Transition

I sat here and typed out this long diatribe about all of the different things that are happening right now in my life and the peanut's life and then I deleted it. Unfortunately, it was all written at the expense of being honest. I took out chunks at a time until the screen was completely blank. And I've decided that's where we're both at. Blank. I can't flip to the end of this novel and pre-read the resolution so that it lessens the sting or skim the next 6 months worth of pages so I can have some sort of idea where this wild author is going to take us. I'm not the writer here.

Two of my friends came over the other night weilding cold beer and a bottle of wine. We sat around talking while our children dumped toyboxes, pulled down curtains and tackled each other to the ground over ownership of a simple, plastic, yellow cup. My friend Shannon had mentioned what a trial fostering has been for us and that's the reason she could never do it. Instantly, like a reflex, I said "Well, if I had known it was going to end this way.." and then I stopped. I didn't know how to finish that sentence and I didn't want to. It wasn't true. I glanced across the room and watched the peanut clutching her yellow cup against her chest and stuffing it full of plastic french fries and I imagined what my life would be like if I had never met her. I chose my next words carefully. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me." I catch myself often saying things I don't mean, nodding when I don't agree and supporting ideas I don't believe in. But in that moment, I've never believed something so deep in my heart.

I've heard that good writing doesn't serve its people if it isn't honest. Rewind to Fall 2009. Fostering wasn't even a consideration. I had just been dumped by a boyfriend that I had wanted to end it with from the beginning due to his obsessive man-love for Tim Tebow and the way he whispered sweet nothings each night to his 4 cats while I laid in bed next to him, (cat butts all up in my face), yet I didn't want to admit defeat and change my status back to "single." If he hadn't decided he'd had enough of my erratic mood swings and snarky comments towards him, we would probably be married by now, me, him and my pride. I could infer I would have a whole different type of blog. It was a Saturday. I had just bought my Jack Russell Terrier the week before in an attempt to fill that "hyper, emotional, overly dramatic male" void that my ex boyfriend had left. It was 1:30 in the afternoon. I was wearing his bright orange Florida Gators tee-shirt and an offensively old pair of ripped up pajama pants. I had one sock on. Kobe was tearing up a roll of toilet paper in the living room of my tiny apartment and I was laying on my giant red sofa. I lifted my cell phone. Nope, no calls. My blinds were closed. Sunlight was peeping in between the slats. Soap Network hummed in the background and I stared up at the ceiling fan, watching it spin in circles. That was my life. God was calling me to do something so much bigger that day but it would take another full year for me to recognize His voice.

Being a mom has brought a bright color to areas of my life that I didn't even realize I was missing. When I told my friends and family that she would be staying with me another 6 months, I saw this look of panic cross their faces and I understood. It's the same panic I felt in my heart as the judge gave her ruling on Thursday. Can I do it? Some friends replied with quiet words of encouragement. Some friends were furious that I'm going to spend the next 6 months again in limbo. Some friends expressed concern for the peanut's ability to transition home and some friends blatanly asked "How do you want me to feel about this? I will feel that way." On my walk to parking garage after our hearing, my mind raced. I felt like my brain was a giant switchboard being lit up in more areas than I could attend to in one short walk. The main area needing attention was the one shouting "how do I feel? how do I feel?" My feelings are beyond the realm of explaining. I feel elated. I feel sad and anxious. I feel guilt. I feel hopeful. I feel fearful.

Mostly, I feel honored. Honored that I get to be a part of her story for another 6 months. Honored that He's using my humble body and hands to mold her and be her vehicle to knowing Him. Our life is written by Him. He doesn't need my editing skills or input. He doesn't make mistakes. I don't get to know what happens on the pages to come but I can always look back and recognize how much more beautiful life has become. I've come to love this crazy story.

Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)
11 For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

If you want to love the way God loves, resign your rights

I had a dream a couple nights ago that the peanut and I were heading into Chuck E. Cheese's. I won 5,000 tokens from a radio contest by texting the word "Languid" to 36500. (I'm assuming this dream was inspired by my earnest attempts to win tickets to the IHEART Radio Music Festival) We were walking on a narrow path to get into the doorway. The pathway was made of yellow and golden bricks and the peanut's little hand was interlocked with mine. Her sandals were shuffling against the cement bricks as her pace quickened and she squealed and laughed. Several workers stumbled over themselves to open the doors for us and they greeted us warmly. They had built rides specifically for us that had never been used. In the background I could see an enormous chocolate fountain and tables filled with platters of food. Peanut looked at me and smiled and we continued down the path. Suddenly a loud clank and a thud came from the parking lot and her parents jumped out of their car and darted towards us wearing their fancy dress clothes. Peanut's mom kept tripping on the yellow bricks as she tried to run so she crawled towards us. I reached down to offer her a hand and lifted her up. They picked up the peanut and we walked side by side towards the door. With our arms linked, we squeezed together trying to fit into the door. When we realized we couldn't we decided to line up single file. Mom, Peanut, Dad and then Me. Mom stepped through, Peanut walked through, Dad stepped through and then this uncomfortable shifty looking teenage boy in a uniform lifted the velvet rope just as I was about to enter and held up his hand signalling me to stop and firmly stated "We're at capacity, ma'am." I stood frozen. He lifted my hand, unwrapped my fingers from around the pouch full of tokens and walked them over to Peanut's parents. I think this story speaks for itself.

I haven't gone to church since April. I've composed all sorts of flimsy excuses when my friends ask why they haven't seen me there. I typically blame life's circumstances and cross my fingers that they accept it without questioning me further. I'm disappointed in myself and it's easy for me to look at the gaping holes I see in my life as a result of it. My thoughts are lacking inspiration. It's hard to get a sentence out that is more weighty or bracing than "Guess what happened to me today." I've been sitting on my back lanai for over 2 hours listening to the rain hit the roof and the only thought that's come to me is that I need someone to pour some life into me. Sometimes God's plan for you hurts. Being angry at Him is easy. Denying His existence is easy. Ignoring His call when it's time to do something that you know is going to be hard comes naturally to someone like me. Loving God and trusting in His sovereignty and goodness requires a strength you can only draw from feeling His love for you. When I step back into that church, I know He will consume me. I will receive a message seemingly designed for me alone and I will hear God's voice speaking to me directly through my pastor's earthly body. I will feel safe in that church. I will feel loved in that church. I will feel held. And then when I leave that church, I will do the work that God tells me to do. This is what I've been avoiding.  

"If you want to love the way God loves, resign your rights." That means, Amy, give up control, you control freak ;) It is not my job to crucify the peanut's parents about their choices no matter how much I fear for this precious child. It is not my job to pass judgment . It is not my job to try to convince others to rally around in the pain I feel in my heart by speaking badly about them so that I am not bobbing in my stagnant pool of sadness all alone. I watched a podcast of one of my pastor's messages a few weeks ago and he discussed Romans 12:19. He talked about still offering more of yourself when it is hard; still giving when what you give is being mishandled. This is the time I need to wake up in the morning and do the work God has asked me to do, and at night when my heart is aching and my soul hurts, trust that He'll hold me and breathe His strength into me, granting me another day. 

Romans 12:17 Repay no one evil for evil but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, live peacebly for all. Beloved never avenge yourselves but leave it to the wrath of God. For it is written, vengeance is mine, I will repay says the Lord

Change in Plans

I learned on Tuesday that I will be keeping the peanut for at least another 4 months. As much as I would love to sing and scream out the details of the unfairness in our abysmal mess of a child welfare system, I will instead rejoice graciously that God has granted me more time to be her mommy. I am being honest and sincere when I say that this certainly came from left field and hit me like a sock full of batteries. I was sitting here for over a half hour typing and erasing, adding ideas and then replacing them.This was a huge week for us so I felt like I should be able to write something equally monumental and yet instead of my thoughts flowing out of me in beautiful form, they were stunted and uninspired. Eventually, I decided to admit defeat as my post was going nowhere fast.I stretched my arms, cracked my knuckles, closed my laptop and crawled around on the floor gathering the random strands of Mardi Gras beads that the peanut left a trail of on her way upstairs to bed.

As I crawled around on the floor, I remembered the sting I felt a week ago when I was putting her toys inside a giant rubbermaid tub to go to her parent's house with her.I had already dropped the peanut off at my friend's house and I still had an hour before I had to leave for court so I decided to pack up a few more things. I lifted each toy and smiled and laughed at the memories it brought and then gently positioned them all next to each other precisely and carefully as if treating them tenderly could somehow change the situation. I imagined how her parents would react to inviting this piece of my home into theirs' and wondered if this tub would ever be opened. I felt a familiar twinge of anger towards them but thankfully it was fleeting. I pulled the orange rubbermaid lid out of my pantry closet and sealed it on top of the tub when I looked down and realized that I was clutching her Mardi Gras beads in my tight fist. I held them to my heart, letting a few tears fall and then I looked at them and I couldn't help but laugh when I pictured them dangling from her neck and bouncing against her chubby tummy when she runs, or the wild screams she belted out when I had to untangle them from her curly blond hair or unwrap them from the steering wheel on her riding toy.

I have to be careful about the way I write this next paragraph. I have pecked at the keyboard and then erased it completely several times over trying to formulate my words in the exact way I want them to be interpreted. Maybe I'm working too hard but it is summer vacation after all and I have a child that goes to bed at 7:00 p.m. so where else does my loyalty lie at this hour? On court days, to say I am twisted in knots is an understatement. I tiptoe into the courtroom and try to swallow what feels like a beanie baby lodged in my throat. My hands sweat and my cheeks flush and without fail my licensing mentor nudges me in the arm and jokingly tells me to remind myself to breathe in and out. I just smile and rest my back against the cold metal of the folding chair feigning confidence and inner calm. Everyone feels the elephant in the room; its presence is suffocating. I can't say what happened in there but I can describe the feelings I had when the severity of the situation shot towards me like a fierce cannon. She's coming home with me again.

I pictured myself unpacking her boxes of clothes and placing them neatly back in her dresser. I pictured myself leaning down to scoop her up at daycare and feeling her stubby arms wrap around my neck and I imagined our silly dinners together where she practices balancing each green bean on her forehead. I felt an overwhelming sense of victory that I had more days with her and then I looked across the courtroom.Her parents. We had made arrangements in the court waiting room about the time they would come to pick her up, the items I was sending home with her, the plans we would make to meet up in the future so I could watch her grow. They spoke sincerely and enthusiastically. I had walked into court that day preparing to lose something that I loved and treasured so very much and in the midst of my selfish joy at the turn of events, I watched the parents of my child lose the hope they had of bringing their precious daughter home with them that day.

A good friend reminded me today that when it is my turn to go to Heaven, I will be accountable for my life. What will that day look like for me? I want to know that I was kind when it wasn't always warranted and understanding when it was hard. I want to know that I acted with grace when I was able and tried harder when I wasn't. I want to know that I could be a comfort to others in the midst of my joy and still be joyful in the midst of my tears. I want to be the woman God wants me to be. I continue to pray daily that God's grace covers us all during this transition in our lives. Please fit us into your prayers tonight. We so desperately need it.           

My little birdie

Something strong hit me this weekend and momentarily took my breath away. Each week the little peanut's parents and I meet in a parking lot at a restaurant halfway between each of our homes. We exchange pleasantries, I unstrap her from her carseat, sneaking a kiss on her forehead without them seeing, and hand her over to them. We have been meeting in this manner since last August. Sometimes the conversation is minimal and tense and sometimes we laugh and chatter like friends, almost forgetting that each word we exchange is carefully documented by all parties involved.


On Friday, I pulled into the parking lot a bit early. I unstrapped the peanut from her carseat and brought her into the front with me. There was a cool breeze, so I rolled down the window and turned my car off. She tugged on the steering wheel, pretending to drive and laughed each time I honked the horn. We both watched quietly out my front window at the people buzzing about around us and a bird landed on the hood. She softly mimicked its chirps, waved and then pointed at it with her chubby finger. I watched quietly as her blue eyes darted back and forth, silently following the tiny bird's trek across my car. She gasped with surprise and then giggled when its wings flapped and he flew away. She climbed up my body, using the sleeve of my shirt to pull her up and stuck her head out of the window to see where it went. Her pointy sandals were pinching my leg and she started jumping up and down when she saw the bird land on the car next to us. She looked back at me, studying my reaction so I smiled and laughed, so happy to see that this sweet doll's gentle spirit is in tact and so far removed from the circumstances surrounding us. In that moment, I selfishly thought to myself "No one can love her like I do." I carry this thought around with me always, like an ugly badge that I wear on my sleeve in case I think the world is forgetting about our journey. I'm not proud of these thoughts, but by acknowledging them as part of the package deal, I can find the strength to relinquish their power over me.  


Her parents rounded the corner in their car. The peanut's eyes darted to them instantly, recognizing the familiar hands waving out the window at her. She stretched her arms out to them. They pulled to a stop next to me and her daddy got out. I opened my door and set the peanut down, her legs already moving before they touched the concrete. She raced to him with her arms wide open and she wrapped herself around his leg. He lifted her high into the air and blew on her tummy and she scrunched up her nose and giggled. He gently handed her back to me so she could give me a hug. She wrapped her soft, chubby arms around my neck and then moved her forehead to my lips so I could kiss it and then she climbed back into his arms "Tell Miss Amy bye bye" he said while he moved her hand up and down. I waved goodbye and smiled warmly.


When I pulled out of the parking lot, I slowed down at a stoplight and nervously bit my lip as I watched their car pull up next to mine heading in the same direction. I know what I was afraid to see and it happened to be exactly what I saw. I glanced over and saw the peanut smile as her big brother tickled her tummy. I watched her parents having a conversation in the front seat, her mom reaching over to change the radio station, her dad peeking into his rearview mirror and smiling. It was then it hit me, I'm her foster mom. I know it sounds like a revelation that should've been made months ago, but this is an important one that I needed to come into in my own time. Of course I always knew she wasn't mine, I felt that familiar twinge of pain every time I watched her reach a new milestone and drank it in as if it were my last one. When you are caring for a child your role in their life loses its title. Watching them in their car that day, I realized that the peanut is a piece of their puzzle. There is a special, intricately made spot created just for her.


I'm her temporary home. Her in between. It's true.. no one can love her like I do. My love for her is unique and irreplaceable. My first child. Her first momma. Her family can't love her the way that I have, but they can love her in a brand new way, unique only to them, a special love that only they share.


Although my journey with her is ending, I believe when I let her go my little birdie will fly.

Tear Soup

Today was a beautiful day. The breeze was perfect and we enjoyed our picnic at the Sesame Street Safari in Busch Gardens. Watching the little peanut grab ahold of Elmo's hand and then kiss him when he bent down to hug her melted my heart. She's growing in leaps and bounds and I've been a fortunate witness to the beautiful little lady she's turning into. 

Despite these moments, and because of them, I'm so feeble and fragile right now.. I've let life's circumstances mold me, instead of letting my Maker's hands. I've found myself thriving on negative energy and it's grown inside of me like a toothy monster, feeding off of circumstances beyond my control. I'm angry and it's manifested itself in snarky, rude comments and lots of intentional eye rolling. I understand this anger. I own up to it. I recognize it, and yet I find myself coming up short when it comes to taking the reigns on its power over me.

I've unknowingly stamped unfair conditions on God's love and He has again proven that He alone controls our fate. I've always battled with the notion of prayer when His plan for me has been sealed since before my birth. And yet I've prayed so hard lately, (eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white from clenching them together kind of prayer). He has woven people into our lives to serve a short term in helping us grow to become better, more accurate reflections of Him. The learning comes when we have to let them go.


The hardest battle I fight when following Christ is handing over control when I know that His plan for us will still include unbearable pain. I think about all of the injuries from my past and the methods devoid of God that I've used to mend them. Quick fixes with crooked healing and noticeable scars. I accept my pain this time. My grief will bring me close to Him in a raw, cleansing way that my wounded soul needs. It will take a long time I believe, but He will be faithful to me.


What I can't accept is that His plan for the peanut may cause her pain. I want her to have the tools to tackle life's shortcomings and to be able to feel confident despite a wounded heart. Even though it seems silly, sometimes I feel like He has forgotten about her. I want Him to speak to me so clearly, so vividly, so loudly that I can't deny it. Amy, I'm watching her. I want her to know Christ intimately.  I want her to appreciate the warmth of the sun on her face and liken it to His hand on her cheek. I want Him to reveal His glory to her, and quickly, so that her faith can develop and pulse through her tiny body when she is scared or confused. She will be going home in less than 2 weeks and I feel myself buckle at the knees each morning when I go to get her out of her crib. She wraps her arms around my neck like dainty ribbons and then kisses me on the cheek. The streetlights glow through her dimly lit bedroom and we battle as I try to get her dressed while she twists and contorts her body, straining to see my Jack Russell Terrier playing with her toy. Each tiny coo, I imprint into my memory, tucking it away for a time when I feel strong enough to let it out.


I bought a book from Amazon.com called Tear Soup. It's a children's fiction book. I bought it for a student but I've taken so much solace from it. It chronicles a grieving elderly woman named Grandy who has suffered a big loss. The book never specifies what her loss is which allows the reader to mold the story to fit their own unique needs. The author compares grieving to making "Tear Soup." I cried when I read the book because it was such a gentle way to approach grief. Everyone takes different amounts of time cooking their soup. Everyone's recipe for Tear Soup is different. No one can tell you how to make your Tear Soup or that you're doing it wrong. Some people may be angry at you for spending so much time making Tear Soup and tell you that you've been cooking far too long. Some people have made their Tear Soup from a can, trying to cook it hastily and clean it up but their healing wasn't fully complete. It was such a brilliant way to make tangible such an abstact process.

I don't know Jesus the way I'd like to. I don't know the Bible as well as I want to. I resist forming a solid bond with my God, without meaning to. Sometimes I feel I trivialize God's power so I am able to wrap my head around it. I feel silly at times for believing that I know better than He does, what is best for me, what is best for my child. I am His student. I am always learning. How blessed I am to be given the chance.

A Hungry Caterpillar

Whenever I finish a blog post, I have the option to click "SHARE" in the bottom lefthand corner, alerting my facebook friends. It seems ritual to let the cursor hover over the button for a minute, lingering there until I find the courage to bite my lip, squeeze both eyes shut and click. I never know what is going to come out of the end of my fingertips and I think that true, genuine thoughts can easily be cheapened when we tailor them to suit an audience.


Have you ever been in the midst of one of those moments when you're so overwhelmed with an emotion that your stomach flutters and you wonder if it's possible for the feeling to actually break you? I lifted the Hungry Caterpillar Birthday cake off of the picnic table and slowly made my way towards baby K, who was sitting very patiently, yet very confused in her big girl high chair. I lit the giant, wax number 1 on top of her cake and the crowd around us started singing Happy Birthday. K studied my eyes looking for my reaction to let her know everything was ok. When I smiled back at her she lit up with a toothy grin and clapped her hands. Smack dab in the middle of the chaos, I took a quick second to glance around at the people surrounding her, taking her picture, singing and cheering, and my heart did somersaults. For the few brief seconds that it took to sing that song, there were at least 20 sets of eyes focused on only her, at least 20 people smiling at her and celebrating her birth, celebrating her life. I pray daily, sometimes hourly it seems, that God be gentle with this sweet girl and that He let her feel His love through the warmth and kindness in the people around her. And that on the days when she feels wounded and she can't figure out a way to soothe the pain, her heart can remember all of the people that loved her when she was 1, even when her conscious mind can't.


That day was a precious treasure for me to carry with me also. It's funny how in a brief moment of self-pity you can spout out statements about how uncaring the world is and how "unpeopled" your life is and then suddenly you look down to see your friends around you have created a safety net you didn't even know was being woven. I get so caught up in my own struggle that I didn't realize how many friends of mine have opened their hearts to loving baby K, knowing that they too will have to grieve her loss.. and yet they plow forward with me, head-on, in giving her the best life we can provide. She has knitted us together in such a special way and lifted my little heart :)