Giggles

Baby girl’s first birthday is coming up in 4 short weeks. I never could have imagined reaching this milestone with this sweet angel still in my care. As I prep and plan for our “sock-monkey” themed celebration, my heart aches for her parents. I can’t resist feeling that this day belongs to them. They were there the day she was born. This was something beautiful that I wasn’t a part of., A brief part of the baby’s story that is only their special moment to share.

I anticipated feeling a lot of different things when I signed up to be a foster parent. I knew I would be tired. I knew there would be a lot of strangers in my house, evaluating every word that nervously flies out of my mouth. I knew there would be times when I would be forced to step outside of my comfort zone to do the right thing and that this journey would be mine alone. One thing I didn’t expect was to feel this much compassion for the biological parents. I concocted this image in my head about what these parents would look and behave like. Regretfully, my initial mental images were of angry, spiteful, young people whose lives had gone seriously crooked and were beyond earthly repair. I pictured people who were too selfish to be able to see beyond the realm of “this lifestyle feels good.” Not always. I feel a constant push and pull on my heart. My conscious mind is telling me to be selfish, wary and guarded and yet God is pushing me to show them a grace and kindness that is unexpected; to let them see that we’re partners in raising their sweet baby together, guide them with a familiar hand and show them that I trust them to help grow her into a beautiful woman.

Nearly 11 months ago, I received a phone call from a placement worker, asking if I would be interested in taking on a 2 day old infant girl. Being a planner by nature, I was surprised at the ease in which I accepted. Delivered to me that morning (a mere 20 minutes after my phone call) was a tiny bundle wrapped up in a striped hospital blanket with a hand-knitted, pastel, purple bonnet. Her meager squawk sounding like a cat’s gentle meow. My heart leapt with joy. I held her close to me that night and rocked her for an uninterrupted 8 hours trying to memorize her face.  My racing mind, too anxious for sleep. I remember feeling fearful that night that I had made the wrong choice, that there were better, more experienced mothers for her. While I cradled her into the late morning, God had cradled me as well, easing my fears. Tonight during her bath, I put a puff of bubbles on the tip of her nose and she let out a full belly laugh as she looked at it with crossed eyes. Then a wide, toothy grin spread across her face, her cheeks as round as water balloons. I blew her a soft kiss and whispered Momma Amy loves you. With her lips puckered she brought her chubby hand up and pressed it against her tiny mouth and kissed it. For a brief moment, I saw a piece of me in her and my soul smiled. I wish I could bottle that feeling and carry it with me always.                        

Surprise

I have begun typing this post several times now but have found myself erasing it shortly after sentence 4. It’s not that I’m uninspired; it’s that the words that are coming out seem selfish. Far be it from me to send more negative energy into the world than we’re already breathing in. I feel guilty for housing this venomous attitude and it’s my hope that tomorrow when I roll out of this bed and my feet hit the soft carpet, I’ll truly be able to start fresh.

This past few weeks have drained me; emotionally, professionally, physically. (Can someone be drained professionally?) I’ve spent more time reacting to my circumstances than rejoicing in His love for me and I’m reminded of this by the aching in my bones. My pastor discussed today the element of surprise in following Christ. The moments that define us, not only as Christians but as beings, are the moments where we must react when God surprises us. He talked about Mary and the surprise she was given when the Angel Gabriel told her of her pregnancy. How amazing that such a gift was bestowed upon such a humble, regular woman. Without hesitation or fear she accepted His will and asserted her faith in Him.

I’ve been considering ending my journey as a foster parent. While this year of my life has been beautifully life-altering, it has also hardened me in a way I can’t willingly accept. Between case managers who are overworked, judges who seem cold and hard, biological parents who consistently come up short , and my constantly being villainized because I’m stamped with the title “foster parent”, I want to run as far away from this system as I can..the paperwork and the double standards and the random strangers walking into every room in my house to inspect it every month. I want to be able to keep my Advil in my cabinet instead of under my cupboard in a locked box and I want to be able to drink a glass of Arbor Mist without having to climb on top of a chair and stand on the tips of my toes to pull it out of the locked box on the top shelf of my pantry. I want my life to be my own. I pray on this with every breath but the answer I receive never seems to be “It’s ok. You can stop.” His answer always seems to be “Here. I will make you stronger.”    

But alas, this morning during silent prayer at church I again prayed that prayer. “When God surprises you, how will you react?” While I thought about the pastor’s question and how it applied to my life, his next phrase shot out of his mouth like an arrow headed straight towards me. “While you may be resisting it, God may be telling you to take a foster child into your home.” Message received.   

I have this vision of the way I want my life to be: In this vision, my sweet foster baby is mine forever. I want to put pigtails in her silky, strawberry blond hair on the first day of Kindergarten and kiss her on the tip of her nose before she runs into her brand-new classroom. I want her to love Jesus and I want to be the vehicle she needs to know Him. I want to build forts with her in the living room out of blankets on rainy days and I want to teach her how to be servant-minded and give even when those around her are taught to receive. I envision coming home from work each night to a man who still smiles at me when I walk through the door; Someone who is eager to learn and grow himself that way that I am. I want to live in a modest home in a small town with a wrap-around porch so I can read the paper outside and grow old with my husband. I want to always be willing to give it another shot, even when my body is weak and my spirit is weaker. I want to show my children that even when those around me live life with their fists up, when God surprises me, I will accept His will and follow Him faithfully. Even when my plan doesn’t match his. I can’t wait to see what He has in store for me.

This entry doesn’t really have an ending. I would tell my students to revise it. That’s the good thing about being a teacher. I can do what I want. With love, Amy               

What a Savior

A blog always seems like a great way to impart your sordid truths on the world. But as always, however eager I am to navigate to this website, I find myself staring at the empty screen and blinking as if everything I'd wanted to share seems so vapid compared to the bustling world around me.

I was not involved in any type of organized religion growing up, unless you include the vacation bible school I joined that one summer because the flyers around town indicated it was going to be one big underground rave with glow sticks and circus animals during the day time. I thought God was such a cool guy for wanting me to enjoy cotton candy with my friends.  I never scoffed at organized religion but I felt that true believers had a much bigger existence than my feeble little self was worthy of. Not only did I feel humbled by God, I felt unduly humbled by all things Christian. Meaningful prayers were able to fluidly roll off my friends’ tongues like a second language and I stood there truly wondering what the difference was between God and Jesus. One time a friend invited me to pray at their family dinner and although I successfully stumbled through it, it was not unlike Whoopi Goldberg’s first prayer in Sister Act. I was a timid, chubby, 6^th grader with acne and a predisposition to blend quietly into the background while my fellow co-beings existed in front of me. I couldn’t comprehend how someone could love me as His child when I had a cowlick, dirty fingernails and cussed like a sailor.

I am circling around a point here. When I moved to Florida, my heart began aching for God to fill it. I tried filling it with things of man which only increased the gaping hole in my heart. I sought out a church where I could fade comfortably into the background while I stumbled through the basics of the bible and the standard verbiage. Because of my debilitating feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, I needed a church where I could slip in without someone bringing me to the alter to introduce me, or grabbing onto my hand and playing “gather around the heathen” in silent prayer. I found a church with nearly 5,000 members. I hesitantly stepped inside the double doors one hot, August Sunday and gaped. Rows upon rows of stadium seating with lights and cameras bustled to enormous steel beams hovering above me. With a racing heart, I scampered up the steps to the very last row, clenched my brand new Bible in my hand and waited for God to speak to me. When my pastor approached the alter early that morning, God moved him out of the way and spoke to me in a voice more clear than anything I had heard before. You are ok. While I continue to fumble through my prayers each night in short choppy sentences, I know He hears me. At times, when I don’t know how or what to pray, He listens to my heart and my burden becomes His. I am a student of the Most high and I am continuously learning. What a blessing!