here, bonus – a frenulum.

__________

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in port

Posted on by January 23, 2018

We knew the tether that held us to it was thinning when we started calling it “the old house” instead of “home.”

in port

We ate weird meals in attempt to clean out the fridge and freezer until we started sleeping at our new place. One day I served biscuits and gravy, which sounds normal except that the biscuits were actually English muffins and I served them with a side of lettuce (I mean, salad) and the last tablespoon of some balsamic dressing from the 1940s.

That night I wandered through the kitchen looking for dinner, but I’d already fed the kids all the leftovers, I didn’t want to cook, didn’t want to scramble up a couple of eggs, and didn’t want to eat the last of the stale bag of tortilla chips. So I took one for the team, and dove into the vanilla ice cream and topped it with cranberry syrup.

The walls were bare and our voices echoed. We touched up paint and trim, using a wood stain marker over every scratch we’ve made over the last ten years in attempt to conceal the fact that we’ve had enough children here to populate Gilligan’s Island.

The highest concentration of scratches was on the corner cabinet by the lazy Susan, where Sophie used to paw when we were slicing meat for sandwiches, cooking burgers, or carving the turkey. I cried covering them; her grave is in the woods over there, and I grieved over leaving it more than anything else.

I moved to the stairs and worked my way up that railing with the stain marker, covering pale spots where the wood was exposed, trying to make them blend and look new again. We put on a lot of miles here in ten years.

It’s a beautiful house, but it’s been loved and lived in, and we hope the new owners appreciate it – not just the work we did to prepare it for them, but that they appreciate the home that’s been made here and continue that legacy. I hope they know the wear and tear are from living life, and they will have many years of adding their own dings and scratches.

Iree said she hopes the people who bought the house have kids so the woods, trails, and clearings will still be played in, instead of growing over neglected. And I hope the owners of our new house – wherever that is – feel the same way.

I hope they’re being good stewards, cleaning up, touching up, praying for us. I hope they love their house and have similar mixed feelings about leaving it. I hope they’ll want us to love it there.

Maybe houses are like people: As children, those of us who have learned attachment early are able to attach in healthy ways later, and maybe a house that has been loved-in by one family is increasingly able to be loved-in by another family.

During our last week there I was mostly on an even keel, but at times out of nowhere the thought of not being in these walls made me all emotional. Overwhelmed. Leaky. After so much waiting and working to move, suddenly it was time and I wasn’t sure if I’d crossed everything off the list.

We get this way with life events and transitions. Am I ready? Did I do everything I was supposed to? Do we have everything we need?

I berated myself because it’s just walls, floors, and air, and I’m not sentimental. But it’s also memories, and more than that – it’s a milestone.

Because what we really mean when we ask all those questions is, Does this mean I passed the test?

This was the place we brought four kids home to. This was the place we learned to fight for healing in the midst of black brokenness. This is the place we got our war wounds, where we learned about friendly fire and mutiny, and about brotherhood and who we bury the body with. It’s where we learned that fear dreads the curveball, but faith knows God will catch it.

This was our battleground.

Just air, and space, and walls, and floors. But the Breath of God moved in this place.

The morning of the day we moved, I prepped dinner in the old kitchen so it would be easier to make in the new kitchen that night. As I chopped veggies, this song was on repeat and my eyes started welling and stinging, I swear it was the onions – and I threw the kitchen window open to 17 degrees and prayed it wouldn’t kill my aloe plant before we moved it to the new house.

We ran out of time to finish the puzzle and in disgust resorted to breaking it into chunks to pack in its original box. It was a sorry mess when I opened it again; the edges of every section had crumbled in the transfer and loose pieces that I’m certain had been fixed in place were everywhere.

This is ironic, I thought. You think you’re putting something together, and this is what happens.

But we’d already learned that starting over is not the same as going back to the beginning. Sometimes it moves the starting line forward. Sometimes it means the tether has snapped, and a gust of wind fills the sails to send you where you needed to go.

He who walks righteously and speaks uprightly,

who despises the gain of oppressions,

who shakes his hands, lest they hold a bribe,

who stops his ears from hearing of bloodshed

and shuts his eyes from looking on evil,

he will dwell on the heights;

his place of defense will be the fortresses of rocks;

his bread will be given him;

his water will be sure.

– Isaiah 33:15-16, ESV

And that is where we are right now. In between, if you missed the newsletter, we’re renting a beautiful place from a friend while we wait for the next direction.

We’re on a bluff and the views are incredible; we can see for miles and pray over the highway in both directions. Our kids have room, our books have shelves, and after three tries, we even figured out where to put the catbox.

It’s a lighthouse for us, a temporary refuge to recuperate and rehabilitate after so many years in choppy waters.

Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience – or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.

– Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

It’s not where we thought we’d be, not where we planned to be. We’re not sure how long we’ll be here.

And now that we’re looking back, we can see that that’s been the story of our last couple years. Except before, we thought we knew what we were doing, and now we know that we don’t…and we’re okay with that.

We’ve made port in safe harbor. He is the anchorage. We’ll rest until He moves us again.

whatever it takes: a rallying cry for adoptive and foster families

Posted on by August 25, 2023

Adoptive and foster families, this is for you.

You, who went through all the training, requirements, meetings, interviews, and red tape. It was crazy-thorough. Then you brought your child home.

whatever it takes: a rallying cry for adoptive and foster families

And you learned that all that preparation was kind of like going through earthquake survival drills – learning first aid, how to take cover, how to evacuate safely – versus actually living through an 8-point earthquake. It was like the difference between learning CPR versus actually having to administer it on someone who has no pulse.

Some of our kids came to us carrying grief and trauma equivalent to that 8-point earthquake.

And we love them. But it’s hard because they are hurting, and hurting people hurt other people, and we are here to do everything possible to break that cycle.

But some days we don’t know what to do with them. There your kid is, doing that same behavior that’s driving you both crazy: Rages. Lying. Something unmentionable involving bodily fluids. And yep, we love them, but they don’t always believe it so they test our love. Sometimes they push back hard. These attachment issues are no joke, friend.

Some days we pray and do one thing, and the next day we pray and feel like we need to try something else. We’ve learned to live in grace on a moment-to-moment basis.

I know your house used to be your sanctuary, but now, some days it feels like a warzone. The atmosphere’s changed and you barely recognize it: tense, palpable, high-alert, heavy. Sometimes you feel the weight and pressure of it in your gut. You’ve learned that you need God’s wisdom and presence in every moment, too.

And I know it may not feel like it anymore, but this is still your turf. Your territory. The spiritual attack is real but you own this space. You are the boss here. And as much as their behavior might contribute to the chaos, your kids need you to fight for dominion.

Don’t lose yourself, friend. Your kids need you to still be you – and they need you to find them in the darkness. There’s a uniquely brilliant person in there behind all the trauma and behaviors who is dying to get out and be known.

And there’s a real you in here, too. You may feel like you lost yourself somewhere between the airport and the millions of appointments, but you are becoming refined. Strong. Whole, and more you than you’ve ever been before. You didn’t think you could be this tough, did you? You had no idea you’d be able to do all this. And here you are. This is you, doing all the stuff.

I hear your excuses; I’ve said them to myself plenty of times, too. I know you don’t feel like you’re enough. You don’t feel like you’re getting enough done, getting enough sleep, getting enough exercise, giving enough smiles, giving enough hugs to those kids. But those feelings aren’t the boss of you. They don’t change reality.

You are enough. You’re doing enough. God is enough to cover you in this time as you’re seeking Him, trying to shine light in darkness and find truth in trauma.

You’ve spent hours making phone calls, researching, getting references, making appointments, sitting in those appointments, wondering if this intervention is going to work for your child. Wondering if this professional is going to help your child, or if they’re going to do more harm than good.

You’ve missed some friends and social activities because things are different now. You wonder before every engagement if it’s going to be worth the effort, or if all the hoopla will evoke too much aftermath. We used to take for granted how easy it used to be, back when we never worried about overstimulation, hypervigilance with boundaries, and attachment issues.

You are the families who’ve been not just willing to go to the broken and hurting, but you’ve welcomed them into your own homes.

You are on the frontlines. And the church will see significant, exponential victory to the extent that it cares for those on the frontlines.

You’ve given everything you’ve got for the advancement of the Kingdom, and you’re giving people a vivid picture of how much God loves them. You are showing God’s heart for humanity – the same Spirit of adoption that He showed us.

In pockets around the world, the church is waking up to the power lying dormant in adoptive and foster families. The church is realizing that assumptions and lack of awareness about what these families endure have hindered not only the healing of the broken, but the growth of the Kingdom.

And there is a contingent of humble, repenting congregations rising up to do whatever it takes to support those who have already been doing whatever it takes – and in some cases, it’s taken everything – to walk out the spirit of adoption.

These teams – those who directly care for the broken, and those who support them in it – are unstoppable. They are mighty, gritty, capable of exploits, and not afraid to play hardball with darkness.

They are changing nations and generations. Together, they are living out a message that the world cannot ignore.

So you, my friends, are rocking this. Keep pushing through, and do whatever it takes to get some rest. To get some space. To find the you that you recognize again.

Because you’re in there, and you’re powerful. You’re changing the very nations with your daily steps to love your family and maintain dominion in your sanctuary.

_______

This is from Upside Down: Understanding and Supporting Attachment in Adoptive and Foster Families. You can purchase the new 3rd edition on Amazon or buy it directly from us (don’t miss our discounts for bulk purchases!).

upside down: understanding and supporting attachment in adoptive and foster families