Just Keep Swimming Part One: An Absolutely True Story of a Fish out of Water

This is an absolutely true story of a fish out of water.

 There was a time when we had seven children in our home.  Two sisters, another five year old girl and a nine year old boy in our care, and our three forever children. To say the least, we were just barely able to keep our heads above water.

I was heading home from work on a particularly stressful day. As I was driving, I took my deep breaths, I said my prayers, and I reminded myself of Nemo and Dory..."just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming.".

Ironically, I walked in the door to see Brent's shell shocked face.  He told me the recently unfolding story of Olivia's unsuspecting goldfish. This goldfish was hijacked from it's tank which was located on the second floor of our home, in Olivia's bedroom. It was smuggled in the waistband of one of the little girl's pants, and carried down the stairs to the other end of the house. The little girl gave herself away by shying up next to the kitchen cupboard, clearly trying to stay off the radar with her hidden treasure.  Brent was expecting the usual hidden treasure, candy. He was obviously surprised when he didn't find candy, but instead, slimy sea life. In a moment of horror, he retrieved, but then quickly dropped, the goldfish to the ground. Olivia came running into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. In her frenzy, she stepped on the already traumatized fish. Brent took the goldfish back to it's tank, placed it in the water, and watched as it swam sideways for quite some time. No one expected the poor fishy to survive.

But, hours, days, months later, it was STILL swimming. Still swimming.

Many of my days, even still,  are spent trying to keep my head above water. When I think back over my day, my week, my month, I think of the fishy. I imagine it's surprise as it was snatched from it's warm and comfortable surroundings. I imagine it's confusion as it was stuffed in the waistband of someone's pants and taken on a long and bumpy journey. I can almost feel it's horror as a grown man retrieved it and promptly threw it to the ground. And the final blow, I feel the humiliation of it being stomped on by the person who loved it most. But then I see it in it's tank, gracefully swimming, day after day.  Not only surviving, but appearing to enjoy the swim.

This ten cent fishy gives me hope. If a ten cent fishy from the grocery store can keep swimming after being abducted, imprisoned, abused and humiliated, why not me? I can keep swimming because the fishy kept swimming.

Many months later, I lovingly cleaned out the fishbowl, gave him fresh water, he died, and I flushed him down the toilet.  But his inspiration has lived on.

My Own Personal Riot

True story here.

I fell apart last week. My spirit was crushed, my feelings were hurt, and my pride was shattered.  It happened after a culmination of a few different situations involving written words, spoken words, and the absence of words .  No big deal, but together they destroyed me for a bit.  I was in a weak spot to begin with, and the final straw broke.  I've got tough skin,  a strong support system, faith that moves mountains, and all that; but that week shook me.

Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you?  Nope.  Actions speak louder than words? Sometimes.  Words are powerful.  The absence of words is also powerful.  The effect of words is greater than we give credit to.

I hibernated in my house for a good three days.  I learned to use power tools, and I built some stuff.  I painted, cleaned, and reorganized.  In the process of cleaning and reorganizing, I had ridiculous amounts of garbage and baggage to get rid of.  I started filling garbage bags, and then I realized it would be more efficient to burn the old papers, etc.

I started a fire in the backyard fire pit.  I tossed yesterdays junk mail, last weeks school papers, and today's empty cereal boxes into the flames.  The flames were beautiful, red, and yellow; and watching a campfire has always been soothing to me.  After a few minutes, the fire started to die, so I went inside, and I started to purge even more.  I threw old stuffed animals, stained dishcloths, and broken toys in.  I threw outgrown clothes in.  Anything that was burnable, I set on fire.  I even burnt things that had meaning to me.

I was worn down already, when a series of hurtful things happened to me.  I was desperately trying to heal, but life kept throwing punches.  So I started burning things. 

As I threw an old purse that had belonged to my deceased, dearly beloved mother, onto the fire, I thought "What am I doing here?  I am not helping my situation by burning things".  I stopped dead in my tracks, and I suddenly realized that I was rioting.  A teensy, tiny, backyard, personal riot.  My hurt was being expressed and healed in the purging of my house, and in the burning of my baggage. 

Sometimes it takes an individual experience to make the collective experience make sense. 

In the end,  my riot changed nothing.  I smoked up the neighborhood, I have a two foot pile of ashes in my fire pit that I'm going to have to shovel out, and my kid is probably wondering where her stuffed unicorn went.   It didn't take away my hurt, and it didn't resolve the situations that needed to be resolved.  But it made me feel like I was doing something.  My dad saw the smoke from across the road.  There was evidence of action when I felt helpless.  My emotions were consumed for a few moments in the heat of the flames, in the smoke, and in the ashes.

Words matter.  Hurt feelings and crushed spirits are real.  The human spirit needs encouragement, love, and support.  Because sticks and stones will break your bones temporarily, but hurtful words and hateful thoughts can break your spirit forever.

As I said before, I have a strong support system and faith that will move mountains.  Because of that, my riot stopped with the final toss of the annoying Mickey Mouse toy trombone.  I rejoiced as I heard "Meeska, Mooska, Mouskateer" for the Very. Last. Time. 

My hurt was small and temporary.  The hurt of others is consuming, pervasive, and desperate.  My small heartache and my temper tantrum makes my heart break for those that face hateful words, injust actions and intolerant minds every day of their lives. 

Living life in communion with others requires us to, well, commune with others.   If we want to change lives, if we want to change minds, if we want to change actions-we have to enter in. 

My Dad, My Father

I started some home improvement projects last month.  One Saturday morning, my oldest son and I went to Home Depot to get some materials for a ceiling project.  First we stopped for breakfast.  When I went to pay, my bank card was declined.  I checked my online banking.  An unexpected automated bill had been withdrawn, and I was all the way broke till Tuesday. 

The cashier accepted what cash I had, even though it was four dollars short.  We drove to Home Depot, I parked, and I pulled out my cell phone.  I texted my dad, asking if he could cover me until payday.  I hit send.  I looked up.  And my dad was standing there.  Right in the parking lot of Home Depot.

He was standing there, right in front of my eyes, right when I needed him.

Of course he'd cover me.  Of course he would.

So I said thanks,  and since he was on his way out of the store, I said I'd see him later.  He said he'd just walk back in with me, to make sure I got what I needed.  I said he didn't have to.  He said he knew that. 

I gathered all of my materials, and met him at the front.  He took a quick look in my cart.  Nope, those screws won't work.  You're going to need a different adhesive.  You'll want to grab some of those other boards.

So everything that I thought I needed, I didn't.  Everything I forgot, he remembered.  Perfect.

After we got all of the correct materials, I told my dad goodbye, and I said thank you.  Again.  I said I'd see him at home.  He said that he'd stick around until we got the van loaded.  I said he didn't have to.   He said he knew that.

We made our purchase, with his money, and began loading the materials into the van.  The boards were too long for the van by about four inches.  My son and I tried every which way to make them fit, but it wasn't happening.  My dad approached the van, saw our struggle, and he said he'd get his truck.

Of course he would.

He loaded all of my things.  All of the things that he made sure that I had.  They fit just right in his truck.  He pulled out of the parking lot first, and I followed him.  I followed him all of the way home, literally watching him carry my load, with humility in my heart, and tears in my eyes.

My dad on earth.  My Father in Heaven. 

When I am in a bind, my dad and my Father are standing there, right before my eyes.  When I make the wrong choices,  He makes them right.  When I can't carry the load, He carries it for me.

Dad.  Daddy.  Father.  Rescuer of bank accounts, one who helps me when I am clueless, He who carries my burdens.  My dad.  My Father.  Always there, no matter where.

Keep Your Eyes on the Shore

I am sitting on a deck overlooking the ocean at sunset.  Some of our people are before my eyes, soaking in the evening peace.  Some of our people are resting inside, enjoying some solace.  We are on vacation with friends who have become family.  Kindred spirits in solidarity. 

As I enjoy all that is happening in these moments, it doesn't escape my mind that this is the third vacation I've enjoyed this summer.  Three different beaches on two different oceans.  Three times removed from my not so ordinary life.

June 29th. I boarded a plane to California with my dad and my ten year old daughter.   She had been given the opportunity to compete in gymnastics nationals.  My husband stayed behind with our other five children.  People kept asking if I was worried about leaving him home to take care of  the kids by himself.  I kept saying that I was worried about leaving him behind- being without him there to take care of ME.  I knew that he and the kids would be fine, I knew that I would not be.

My anxiety was through the roof, even though there was nothing about the trip NOT to enjoy.  The Pacific Ocean, visiting family, watching my daughter compete with hundreds of gymnasts, spending time with her and my dad.  I had none of the responsibilities that were waiting back home. 

And THAT rocked my world.  And that rock fell directly on my chest.  Everything that I had left 1000 miles behind hit me all at once, and it was heavy.

I had been cruising along pretty well, dodging the obstacles that life threw at me during this past year. Life had become heavy, but adrenaline had kept me going-until California made me stop.

I could handle all things, one day at a time. Until I looked back-back 365 days, and I saw it all at once.

A boy that had lived in my home was murdered. MURDERED.
I said goodbye to a 15 year career
I started grad school to pursue my masters degree
I said goodbye to a sweet little girl that had shared our home and heart for 2 years of her life
Another young girl that had shared our home took her own life

I admitted that I needed help with my mental health
We finalized the adoption of our youngest son
Our daughter was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease
And then her sister was diagnosed also
We had 14 hospitalizations-2 hours from home
Our youngest facing potential serious medical diagnoses of his own
Our oldest three babies, growing up before our eyes

Relationships strained
A strong marriage pressed
The climate of our culture
Fear, hate, violence

How did all of this happen, in one year, and how was I still breathing?

I returned home, completely raw and undone.
Vacation had ripped open every wound that I had been silently suffering from. 

It left me in a pretty dark place. Brent and I struggled to stay afloat.  Not that anything new was happening, except that we were suddenly feeling it. Our eighteenth wedding anniversary was approaching, and we were desperate.  With Every. Last. penny we had, we booked a trip to Florida.  It was an emergency-we had to pull ourselves together.  I sold furniture out of my house to make this trip happen.  

August 3rd.  We boarded the plane feeling heavy.  I wasn't sure we'd get off the ground.   The cruise control of our lives had stalled a few hundred miles back.

We made it to Florida.  We rested and enjoyed the time away, processing the past year of our lives, and we vowed to return renewed, and refreshed.

Returning home was hard.  Everything was waiting.  All of the responsibility, but also all of the love.  We could see that the hard work of our lives was worth it.  Always worth it.  A little perspective, and a lot of sunshine had made that clear.

And then August 20th.  We climbed into the car.  All eight of us, embarking on a long-ago planned trip to the beach.  Twelve hours and six kids.  Meeting up with our friends who have become family.  Kindred spirits in solidarity.

I sat on the beach for seven entire days.  I prayed while soaking up the sun, for seven entire days.  I watched twelve children and four adults-including myself-heal before my eyes.  A significant part of the healing for my children was playing in the waves.  I watched, time after time, as they ventured out into the ocean, and gradually drifted down the shore.  Time after time, after they had drifted too far, too many times, I pulled them out of the water and said these words:

You HAVE to keep your eyes on the shore.  You HAVE to keep your eyes on me.  Dear children of my heart, once you are out in the ocean, it has power over you, and you HAVE to pay attention.  You HAVE to keep looking back.  So that you aren't pulled away. The ocean will pull you away, it will pull you under, it will drown you, if you aren't careful.

You HAVE to keep your eyes on the shore.  You HAVE to keep your eyes on me.  

In those words, in those moments, after three encounters with ocean vacations, I was finally renewed.  

I HAVE to keep my eyes on the shore.  I HAVE to keep my eyes on You.

It is so easy to get caught up in the waves.  It is so easy to drift down the shore.  It is so easy to drown.  

But it is so easy to keep swimming also.  

It is so easy to enjoy your friends and your family.  It is so easy to ride your waves of turmoil, and to stay afloat in life's ocean.  IF you keep your eyes on the shore. 

It took me a summer of three vacations,  three times removed from my ordinary life, to finally move me past this past year.

My head is above water.  My eyes are on the shore.  I'll keep swimming, even though I'm not sure where I'm going this time.

I wondered why it got lighter: A story of vacation anxiety, carrying a kayak, how my dad is amazing, and social injustice.

I went to California last week with my ten year old daughter and my dad.  My anxiety was through the roof because I was homesick.  Everyone (in my head) kept telling me: "You can't be stressed, it's California. You can't have anxiety, you're on vacation.  You should just lighten up and have a good time.  You should be thankful to be on this amazing trip."  But everything I saw and did in California was through the lens of feeling lost in anxiety.

The west coast was overcast, grey, and chilly until well after noon everyday.  I remember counting down the minutes until 1pm Pacific time, when there was a chance that the sun would peek through the hazy sky.  One of those afternoons, we enjoyed some sunny moments at the beach.

There was a man running a beach side rental stand.  He was dragging kayaks across the hot sand,  bringing them from the water, and returning them to their place in the rental stand.  It was his job.  He wasn't asking for help, he wasn't even showing signs that he needed help; from all appearances, he was strong and able.  As the man picked up the front of the last kayak, and began to drag it, I watched as my dad walked up behind the man, and lifted the back of the kayak without saying a word.  The two strangers carried the kayak in silence for about 500 feet.

When they got to the destination, the man turned his head and said- "Hey brother, I appreciate you. It was rough, dragging that heavy kayak, and I wondered why it got lighter all of a sudden."

Hey brother, I appreciate you.

I wondered why it got lighter.

That moment became a permanent piece of my memory and of my heart-it changed my lens from anxiety to hope .

Are we looking for opportunities to make someone else's load lighter?

We've had a tough week in America.  Our black friends face continued oppression and violence-both individually and systemically. Our police friends face violence in misplaced retaliation from a few, amidst a peaceful call for justice from many.

If we feel the need to take "sides"-can't we each take one side of the load?  Can't we pick up an end, and walk in solidarity toward the destination?

"Hey brother, I appreciate you.  I wondered why it got lighter."

Life is heavy if we are all dragging our own loads across the hot sand.  Some of us think that we are strong enough, and that we can do it on our own.  Some of us are seeing life through the lens of anxiety, worry, and paralyzing fear.  Some of us are being told to be thankful for what we have, and our fears are being dismissed.  Life is heavy.

As we wait for the haze to clear, as we long for the sun to shine, as we trudge through the sand, what if we picked up a part of someone else's load?  What if we didn't post memes, what if we didn't move to polarity, what if we didn't walk on by the issues? What if we silently walked alongside our brothers, picked up a part of their load, and walked together?  

My Pennsylvania dad is as different from a West Coast Surfing Vendor as you can get.  But maybe not really. That late afternoon, in the California sunshine, I saw two brothers sharing a burden.  A heavy load became a lighter load.  Strangers became allies.

I pray for that in real life.

We're Just Almost The Same: Life Without Mothers

The presence of a mother is encompassing, there is power in knowing that she is just there.  There is comfort in knowing that she just is.  A mother, with all of her good, her bad, and her ugly, is more of a force than a mere person.

When my mom was suffering from the end stage of cancer, I remember peeking into her room before entering each time.  I would pause, watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, and then enter. She was still there.  When I watched the final breath leave her body, it was as if all of the oxygen in the room went with her, in that last gasp of life. She was all of a sudden, not there.

The loss of a mother is visceral.  The umbilical cord that was cut at birth was the first physical separation, but the tether that holds mother and child remains strong through space and time, throughout life.  When death separates a mother and child, there is a real physical aching.

There was a time when my five year daughter was mourning the loss of her first mother.  She cried, saying,  "I'm losing my mother. I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more. I need her to make me some noodles, and go to the park, and walk by the train tracks."  And I said to her back,  "I'll love you, and hold you close forever, and kiss your cheek, and make you noodles, and I will take you to the park every day until you're old.  While we walk to the park, we can talk about your mother, and we can remember all of the remembers that you have about her.  And I lost my mother too, but in a different way, and I need her to kiss me on the cheek some more too, and I miss her everyday too."

My daughter replied: "You lost your mother too? We're just almost the same."  

We are all, just almost the same.

I've been thinking and talking a lot about what Glennon says. "There is no such thing as other people's children."  I believe this with my whole heart.  The children that are in my life, the ones that have passed through, the ones who will be with me until my final breath, or theirs, all of them, are all of my heart.

They are all, just almost the same.  Children of my body, children of my heart.

Two of the children that lived in my home, and in my heart, are now gone. One murdered by gun violence, and one lost to suicide.  Both young teenagers.  I mourn along with their families, and I tell their stories, because their stories should be part of all of our stories.

Our stories are all, just almost the same.

But these two stories in particular: the child who loses their mother, and the mother who loses their child - these are two of the greatest, tragic love stories that life ever wrote.

In the moment that I became motherless, in the moment where all of the oxygen left the room,  I knew that a child should never live without a mother.  It is a most sacred honor to be a mother to the motherless.   But although there is no such thing as other people's children, I'm not sure it works so naturally the other way.  A mother is a mother is a mother.  My mother.  My tether.  Her mother.  Her tether. I can't be the first mother to my daughter who misses her first mother; there is no replacement for that.   But I hope and pray that I can be the best first, second, other, birth, adoptive, foster mother that I can be.   Because once I was taught to be mother, to all of the children, by my mother.

We are all, just almost the same.  Because love.

Be Still: When The Still Small Voice Isn't Still or Small

Be still and listen.

Be still and know.

Beautiful words and sentiments, except that me and "being still" don't really get along that well.

Still is my uncomfortable zone.

Being still sounds glorious, and I often long for the chance to experience it.  However, every time it gets near, my emotional immune system rejects it like a virus, like it is a foreign body trying to infiltrate my being.  I seem to have antibodies that won't allow "being still" to exist for long periods of time in my life.

I get along better with change and newness.  My comfort zone is a moving target.  Every time that my life starts to settle in, every time that it starts to feel comfortable, it makes me uncomfortable.

There is  a restlessness stirring in me.  My still, small voice is yelling at me, because it doesn't want to be still or small.

So I pray for discernment, because I struggle with the concept of being still.  I sometimes wonder if I need to move out of my comfort zone by staying still, and being still; but I suspect that my still, small voice was just born to be ornery and loud.

I think that there is a fine line between being still and being stagnant.  There is a difference between listening to the still, small voice and being a still, small voice.  Stillness intentionally layered within
a full life is like the "rest" between musical phrases, as the song continues to move forward.  The
"rests" of stillness makes the song meaningful, purposeful, and beautiful.  In contrast, stillness at the end of the song means, well, the song is over, and the music has died.  As I take my rest, I know that it is a pause, but that the song will continue to crescendo.

Be still and listen for a time.

Be still and know that the song will continue.

Be still so that you can move forward again, not so you can stay.

#loveshowsup

I have a lot to say about #loveshowsup right now. I am in a hospital for the fifth time with my girl; #loveshowsup has been on my heart and mind during these long weeks.  I've always known that love shows up.  The story starts when I was young,  pinnacles during some intense times as a foster parent a few years back, and continues now and forever amen.

I'm going start at the pinnacle.  The day I experienced the visceral truth of what it means to show up for a child. The day I experienced the crushing weight of what it means to not show up for a child. 

As a foster parent, my presence at court hearings was not always mandatory. But I always got an invitation.  And by receiving an invitation to be present, I couldn't not be present.  Showing up for those court hearings for my babies was like showing up for prenatal doctor appointments for my babies.  Of course you go, of course you show up, there isn't another option.  

I have been a foster parent for many years now. I've been in court rooms many, many times for many, many kids. From my seat in the back, my view is usually this: a scattered line of county case workers, county attorney, child's attorney, mother, mother's attorney, father, and father's attorney. I always capture the image of these people in my mind, like a snapshot. 

I am the foster parent, the one who is currently caring for the child that we are all in the courtroom to make decisions for. I sit in the back of the courtroom because legally, I have no voice. This story and this scene is not about me; it is about trying to reunite this child with the people he belongs with.  So I sit in my seat, stare at the back of these heads and pray that this lineup of folks in the front makes good decisions for the child.

One day,  I sat in my seat, and watched as the important characters in the story started showing up . I looked down the line and checked off each player from the roster in my mind. Caseworker, check. Attorney, check. And on I went, further down the line. My eyes reached the end of the line. 

The space where the parents usually stand was empty. No check. Empty space. “A” for absent. A void in a place where there should NEVER be a void. No one was there to fight for him. No parents. I wanted to see someone standing in that void, fighting for him. Because that's what he deserved,  that's what every child deserves.

It took my breath away.

I watched the judge step out of his chambers, and I saw a look on his face that perfectly reflected what I felt in my heart. It was a slight shake of the head, mixed with disappointment, and pure sadness. I could almost see the word “Damn” form on his lips.  He was clearly heartbroken by the void in that space.  You could see that he wanted for there to be someone standing there, with tears in their eyes, begging him to have their baby back. But there was no one. For This Child No One Showed Up.

From the back, I wanted to stand up and shout, with tears in my eyes, “HERE I AM. I WILL FIGHT FOR HIM. I WILL BEG YOU WITH MY WHOLE HEART TO LET ME BE HIS MOMMA. I WILL STAND IN THAT VOID, I WILL BE HIS VOICE.” But they tell me that standing up and shouting at the judge could get you arrested. 

So I channeled the still, small voice inside me, and I continued to watch and pray, as people who have never seen his sweet face or heard his sweet laugh made decisions for his future.

I believe that the best and bravest thing we can do, for any of our kids, is to Just. Show. Up. And while most of us don’t have to show up in a court room, we need to show up for the  everyday moments,  which is sometimes harder . 

We must make those daily, intentional choices to continue to be present for those we love. Some days it’s so hard, you just want to hide in the bathroom, or even get in the car and drive away. But as brave parents, friends, and family members, we must continue to show our faces; we must continue to show up, even if we have little or nothing to offer at that particular moment. We are our child’s voice, our we are the ones that can stand up and shout for them (Unless you are in a courtroom. DON'T DO IT.) Every child deserves someone to stand in that void and to fill that gap that often stands between him and the world.

In the eyes and in the life of a child, you might make all the difference, just in the showing up.  Communing with your people matters.  You might not make a difference, and you might not change the outcome.  In fact, you probably won't, because it's not about you.  But your people will remember, that you were there, in the back row, shouting for them with all your heart.

#loveshowsup #foreverandever #amen 

A World Changer

This is my story, but this is not my story.  I only know an infinitely small piece of it. I haven't told this story before, because it wasn't mine to tell.  But now I am telling it on behalf of him, and on behalf of all of our kids, everywhere.

This needs to be everyone's story, because there is no such thing as other people's children.  @Momastery.

It was a cold winter night when four amazing children came to stay at my home.  They had a beautiful and amazing family of their own, but we had the opportunity to spend a few short weeks with them. Four beautiful souls climbed into my car   The oldest brother, a strong and towering teenager, was obviously the rock for his younger siblings.

The life and energy that exuded from these children was contagious.  Singing, dancing, laughing, yelling, fighting, and making up again was the song of our lives for those short weeks.

We had only this small space in time with these amazing and energetic kids.

Over a year later, my husband and I took our children on a ten day Florida vacation.  We had only been home for a few hours, when I read the news online.  "Gun violence".  "Murdered".  He had been murdered.

Murdered.

This young man, who ate at my dining room table, who sat beside me in church, who helped me bake Christmas cookies, was murdered.  Unprovoked, untargeted, unintentionally, yet so intentionally, murdered.

And just like that, injustice, racism, poverty, violence, and murder are a part of my story.  A very small part, but a part nonetheless.   My comfortable white life, and my Florida vacation were slapped in the face.  His blood was shed on a city street while I was building sandcastles with my children in Florida.

When he and his siblings were with us, his little brother commented on the whiteness of our church. "Why are there SO many white people here, Sarah? One, two, three, four."  He got to twenty and then stopped counting.  I had no good answer for him. Why are only white people showing up at our church?

We went to the funeral home to pay our respects.  We were the only white people, except for one or two others. Why are there SO many black people here? One, two, three, four.  I got to twenty and then stopped counting.  Why are only black people showing up for a young man killed by gun violence?

His little brother had felt being "other" at our church.  I had felt being "other" at the funeral home. The truth is, we are all other.  We are all different, we are all unique, we are all our own.  We are ALL OUR OWN.  ALL. OUR. OWN.  There is no such thing as other people's children, because they are all our own.   Our differences define us, but our differences are our sameness.  It just so happens that some peoples differences are celebrated, priveleged, and protected.  Some peoples differences are hushed, exploited, and even targeted.

I know virtually nothing about race issues, gun violence, or injustice, but I am listening.  My life until now has been blissfully ignorant, consumed in rural whiteness.  These issues were removed, were other, were not my life.  They didn't matter to me in a real way, until a child that sang in my shower, ate spaghetti at my table, and danced with my children, was MURDERED.  He was not my child, but he is all of our children.

Our comfortable lives are delicate and fragile.  There are children and families facing injustice just beyond our arms reach.  Just at our fingertips.  There is a very thin veil between our comfortable lives, and our children being murdered on the streets.  Very thin.  But maybe not thin enough; if we aren't seeing through it, than it isn't thin enough.

Can we take the time and effort to lift the veil?  It took the murder of a child who broke bread with me at dinner, who broke bread with me at communion in church, to see that injustice is real.  It is not "other".  Injustice is ours, yours, and mine.

I am floundering, I don't know what to do to honor this boy.  I don't know how to educate people about social injustice.  I don't know how to educate myself, except to look and listen.  I look at the space around me with his eyes.  I listen to the words around me with his ears.

I can only say that his face, his smile, his song and dance, are in my memory.  I cannot fathom the pain that his family is feeling.  He and his siblings opened my eyes. They are our children.  There is no other.  Yet there is still so much "other".  Our children are safe, comfortable, and protected.  Our children are vulnerable, targeted, and breaking.

What would you do to protect your child? What would you do to protect my children? What would you do to protect OUR children? All of them.

Would you listen with his ears and object to a racist joke that a friend tells?  Would you look with his eyes, and see that the representations around you are primarily white? Would you show up at a rally for justice? Would you step out of your comfort zone and be "other"?  Would you teach your children that racism and injustice are real, and help them combat it, so that my children, our children, don't feel "other"?

I can't stop thinking.  It's been several months since his death.  A child that was, albeit briefly, a part of my family has died at the hands of injustice.  He is ours, all of ours.  He was murdered. The only thing that I know how to do, is to show up.  I will show up in the city to visit his family.  I will show up at the cemetery to remember his life. I will continue to offer my futile condolences, to send messages saying "I'm thinking of you" and "What can I do to help?".   I will talk to my children about injustice,   I will teach them the best I know how.  I will look and listen, because he is all of ours.

I was 38 years old before I was slapped in the face by social injustice.  38.  I don't want my kids to be slapped in the face at 38 years old.  I want them to see, and hear, and feel now.  I want them to be world changers now.  I think that our comfort zones are some of the most dangerous places to be.  A boy with a smile that could light up a room, a boy that lit up MY ROOM, was murdered.

That matters to me.  Rest in peace, sweet boy. I will forever hear your voice singing "Today I don't feel like doing anything, I just want to lay in my bed."  I will hear you complaining about my cats keeping you awake at night.  I will see you putting together my Christmas train with my other children.  I will see you hugging your siblings.  I will hear you talking to your grandma.  I will smell the cologne.  I will remember your energy.  I will keep your smile, forever, in my heart.  You. Have changed me.  You made a difference.  You changed my world.  You give me the motivation to be a world changer.

The Purple House

My daughter and I drove up and down the city streets, carefully examining each house, on each side of the street, looking for a purple house.  "I KNOW my grandma lived in a purple house. It had purple bushes in the front. You have to see the football field first, and then you'll find it."

We found the park where she played, the train tracks that she walked, even the apartment that she once called home.  But no purple house.  The purple house remains an intangible memory in her little mind.  

This memory tethers her to her past.  

I went to the funeral home tonight for a few moments.  After offering my condolences and visiting, I sat down in a chair.  I tried to make conversation; when the conversation was done, I really just wanted to sit there, for a long time.  But I left, because, well-it is awkward to sit in a funeral home for the sake of memories.

Memories of funeral homes, hospital rooms, dinner tables, and family photos, tether me to my past. Times when everyone is there.  Present and accounted for, Sir.  Times when everyone shows up.  

I found myself sitting at the funeral home tonight, looking for my purple house.  I long for a tangible connection to those memories.

But we all go through life, largely untethered, left with memories, hopes, and dreams.   I search for my purple house every day, as my daughter searches for hers.  

The primal ache of being motherless resonates tonight.  Always searching for purple houses; searching for one last chance to feel, hear, smell, and breathe the past.  I always wonder what I would have done with one more moment, one more kiss, or one more word.

I think that all we can do, is to live in the moments we have.  Enjoy the purple house when you see it, keep it in your memory forever.  Our time is now.  Memories of purple houses tether us to our past, but they won't be found again.

Tonight, I look around, and I see MY house, in THIS moment.  My chaotic, multi-colored, sick, emotional, exhausted, exploding with love, house.  I am thankful for it, because it is mine, and it is amazing.  

What holds us back, and what keeps us where we are, are often one in the same: Purple Houses. Purple houses and memories tether us to our past; Purple houses and memories tether us to our present.  What needs to happen to move us forward? I have no clue, except to breathe in right now; I breathe in my house, my home, and I know my future is purple.

Our Time is Now: 53 Days of Vomit

I am not inclined to say that everything happens for a reason.  Stuff happens, and it is often unfair, unexpected, and uncalled for.

I AM inclined to say that perspective can give purpose.

When I was expecting my first three children by birth, there were nine months of hopeful expectation, baby showers, anticipation, and falling in love with the growing child inside of me. Preparing a beautiful nursery, purchasing the perfect coming home outfit, sending out invitations and announcements were a beautiful part of the process.

When I was expecting my three children by adoption, well, I wasn't expecting them.  They arrived in my life as a toddler and two preschoolers.  There was no expectation, no baby showers, no anticipation, no preparation.  A phone call, a "yes", and an hour later, they arrived.

I think back at all the things that happened with my biological children in their infancy and toddler years.  Countless hours soothing them, holding and rocking them, waking at night to console them. Visits to the doctor for immunizations, well checks, ear infections, and broken bones. There is so much that happens to create the sacred bond between a mother and child in those first months and years.  The precious time that I had with my first three children in their infancy is forever a part of me, and a part of them.  There is a physical, visceral connection that happens between babies and parents in those very early days.

I missed all of that with half of my children.  They missed all of that with me.

Until now.

My family has been tested in the past six weeks.  There have been five hospitalizations, countless doctor visits, time off work and school.  It has been hard. I've missed out on time with my husband, time with my other children, and with friends.  I haven't cooked dinner, cleaned the house, or even showered much at all.

I stopped for a moment to think about the purpose in this time of trial.

It's almost exactly like maternity leave.  I am bleary eyed, weary, and exhausted.  I am caring for two children who need me very much.

I am being given the opportunity to have a sort of maternity leave with my daughters who came to me as preschoolers.  I have spent countless hours soothing them, holding, and rocking them, waking at night to console them.  Visits to the doctor, countless visits.  There is so much that happens to strengthen the sacred bond between a mother and her children during times of illness.

I imagine them as infants.  I wonder what it would be like to hold their tiny bodies, to hear their newborn cries, or to see their first smiles.  I often think about rocking them as babies;  I think about having those precious hours, days, and months to get to know them.

But that wasn't my time.

My time is now.

Our time is now.

There is purpose in puke, there is joy in darkness, there is healing of souls, minds and bodies. This is our time.  53 days of vomit.  It is a season in our lives, a season that will come to an end.  And it is bittersweet.   Everyday that goes by, I can more easily discern their cries, interpret their groans, and feel their pain.  The physical, visceral connection between mother and child is being sealed.

This is a game changer.

Our time is now.  Our time for joy is now.  Our time for life and love is now.

Snacking with Jesus

Our church invites everyone to join in communion, every Sunday.  There was a Sunday that we had a child with us who was unfamiliar with communion.  I asked if he wanted to join us, and he did. This little boy walked with me to the front of our church.  As we approached, he asked "What is this, Sarah.  Why do you do this?"  In that moment, the best words that I had were something like:

"It's kind of like a snack to remind you that Jesus loves you, and that you love Him." 

The little boy looked at me, smiled and nodded, almost tipped the cup over on the altar, and took communion with me.

Snacking with Jesus on a Sunday morning. 

My daughter LOVES the communion bread, and the grape juice.  As we walked toward the communion table this past Sunday, she BEGGED me to have two servings of communion.  Of course I said no; we have to make sure there are enough Jesus snacks to go around. She asked if she could have mine.  Of course I said no; I need my Jesus snack SOOOO very badly this week.  She even asked to go up for "seconds" after we had returned to our seats.  No way, girlfriend.  We don't do that. 

Doesn't communion mean that everyone takes their own, single serving of Jesus, during one single moment on Sunday morning?

Wait. What?? 

I just denied my daughter a double serving of Jesus.  I just refused to share my serving of Jesus with her.  I REFUSED.  I mean, that Jesus snack was MINE, it wasn't for sharing.  I told her, on no uncertain terms, that people DO NOT return to the altar for "SECONDS" of communion.  

Oh my lands, I totally missed the point, and the opportunity, to show her what communion means to me. 

The homemade communion bread at our church is AMAZING, and you can't beat Welch's grape juice.  They make a delicious pairing.  But surely it's not enough to sustain us for the hour, or the day, or the week;  it was never intended to.  It's a sacrament, for that moment.  And in that moment, it's not intended to be shared between people, not intended to replace lunch, not intended to return to for seconds.  Because it's not the end.  It's the beginning.  I mean, I MAY sneak an extra piece piece of bread for her next week, as a peace offering, but then I will tell her that it is intended to be only a snack.  Communion must happen in all of our moments, in all of our days.

Give us this day our Daily Bread.  We need DAILY bread.  DAILY communion. 

As I consumed my Jesus snack this Sunday, I cried.  I knew that the communion cup was being emptied, so that my cup could be filled again.  I knew that I was taking this in, so that I could give it away again.  In the very same moment, friends were surrounding my very ill little girl, in another room of the church.  She needed to be hospitalized.  We scooped her up, and headed to the hospital. As I rode in the ambulance, I was thankful for communion, and thankful that my cup had been filled. 

Here I am today, empty and hungry again, but knowing that seconds are freely given. If I relied on that single serving, not to be shared, Sunday portion of communion, I would never get through my days and weeks.  I need daily sustenance.  Homemade communion bread and Welch's grape juice on a Sunday altar is good nourishment for the Sunday soul.  But everyday isn't Sunday.  

Today is Monday.  My Monday communion was taking a two hour nap on a hospital sofa, dreaming of my mother, and praying for all of my people.  When I woke, I saw my sleeping girl across the room, I had messages from my husband and children back home. I took a sip of cold coffee, and ate a few potato chips as my daily bread, while hearing the words "It is well" playing in my mind.  

Living my life in communion means living everyday of my life in communion.  Double servings, sharing with others, and going back for seconds.  Forever and ever. Amen. 

You can pray on a trampoline and not even say Amen.

I pray with every breath that I breathe in and breathe out.  Except when I don't, and I am distracted by life.  I pray when I feel lonely and overwhelmed, and I pray when I feel thankful. Sometimes I find myself not praying at all, because I know that God sees and hears me anyway.  I do not have a faithful prayer life.  I am not strongly disciplined nor am I religiously schooled.  I am not a good example. But my children are.  

There was a chilly spring day, when a young boy who had stayed with us a short time, was jumping on the trampoline.  After a while, he came in, took off his boots, and said these words:

"When I was outside, I laid down on the trampoline, and I prayed to God. I prayed that he could put a thought in my mom's head so she knows I love her. I prayed that she finds a bigger house so that I can get with her again. I prayed that if she gets hurt that He will heal her. I prayed for some basketball teams to win too. Before I got taken from my mom I didn't know how to pray. Then someone taught me. Now I can do it all the time. Do I HAVE to say amen at the end? I did, just in case." 

Amen.  AMEN. And AMEN.

We can pray while jumping on the trampoline.  And we don't even have to say Amen.  We don't have to know how to pray.  Someone taught this boy that he could talk to God.  That's all he needed to know. He could talk to Him.  Whenever he wanted to.  Wherever he wanted to.  

Another day, my 12 year old son taught a little girl how to shoot basketballs while jumping on the trampoline.  She struggled with the basic tenets of life, but she blossomed on that trampoline.  Her smile beamed, and her heart soared, as she enjoyed a game with our son.  

The trampoline in my backyard is somewhat of a holy place for my children.  They leap, bound, and flip toward Heaven.  Their cares are naught.  Their prayers are lifted.  

Prayer on the trampoline on a chilly spring day.  The ordinary meets extraordinary.  A little boy communes in prayer while playing in my backyard.   A littlle girl learns to shoot baskets.  He didn't know what he was doing, she didn't know what she was doing, I don't know what I am doing.  Except letting the divine intercede with the mundane, letting light shine through darkness, letting extraordinary mix with ordinary.    


Amen.

FU JB Continued

When a hurting child called me Jerk Bitch, I embraced JB as part of me.  I knew that I needed to tear down some walls of pride, control, and social appropriateness in myself, in order to tear down some walls of hurt and defense in my children.  I often get asked, "Don't you worry about your children being exposed to inappropriate behaviors in your home?".  Of course I do.  I also worry about them hearing the f-word on the playground, on the bus, and at the grocery store.  I worry about them witnessing, or being victim to, bullying.  I worry about them crossing the street, choking on grapes, and blowing their noses.  I worry about all of them, all of the time.

With good intentions, fear, and limited understanding, people have told us that we are doing irreparable harm to our family.  That our efforts are wasted and our intentions are misguided.  There are people who have no tolerance for JB. 

Considering the advice of some of these people, we could have easily and maybe justifiably, not tolerated JB in our home.  We could have said that it was inappropriate, unacceptable, filthy, and rude. We could have moved a child out of our home the first time a block or a fist was thrown, the first time an f-bomb was spewn, the first time a JB was uttered.   We would have been supported and possibly applauded in doing so.  

What happens when we don't tolerate JB in our lives?  We are comfortable, not offended, and not inconvenienced.  We are protected from inappropriateness, ugliness, and hurt.  We are keeping love to ourselves, and not sharing it; we are selfish JB's.

I will say it again, I am not a cursing woman, except when I am.  Love must transcend appropriateness. Love must transcend niceties and comfortable expectations.  If I can't love, and be home, to a child who calls me JB, what am I? I am really JB.  

My children, all of them, have heard language, stories, and life experiences that should never be heard by anyone.  What happens, when it is heard in my home, is that I am there.  I am there to tell them that it is not ok.  I am there to tell them that it is inappropriate and unacceptable.  I am there to tell them that behind every hurtful word, is a hurting person. I am there to tell them that I will love them, regardless of the words that come out of their mouths.  I am there to tell them that I see their preciousness beyond their words and actions.  I am there to tell them that hurting people hurt people.

Our children deserve love.  They ALL deserve love.  Because my children were exposed to JB, because JB was tolerated in my home, they know that THEY were tolerated. They know that they deserve love.  They know that they are expected to love and tolerate people that are hurting.  

We need to look beneath the surface.  Lift the veil.  See the hurt.  Our comfortable lives are comfortable because we don't look beneath the surface, lift the veil, or see the hurt.  People don't say offensive things to offend you.  It's NOT ABOUT YOU.  It's about them.  People say offensive things and do offensive things because they have been hurt and offended. 

My child said "FU JB" because he had heard "FU JB" from Every. Person. In. His. Life.  

If I would have sent him away, he would have heard the same thing from me. 

My children are strong and amazing.  They see someone acting out in public, swearing or being rude, and they can say "that person must be hurting".   They understand and can articulate what is appropriate vs. inappropriate with wisdom beyond their years.  I have no regrets about the things they have seen and heard.  

The world is ugly.  Most people only see the ugly side.  My family has seen the redemption, the grace, and the transforming power of love.  My children would have never seen the beautiful transformation,  if we didn't allow it to happen.  My children would have never experienced the beautiful transformation, if we didn't allow it to happen.  They would have never seen the light, if we had we stopped in the darkness. 

There is healing power in being accepted, welcomed, and embraced for who you are.  Our communion table was intended to overflow with the imperfect, broken, socially inappropriate, and unacceptable.  When all the veils are lifted, which is more troubling;  a hurting child who throws blocks and swears, or a hurting adult who can't see the precious child beneath the JB?   The truth is, they are both troubling.

We are all hurting, and we all fall short.  What we can do, is to join in communion together.  We can break bread and share life with each other; sinner and saint, each of us playing each role, each of us sinner, each of us saint, each to the other.  We are each others.  There is no other.

For a space and time, I was JB to a child.  For all my days, I will hear his voice and be reminded that he and I are kindred.  Hurting, scared, unsure, and loved.

FU JB

My family signed up to help children who were facing some of the most difficult times of their lives.
We entered the foster care system knowing that our job was to love, and not to judge; our job was to be a safe space for healing.

Hurting children have a small but powerful arsenal of survival skills; they are operating from a fight or flight mentality, assuming that they are not safe.  There is a misconception that children in foster care are "bad" or "troubled".  The truth is, they are the same as every other precious child, but necessarily encapsulated in a protective shell of survival skills.  In some situations, a child might need to be physically aggressive to survive, in some situations, he might need to run, to hide, to swear, to fight, to scream, or to throw things at people.  These defenses, in these situations, are not bad behaviors, and they are not disrespectful attitudes.

That being said, there was a day where I firmly planted myself in the doorway between two rooms in my house.  On one side was a justifiably angry young boy.  On the other side were two small toddlers. These young children were brilliant, beautiful, and engaging.  They had also had been hurt in more ways than one can imagine.  Sometimes that hurt has to come out.  On this particular day, the boy jumped on the bed, hurling wooden blocks at me and the little ones, yelling "YOU JERK BITCH, YOU RUINED MY LIFE".  On the other side of me, the two little ones threw toys back at him, matter-of-factly chanting "f-you, you mother f-er".

I sat in that moment, in that doorway, in the crossfire, knowing that this moment was do or die for me.  It had been a long and exhausting road already,  I wasn't sure that I could do it anymore.  I knew I had to either fully commit to being what these children needed me to be, or I was throwing in the towel.

It was that day, in that doorway, that I chose to be Jerk Bitch.  Brent lovingly nicknamed me JB, and we dug into the beautiful, messy process of giving all of ourselves to these beautiful children in our home.

I am not a cursing person, nor do I condone cursing from children.  But to that boy, in that moment, I was JB.  I embraced it and it became part of me--it changed me.

I cherish the title, and I wear it proudly.  Being JB is my badge of honor. I had the honor of standing in the space where a young child felt safe enough to let his anger out without repercussion.  I had the honor of sitting in the space between these children, to mediate their hurt, loss, and sadness.  I was able to see them through to a place where they felt comfortable, where they learned the skills of living and loving.  I wouldn't have been able to carry them through the darkness if I hadn't entered the darkness to find them.   Being JB means going into the dark and ugly spaces and places with them. Being JB means joining in communion with not only the flawless and unscathed, but with the hurting and broken as well.  Communing with someone in their dark spaces is a strong predictor that they will eventually commune with you in the light.

In order to help them break their protective shell of survival skills, I had to break my shell of comfortable, socially appropriate niceties.  I couldn't be a Stepford mom anymore, I couldn't pretend to have it all together or to put on a show. In order to make a difference, I had to go to the ugly places.  If that meant being called ugly names, than so be it.

I could have decided that JB was not for me.  I would have gone back to an ordinary life.  I would have taken the easy road, where there was less cursing and block throwing.   The easy road would have been, well, easy.  But healing and growth doesn't happen on the easy road.  The light only shines in darkness.  Healing and growth, the shedding of armor, the revealing of the heart: these things often happen in unsavory and ugly ways.

All of the times that I heard someone say f-you to me, all of the times I was called a JB, all of the block throwing, kicking, hitting, and gnashing of teeth: these are my sacred souvenirs.  These are the things that remind me of those ugly places and painful spaces, where healing occurred, beauty prevailed, and love won.

Being JB is being present for the hurt and pain, being someone's unwavering strength, being someone's unshakable rock.  That little boy tried to move me from that doorway.  He tried to see if I would remove him, hurt him, or cast him aside.  He tried to use JB to get under my skin, he tried to make me run from the blocks, to run from his hurt.   Being JB is putting yourself out there for the ugly and unsavory moments in life. It is tearing down the protective shell and letting the blocks hit you directly in the head.

My friend Kristy made this coffee mug for me.  It is JB on the outside and FU on the inside.  A slightly inappropriate, humorous, yet poignant reminder; sometimes the path of FU JB is the only way to reach sacred spaces and holy healing.

Run Into the Darkness

It always seems that the most challenging times in life also yield the most beauty.  I think it is because during the dark times, the light shines brighter.   The stark contrast between light and dark is most visible when the dark is very, very dark.  I am reminded of a stormy fall day, when bright yellow leaves contrast against a black sky.  Or of a cloudy sunset when all is dark, but a single ray of sunshine pouring through the one opening in the clouds.  

One of our daughters was diagnosed with a vascular illness three weeks ago.  She has been hospitalized four times so far with complications of the illness.  Last weekend, we were on our way home from the third admission.  The roads were icy, and visiblity was minimal from a February snowstorm.  We were driving down a slippery hill when the front wheel of our vehicle flew off.  My husband calmly and skillfully guided us into a snowy ditch, where we landed unscathed.  We arrived safely at home and the vehicle was towed away. 

The next day was Valentines day.  Our family was systematically dropping to the stomach flu.  We attempted a super fancy Valentines day dinner anyway, because we needed some family time after all of the mishaps of life. (There wasn't even a chance of a romantic couples getaway).  About three fourths of the way through dinner, one of our other daughters projectile vomited, hitting every one of our eight dinner plates.  Our third daughter vomited all through the night.  One of our teenage sons woke up Monday morning, vomiting, blacking out, hitting his head on the door, and vomiting again all over my bed.  Our two year old woke up from a nap covered in poop, while our other teenage son hid in his room.  At this point, I couldn't even keep up.  I was throwing towels on piles of bodily fluids all throughout my house.  

During the vomit fest, our daughter suddenly developed severe complications of her vascular illness.  The doctor wanted to see her immediately, so I left the piles of vomit, loaded her in the vehicle, and went to the doctors office.  Her condition was serious, so the doctor advised me to drive her directly to the children's hospital, two hours from home.  I immediately followed doctors orders, leaving my husband home with five children, and no vehicle.  After a three night hospitalization, we were finally being discharged.  As I was signing discharge instructions, my husband had one of the other girls at the doctor's office back home.  She was diagnosed with the same vascular illness.  It is not contagious, and it seems there are only two documented cases of siblings developing it at the same time.  And now our family is a living medical anomaly. 

Seriously. 

I couldn't make it up if I tried.  

Once upon a time, a wise woman was faced with cancer for the second time in her life.  When asked if she ever thought "why me?", she replied "why NOT me?" (another story, for another time).  Her words resounded with every beat of my heart during these past three weeks.   Her words have given me a tendency to run into the darkness with my arms wide open.  I just can't help myself.  

I heard those words in the lyrics of a song a while back.  "Carry your candle, run into the darkness."  And I thought, why would you do that? Who RUNS into the darkness?  But now I know; to embrace the darkness, is to have the opportunity to really see the light.  Without the dark, dark, spaces, our world is a muted shade of grey.  The beauty of the yellow autumn leaves is most evident against the black sky.  Only through clouds, can you see those single, beautiful rays of sun. 

So tonight, when our weeks have been so very dark, the light is so very bright.  My two year old's mischievous grin, spending hours braiding two of my girl's hair, watching my ten year old daughter do flips, just looking at the faces of my teenage sons and how they've changed since I saw them four days ago.  And now, sitting in bed, next to my husband, writing, while he watches a movie.  The ordinary is extraordinary.  

I sit here and absorb my light, I bask in it, and I let it renew me.  Communion with my loves.  It is precious.  And I know that it will not last.  So as I drink in the light, I am preparing myself to run into the darkness again.  

A Mother's Kisses Stick to You Forever

You know how it goes. You hold your sweet child's face in your hands, and you give them a kiss; the child promptly wipes the kiss away.  You kiss them again, and they wipe it off.  This could go on forever, but this doesn't happen in my house anymore, because I finally made up a rule.

Mother's kisses stick to you forever. Period. The end. There is no wiping them away, washing them off, or rubbing them into obscurity.  If a mother kisses you, it is eternal.  Sorry, sweet child, it's yours until the end of time.

I'm sitting here in a hospital room tonight with my very ill daughter.  All is quiet but the beeps and blips of the monitors.  After adjusting her IV lines, rearranging her pillows, and silencing the monitors, I kissed her on the forehead.  She slipped peacefully to sleep; the "mother's kiss" left right there on her sweet brown skin, invisible to the eye, yet fully visible to the heart.

I look out the window at the city sky-scape, and I am transported to the other side of the city, to the hospital where my mother lay, six years ago.  In her last days, another patient's family told us to never leave the room without kissing our mother goodbye.  Always kiss your mother goodbye. Always kiss your children goodnight.

My "mother's kiss", her invisible strength and eternal presence, carries me in her physical absence tonight.  These have been long and lonely days. I long for my mom to kiss me on the forehead, and for her to kiss my daughter on the forehead.

There is power in the unseen.  When I look at my children in a certain way, in a mother's way, I see the kisses I've left behind.  I see them all over their little faces, like how you see smudge marks on a window if the sun shines just right.   When I look in a mirror, I see my mother's kisses; they have now turned to fine wrinkles, creases, and varying tones of flesh.

I look across the room, and I see the resting form of my sleeping daughter, curled up under a purple butterfly blanket.  I look out across the night lights of the city, and I see memories of my mother, dancing in the stars.  The two of them never even met; yet they are joined with me in this hospital room tonight, through kisses, moments, and memories.

A mother's kiss is serious business.  A mother's kiss, inside the walls of a hospital room, while praying your heart out, is holy business.

With Love and  Kisses,
Sarah.

Sabbath: The Story of How I Have NEVER Used Woolite.

It is clear that my life is full, busy, and often chaotic.  I am a wife, mother of six children, occupational therapist, childcare director, and graduate student.

Aside from a few other questions, like: "Are you crazy?", and "Are they all yours?", I often get asked "How do you do it all?".

The truth is, I don't.

I was recently sitting in the stands of a gymnastics invitational.  These events are FOUR. HOURS. LONG.  During those four hours,  I get to see my child compete, in all of her glory, for approximately one hundred and eighty seconds.  Striking up conversations with other parents is not only entertaining, it is crucial to survival.

I was talking with a few friends, passing the time, when one of them asked me: "When you hand wash Olivia's gymnastics leotard, do you use Woolite or regular detergent?".  My brain went haywire. WHEN? I hand wash? Detergent? Woolite?  Woolite and I have never even met.  I have never hand washed anything.  I almost made something up, I was so close to lying, because I was so embarrassed.

But I have listened well to my make believe, internet friend @Momastery, and I have committed myself to being a #truthteller, so I stuttered something like:

"I wash it in the washing machine, probably with dish towels, and sheets that have been peed on. No, let me revise that. My children wash it in the washing machine, probably with dish towels, and sheets that have been peed on, because I really don't do laundry, very much, at all."

The truth is, I have NEVER used Woolite.  I have NEVER hand washed anything.  I mostly don't do laundry, because I have taught my offspring to do laundry.  I haven't taught them perfectly, but it gets done.

There are so many things that I don't do.  "How do you do it all?" is a question that I almost laugh at. Because, in our home,  there is no Woolite, there is no hand washing of clothes, and laundry is done haphazardly by young children.  In fact, there is very little happening here at the Muir house, except love, life, and relative chaos.

I value a clean and tidy home, prompt and timely attendance to things, responsibility, healthy eating, and structured routines.  I really, honestly do.  But I don't always do them. In fact, sometimes I intentionally choose not to do them.

I often think about the Sabbath.  A time set apart for rest.  My family and I observe the Sabbath on Sundays by attending church, worshiping with friends, and joining together with family for lunch.
These actions are "set apart" for Sundays.  They are special traditions which remind us of the holiness of the day.

Although the Sabbath is formally observed on one, singular day, I have found myself extending it into all of my days.  By observing moments of Sabbath, space is carved out of my ordinary life to make room for the extraordinary.  I naturally, yet intentionally, choose not to do many things, like Woolite. Woolite and I will never be friends. It's not because Woolite isn't friendly or useful, but because Woolite would fill space in my life that I choose to fill with rest.

Look what happens as a result: Peed sheets, dish towels, and gymnastics leotards, join in communion, all together, in the washing machine.  The dazzling, bejeweled leotard is dancing with the urine-soaked bedclothes and the greasy rags that smell of dish water.  It's beautiful, right?  It's the extraordinary, mixing with the ordinary, right there in my Maytag.   My laundry would not have had this experience if the stunning gymnastics leotard was set apart and washed with it's own kind.

So I rest in those moments, setting myself apart from worldly expectations, and allowing space for extraordinary moments.  I allow life to happen, letting my dirty rags mix together with my beautiful garments in a tumultuous cycle.   I rest, knowing that my young children have been given, and have fulfilled, responsibility.  I rest, knowing that my gymnast's athletic body will be graced by a leotard washed in love and life, if not in Woolite.

I know and embrace that I simply cannot do all of the things, all of the time.  I do some of the things, some of the time.  The rest is Sabbath.

THE. REST. IS. SABBATH.

There she is, the jeweled beauty, resting with the filthy, dirty dishrags. 

P.S. This story was in no way intended to offend Woolite, or those who use it.

P.S.S.  Other things not done in the Muir house: Making the laundry move from the dining room table.  See above.

My Ordinary Life

My name is Sarah Muir.  I was born to my young, newlywed parents in the late seventies.   We lived in a small town.   My mom stayed at home, and my dad worked at a machine shop.  I have two sisters, and a brother.  We lived within a stones throw of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

I lived the lower middle class American dream.  We had everything we needed, and nothing we didn't. There was Sunday morning church, family dinners, and picnics. So many picnics.

I graduated from high school with a three point something GPA and the ambition to go to college.  I was the first in my family to go to college, the first to leave our hometown, and later, the first to return.  

I married my love when I was just 21 years old.  My parent's house was on one side of Main Street. He and I bought a house on the opposite side of Main Street.  We have children, jobs and a mortgage.  
I am the epitome of ordinary.  At least, that's what you would think, if you stopped reading here.  

Let's try that same story, this time with just a few of the details that make it so much more than I, boring and ordinary as I am, could have ever imagined.

My name is Sarah Muir.  I was born the first child of my parents, and the first grandchild of my mom's family, and was surrounded by an envelope of love ever since I was born. My siblings and I grew up knowing that we were the most precious things that had ever happened to our family. Without a doubt, we could have the support of at least thirty people, at the drop of a hat, for whatever we needed.  If we hadn't called to check in with our grandparents by noon each day, we would get a call from them, ordering us to come visit. We were cherished by so many.

My dad began working at a local machine shop when I was a baby, and he still works there today.  He walks back and forth to the shop, and he comes home everyday for lunch.  These days, there is no one home for him to have lunch with, but he does it anyway.  My parents took us to church every Sunday. We didn't pray together at home, and we didn't have family dinners around the table.  There is something to be said about good intentions.  My parents exuded love for us, love for family, and love for God.   They weren't systematically perfect about doing all of the "right" things, but they raised us to know what we needed to do, what was important to cling to, and how we needed to love.

When I told my family that I was going away to college, they cried.  My grandfather braced himself against the doorway and wiped his tears.   Even so, they eagerly made the four hour trip to take me to school.  I think there were ten members of my family in my dorm room, helping me decorate, making sure my roommates had everything they needed, and comforting us as we started a new journey. They would make the four hour trip, whenever needed, to bring me food, to bring me comfort, and to bring me home.

I fell in love with Brent somewhere in the midst of this.  We staggered through the throes of a relationship, complicated by young long distance and young love.  There are so many stories to tell here.  He pursued me, and he loved me, even when I was unloveable.  Love is patient.  Love is kind. We were married by candlelight on a sweltering August evening.  We led the wedding party and guests in a walking procession from the church to the backyard of my parents' home.   The yard was lit with twinkling lights, adorned by flowers, and highlighted with a dance floor which was constructed the night before. The beauty of that night guides me through darkness, even today.

We gave birth to our son Gavin while we still lived far from home.  Even so, my whole family was there, in the waiting room, anticipating his arrival.  In those same moments, my Aunt Cindy was being diagnosed with an incurable cancer, and Brent's grandmother was dancing her way toward eternity. Even through the distance, that tiny baby knew the love of family, as if they were all holding him every moment, of every day.  When we found ourselves expecting a second child, we knew that we needed to be home.  After looking at exactly one house, and making exactly one offer, our family of three moved in across the street from my parents.  Aiden was born shortly after, a smiling joy, surrounded by love.   Two years later, we grieved the loss of a third baby, and in the same year welcomed our daughter Olivia into the world.  She often speaks of this lost baby, wondering if it would have been a sister or a brother.  Olivia is all of her mother, all of her father, and has worn her heart on her sleeve since the day she was born.  These three precious children made us parents.  They are flesh of my broken flesh.  The bond that holds us together is indescribable. These three children showed us that love only grows and never runs out.

I lost my mom to cancer when she was only 54 years old.  My heart and my body ache;  the loss of a mother is visceral.  Her life, and her death, command me to do more.


Our family's heart for family is innate, primal, and instinctive.  Our eyes were opened to children, mothers, and fathers, whose families were falling apart.  Driven to share the love growing in us, we entered the foster care system, having no intentions or expectations for where the journey would lead us.  Our only goal was to love the children that entered our home, and to love their families, as long as they were in our lives.  We were foster parents to twenty children over five years.

Through this chapter in our lives, we became parents to three more beautiful children. Ana, Sofia, and Theo joined our family through adoption.  They are heart of my broken heart.  Through their birth into our family, we were able to see that family transcends bloodlines and and physical birth. They showed us that family is a communion between people, giving and receiving, sharing life and love. They also showed us that adoption is a communion between families, giving and receiving, life and love.  Through adoption, these children have been carried from family to family, mother to mother, father to father, from them to us, from her to me.

Despite the honor and joy that it is to love them, the loss and grief that brought them into our family is not lost on me.  For Ana, Sofia, and Theo, I gained the title of mother, sharing it with another soul, as they had their hearts and lives broken between us.  The gravity of this cannot be measured.

Our family swells with love, with brokenness, with pain, and with healing. We live a full and busy life.  I don't know what I want to be when I grow up.  I recently resigned from my fifteen year professional career as an occupational therapist.  I forfeited salary, benefits, and security to figure out what is next.  I am a precious child, beloved wife, dear mother, mediocre friend, broken spirit, forgiven soul, novice childcare director, struggling grad student.




I am the epitome of ordinary, living an extraordinary life. 

#communion #coffee #wine #family #adoption