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.