Category Archives: special needs

worth keeping

Posted on by May 6, 2022

I’m not sure if this means that nesting has started or not, but I started making an ambitious new baby sweater – skinny needles, thin wool, and a pattern with a mock-cable stitch that I’ve wanted to try since at least three babies ago.

worth keeping: truth for mamas who feel threadbare

I showed it to Vin. “It looks…girlish,” he said.

“That’s because the photo shows it in pink, on a girl. I’m making it in blue, see?” I hold up all the work I have to show for myself – ¾ inches of knitted fabric on a long metal needle with steel blue wool attached to it. A masculine, virile color, even for someone who spits up and wears onesies.

“No, it’s the style.”

“It’s a cardigan.”

“Well, cardigans are girlish.”

“No, they’re not. Boys can wear cardigans.” But I pause to reconsider, remembering a recent court hearing we went to for our friends’ adoption, where at least a dozen Alaskan boys in attendance wore their favorite flannels.

“Well, little boys can definitely wear cardigans,” I tell him. “Little boys in Ireland and England probably wear cardigans all the time.”

He shrugs and starts to walk upstairs. But, oh no, that’s not the end of this argument.

I yell up after him. “Hey! Churchill wore cardigans!”

And that, my friends, is the end of the argument.

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We organized the girls’ closet that same weekend. This was also probably not nesting, just us noticing that it’s time for the clothes to shift down to the next youngest sibling regardless of how much the nine-year-old loves her size 4T hoodie. We managed to smuggle out some of the rattiest clothing ever known to Oliver Twist’s old orphanage.

Paint stains. Food stains. Ripped knees, torn lace, shredded cuffs, and elastic stretched beyond recognition – items of clothing so well-loved that no amount of reason or dignity could convince a child that they were hopelessly unsalvageable and that so help me if you somehow slip past inspection and manage to wear these in public again I might be tempted to throw myself in front of a fast-moving grocery cart in the produce aisle.

Most of it went in the burn barrel, but some of it was hoarded with a stash of fabric scraps to wait for the day when I am a perfectly sanctified crafty mama who can turn her children’s favorite clothing into a quilt. Or, maybe a doll’s blanket. Or…let’s be realistic. A pincushion.

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Because I get threadbare, too. Worn and unraveled, some days I find myself in my favorite flannel – the one with the missing button and torn pocket – and the piano teacher comes over and sees me in it and, well, what the heck. Who cares.

Or, other days – and I can neither confirm nor deny that it was today – the internet repair guy comes 40 minutes early, and contrary to the assurances on the phone that they wouldn’t even need to enter the house, they not only do have to enter the house, but they also have to rearrange your furniture, knock over a vase, and access the crawlspace while six kids are everywhere and two of them can’t do their school assignments because, wouldn’t you know, the internet is down again.

We are sweeping up shards of the morning before the breakfast dishes are even cleaned up, and No, you can’t help me, there’s glass and you might hurt yourself and my temper is on the verge of calling a taxi. It feels like an already shattered day is hopelessly unsalvageable and my edges are all ragged, sharp, and bleeding. Some days we are stretched beyond recognition and motherhood feels hopelessly unsalvageable.

But, oh no, that’s not the end of the argument.

The truth is, friend, that these days of fraying and tear-staining are evidence of a mama who is so well-loved that no amount of reason or dignity could convince a child that they were hopelessly unsalvageable. We are worn to softness from daily use by children who run to us constantly for comfort, like that favorite blanket, never outgrown.

And yes, the over-use probably indicates that we need to do some extra hemming to put some hard edges into our days – a firm break here, a no-holds-barred nap there, and a bedtime that takes no prisoners – and doing so puts less wear and tear on everyone.

We are easier on our kids when we are easier on ourselves…and we’re in better shape than we think. You, and me, and these days, are worth keeping.

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P.S. But that sweater pattern? Iree checked it out and said, “Looks kinda…girlish.” (sigh)
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*This is an excerpt from Steadfast: Prayerful Motherhood in the Midst of the Overwhelm (book #4 in Work That God Sees). You can find it here. 

grace is the shelter

Posted on by February 3, 2025

The wind, this wind. It shakes the house and bows the trees. Ground is blown bare and small snowdrifts press against the edge of the house. The windows creak and the vent above the stove rattles, and the wind whistles between trees and across our chimney tops.

grace is the shelter: where we go when the wind blows

We try to be ready for power outages. We keep the laptops charged and the teapot full, and I’ve learned to use the threat of an outage to motivate the kids to clean up better before bedtime because no one wants to trip over toys or skid across books lying on the floor in the dark. In other states, these winds are recognized as hurricane force and mentioned on national news; here, schools are open and it’s business as usual — you just hang on to your car door as you open it to make sure it’s not ripped off the vehicle entirely. And you might want to drive a little slower on the highway, too, so you can get a good look at the semi truck that was blown on its side with its wheels in the air.

The wind keeps on for days and nights, and it’s 75 miles an hour outside with flying debris and a wind chill of about minus fifteen. But inside, everything is still. Six kids, all asleep. Half as many cats, also asleep. The computer hums, the teapot ticks as it’s heating, and between gusts there’s a perfect calm.

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In the morning we check for fallen trees and there aren’t any, though branches are everywhere like so much littered confetti. A couple of plastic grocery bags have flown in and attached themselves like windsocks to our trees, and across the street it looks like our neighbor has gained a shiny new trash can from probably three houses over.

We’re getting together with friends in the evening, and if they weren’t close friends — you know, the kind who are allowed to look for stuff in your fridge even though you didn’t even clean it before they came over — I might squirm a little and apologize for the mess outside. Not that the weather is my fault, but it just looks so ugly out there. Even though I have no control over it, and their yard has seen the same wind and is probably in the same shape, it’s not the first impression I’d want to make to anyone who’s never been here before.

But I don’t need to apologize, and they wouldn’t expect it. We have seen each other’s messes before. Marriage, special needs, dirty laundry, parenting kids unborn through adolescent. These are friends who are family, and we can let go of insecurities about the messes we can’t control outside, and just focus on the messes we can control inside — vacuuming, cleaning toilets, washing the dishes. Well, the dishes, I dunno…that might be asking too much.

There’s a turkey in the oven and stuffing on the counter, a green bean casserole in progress and pie crust to be made. It’s Thanksgiving at the end of winter; it’s February and we’re still thankful.

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Whipped cream is melting into late morning coffee and sweet potatoes are peeled and ready to boil. We send one kid to throw out compost and send another kid to timeout for throwing a temper tantrum. I make a note to ask my friend about different therapists and pick her brain about various issues we’re both facing. Because sometimes we can’t control the messes inside the house, either.

I’ve ruined gravy the last four times I’ve made it — too thin, boiled too long, not enough cornstarch in the world to redeem it — and our friends arrive right at that crucial juncture of constant stirring and watching for the first bubbles. I pass the task to a child with explicit instructions to only let it boil for one minute and then turn off the heat, and then run to greet friends at the door. I get halfway there and realize that child is right behind me — I stop, turn both of us around, and remind him of his task. For the love of gravy, watch this, stir it, and don’t let it boil for more than a minute. I’ll be right back andyouneedtostayhere. Double-back again to run to the door, hug, welcome, make a pile of jackets in the corner, laugh, go back to the kitchen.

And that kid has pawned off the gravy (sans instructions) to Vince, who is stirring away at what has obviously been boiling hard for a little less than three minutes and is destined to remain the consistency of half-and-half. So help me.

The house is full and a dozen kids will crowd around our table, but before we even got that far our friends asked me about the book I saved for them — that little book that is supposed to be about adoption and boundaries but is actually mostly about grace and shelter; the little book that was birthed here and grew through its childhood and adolescence and is now a big kid, not quite grown up yet but still launching off into the world of bookstores and reviews and grown-up real-bookishness.

And these friends whom we’ve shared messes with, who have been in the trenches far longer than we have, who showed us grace when we didn’t even know we needed it — these friends, we saved the first copy for them. And if I had been thinking correctly during the formatting stage (but wasn’t, because, oh, the morning sickness), there would have been a dedication page in this first edition, and it would have said what I scribbled to them on the inside cover:

To Cody and Sara: You have long been our heroes.

And I would have added: And to Larry and Sharon, who were wise and crazy enough to introduce such humble troublemakers to us.

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And now it is days later. The wind has subsided and the leftovers are pretty much gone. We have a new box of books that are shipping out all over the country in the next week. The ground outside is still a mess, and there are still messes inside, too, and I’m not just talking about the dishes…but it makes all the difference to know we are not alone. These kids, those issues, that grief, the big decision. The house shakes and the ground is blown bare, and we can still throw the door wide open. In all those storms, you are not alone. We shelter each other with grace.

go bravely: learning to see in the dark

Posted on by December 11, 2023

Few decorations, no baking, no projects, no formal dinner. Our Christmas was so far from perfect this year. But one part stands out — Christmas Eve, just sitting on the couch next to my grandma, holding hands. Asking her how she’s feeling. Her asking me how I’m feeling. Talking about cats, hers and ours. Taking turns demurring more food and sweets, and eating seconds anyway.

She’s 83 this Christmas, and I just turned 38. On my birthday she pointed out that our ages mirror each other.

go bravely: learning to see in the dark

We sat in the living room and listened to her reminisce with my dad and uncle, and they got to talking about collecting pine knots in the woods for firewood when the boys were little. What are pine knots? I asked, having often heard of them but never knowing what they were. I’ve always lived in Alaska, and we have spruce trees, not pine. But Grandma and Grandpa lived in Arizona before coming up here with their four boys.

Pine knots, they told me, are what is left after a pine tree has fallen and rotted away – they are the tough joints and sinew where the branches were attached to the trunk, and when the tree fell and the rest of it decomposed, these knots endured the weather and decay. Good fuel, Grandma said – small, but burned forever, and smelled better than the creosote from the old railroad ties they often had to burn.

This brave woman, just under five feet tall now, brought those boys to Alaska and was often alone and on her own as she raised them amid all their shenanigans. And she wasn’t finished; she still had one more boy to go. Grandma still sees so much though her vision has been failing. Her eyes are bluer than mine.

As I’m thinking back on all of this, I’m sitting with Gus, our older striped cat, who used to be shared equally between our oldest son and myself. Now he seems to clearly prefer me. Between the two of us sitting on the couch, he almost always comes to my end and climbs on my lap, heedless of the shrinking real estate due to a pregnant tummy. Maybe it’s because of Sophie’s absence, or because of the kittens’ presence, but I think it really just boils down to comfort. He’s older, a little bonier, stiffer, and less tolerant of sudden moves and loud noises. He wants the gentle touch of the mama-friend, not the rough scrubbings of kids who have yet to learn empathy wrought by pain or age.

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And we are like this, too, in our seasons of rawness. When we are tender and fragile, we naturally lean toward the friend who wields words and truth gently, who holds wisdom humbly because they won it through pain without allowing bitterness to fester. A heart that is ready to be comforted runs to the friend who carries compassion forged through experience.

The night that I called my grandma to tell her about our our curve ball, our surprise due mid-summer, I wondered what she would say. I wondered if she would discourage me without meaning to when I already felt so brittle.

Why do we do this, bracing ourselves against discouragement even from those we’ve learned to trust most? But I did brace myself, and told her.

And she asked, “How old are you now?”

Here it is, I thought. “Umm. Almost 38.”

“Ohh…” I could hear her smile. “That’s a good age…not too old, not too young. I was, oh, 41 when I had Mark. And he was so special, such a gift. A surprise, too, but such a joy. You are –” she paused, I heard a sigh over the phone — “so very blessed.”

Exhale.

You are so very blessed.

She saw. She knew I was anxious, and she knew what to say to speak life, comfort, ease, and encouragement. She spoke of my uncle, their fifth boy, the only one born in Alaska. Born in the same place I was, five years before me.

We can know things for ourselves, and still need to hear them from others. We can encourage each other with truth and fight each other’s darkness, but still need others to shine that truth into us on the days that fall pitch black. We stumble and get our hands and knees in the mud, and a fellow traveler says, Here, I’ll hold your lantern for you while you get back up again. There you are. Bravely now, onward.

And on Christmas Eve we sat on my dad’s couch and held hands. On the other side of her was my uncle, the last one born in the States before they moved here. Our kids played with cars behind the couch and we forgot to bring our camera and it was just a small gathering on Christmas Eve in this season that has felt incomplete from the very beginning. And still, it was perfect.

These curving seasons with stormy weather and crumbling are what make our story endure. They are the turns, the branchings-off, the connections that make us of the tough sinew that lasts, uncorroded and unwasted.

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For the unsettled family who doesn’t know where they’ll be going in six months, but they know they won’t be staying where they are; for the grieving family who had no preparation for the loss they are suddenly facing; for the parents making choices they never thought they’d have to consider for their children; for the single person confronted with unknowns beyond reckoning; for the mama facing an unexpected pregnancy while still overwhelmed with an alphabet soup of special needs and health issues…may we be the friends who hold wisdom humbly.

This is the year to speak truth in tenderness. This is the year to speak life into darkness for ourselves, and for each other. Oh, my friends: this is the year to face things bravely.

But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually — their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

May we be unflinching, not shrinking back, but moving in bold obedience to the curves and bends in our story. You are so very blessed.

Most of it is not what we planned…and that is okay. Heroes are not made in control groups living inside a sterilized petri dish. They are made in the wild. They are those who choose to lean hard into the curve instead of turning back.

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This is an excerpt from Risk the Ocean: An Adoptive Mom’s Memoir of Sinking and Sanctification.