Our church has begun the formative stages of an adoption and foster parent ministry. It's in its infancy and Monday night was the first public informational meeting.
After a few families shared their stories of adoption (including us) a woman I'd never seen before began to share her story. As she spoke of talking with a potential birth mother, the tears came quickly for her. My heart was swiftly carried back to the times my own heart ached over each of our children. If nothing else, after the meeting I wanted to hug her and tell her that she's not in this journey alone.
As we talked, we chatted about foster care. Finally, a familiar quip rang in my ears as she said that some people she knew had said this about fostering to adopt, "Oh, how could you ever give them back if you had to?"
How many times we've heard that (and still do) when we share about our experience and calling to foster, then adopt!
I've avoided our church's sanctuary as much as possible over the last four months. Every single time I go in there, my mind reforms a closed, white casket stretched in front of the pulpit, a spray of roses and sunflowers across the top of it and my dear friend laying inside. Nearly every time, the taste of bile rises in my throat as I enter.
What should be a place of refuge has become a place of loathing.
But as I sat there, in that same sanctuary, telling this stranger that this journey of adoption isn't meant to be taken alone I hear words come from my mouth and spill into the space in front of me.
"You know though, when people say that they could never foster to adopt, it bothers me. If God clearly called you to this season, if God chooses to make it painful, then it will hurt and you will certainly hit rock bottom. But God is the rock at the bottom. You may land face down, but you will land on Him."
I sat back, looked at my friend Emily and as tears quickly spilled onto my cheeks I said, "Wow. I needed to hear myself say that."
And that's basically where I feel myself right now. Face down on the rock. Unable to stand.
Sure, there are joyful things happening around me. Amanda had her sweet baby on Sunday and I was able to be in the delivery room to take pictures. Birth is miraculous and I am still in awe of her strength. I try to find the good in the fact that we aren't going now. We get more time with our friends and family. Christmas isn't quite so bittersweet this year with a departure looming on the horizon.
But Paige won't be home this Christmas. Just like she wasn't at our house the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, which was typical.
Then, I read Missy's post today and my heart ached so desperately to be gearing up to head to a land full of brown faces, brown eyes and new culture. I sat in front of my computer weeping over all that we've lost lately and I looked back for the post I'd written about the tears and trials that came with our first 5 children. This scripture that I'd once held so close was sitting before me, begging me to believe it all over again.
I'm brokenhearted. I'm wounded. I'm weak.
I'm forcing myself to believe that Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure. I must believe it. It must be true. His understanding must be beyond my own ability to measure. Beyond my own ability to understand. It must be so.
Lord, prove to me this truth. This truth that my heart already knows but my head is struggling to comprehend.
Please, prove it once more, like you've always done before.
After a few families shared their stories of adoption (including us) a woman I'd never seen before began to share her story. As she spoke of talking with a potential birth mother, the tears came quickly for her. My heart was swiftly carried back to the times my own heart ached over each of our children. If nothing else, after the meeting I wanted to hug her and tell her that she's not in this journey alone.
As we talked, we chatted about foster care. Finally, a familiar quip rang in my ears as she said that some people she knew had said this about fostering to adopt, "Oh, how could you ever give them back if you had to?"
How many times we've heard that (and still do) when we share about our experience and calling to foster, then adopt!
I've avoided our church's sanctuary as much as possible over the last four months. Every single time I go in there, my mind reforms a closed, white casket stretched in front of the pulpit, a spray of roses and sunflowers across the top of it and my dear friend laying inside. Nearly every time, the taste of bile rises in my throat as I enter.
What should be a place of refuge has become a place of loathing.
But as I sat there, in that same sanctuary, telling this stranger that this journey of adoption isn't meant to be taken alone I hear words come from my mouth and spill into the space in front of me.
"You know though, when people say that they could never foster to adopt, it bothers me. If God clearly called you to this season, if God chooses to make it painful, then it will hurt and you will certainly hit rock bottom. But God is the rock at the bottom. You may land face down, but you will land on Him."
I sat back, looked at my friend Emily and as tears quickly spilled onto my cheeks I said, "Wow. I needed to hear myself say that."
And that's basically where I feel myself right now. Face down on the rock. Unable to stand.
Sure, there are joyful things happening around me. Amanda had her sweet baby on Sunday and I was able to be in the delivery room to take pictures. Birth is miraculous and I am still in awe of her strength. I try to find the good in the fact that we aren't going now. We get more time with our friends and family. Christmas isn't quite so bittersweet this year with a departure looming on the horizon.
But Paige won't be home this Christmas. Just like she wasn't at our house the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, which was typical.
Then, I read Missy's post today and my heart ached so desperately to be gearing up to head to a land full of brown faces, brown eyes and new culture. I sat in front of my computer weeping over all that we've lost lately and I looked back for the post I'd written about the tears and trials that came with our first 5 children. This scripture that I'd once held so close was sitting before me, begging me to believe it all over again.
He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars;
he gives to all of them their names.
Great is our Lord, and abundant in power;
his understanding is beyond measure.
Psalm 147:3-5
I'm brokenhearted. I'm wounded. I'm weak.
I'm forcing myself to believe that Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure. I must believe it. It must be true. His understanding must be beyond my own ability to measure. Beyond my own ability to understand. It must be so.
Lord, prove to me this truth. This truth that my heart already knows but my head is struggling to comprehend.
Please, prove it once more, like you've always done before.