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.