Lost my sh!t at Publix.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the peanut’s bedroom door opening. The paint on the door sticks to the paint on the frame and each morning it sounds quite similar to a shotgun blast when it opens. It jolts me awake faster than any cup of coffee I could possibly have brewing downstairs. Like every morning, I heard her feet shuffling down the carpeted hallway and the sound of Abby, our kitten, pouncing on her blanket as it’s trailing behind her. With one eye peaking open just a bit, I watched her heave her blanket and her Dora the Explorer doll up onto the bed, clumsily slide her mass of tangled blond hair out of her face with her hand and then shuffle back to her room for Abby Cadabby, Curious George, Baby Toby and Baby Mia.

I can gauge what type of day it’s going to be solely based on the immediate demands that are made by her when she discovers that I am, in fact, awake. My favorite moments are the ones where she wraps her arms around my neck and asks me what I dreamt about or moves my hair out of my face and tells me I’m her “best fren” and “I wike your hair, momma.” These times happen most often.

However, today I was hit with a critical Cocoa Puff interrogation which I bombed, followed by a hand over my mouth because my breath was “ginky”. I tried to redeem myself with an offer of pancakes for breakfast only to be caught off guard by a request for a “bamana”, which “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T HAVE BAMANAS? I WANT BAMANAS, MOMMA. PLEASE, I WANT BAMANAS!”

Our day proceeded in this manner. A day in which my 2 year old, a child whom I love fiercely, showed me in every possible way that I was not meeting her expectations in any area and I should be seeking employment elsewhere. I threw in a few loads of laundry, we did some crafts and then we headed out to Publix to grab some snacks for our trip to Busch Gardens. I decided it would be ok to prolong nap time for a bit.

At 20, I had all kinds of advice for mothers. I was eager to impart my knowledge and wisdom to all of the parents I saw in the grocery stores whose kids were misbehaving. I made facebook statuses berating some of the things I witnessed in public places. I was shocked at the parents whose kids were screaming at them as they hurried down the aisle, tossing groceries in their cart and acting like they didn’t even hear them. “I’m never going to be that mom.” I would say to myself. “I’m going to do it right.” My intentions were not bad. I was youthful, naïve and obviously impervious to the weight of parenthood.  

A battle typically ensues when I try to tuck the peanut’s legs into the shopping cart. No words are said aloud, but there is a very clear, unspoken agreement that she is going to spread her feet as far apart as possible when it’s time to put them in the cart and that I am to accept it. To avoid this battle, I bypassed the cart today and asked her to be my big helper. She did great holding the green basket and trucking along beside me tossing in the items that I handed her. We had a great conversation about dolphins and sea turtles and how she doesn’t “wike corn dogs. Them’s nasty.” Then, it happened. I tried to avoid it. I steered her away from it and did my best to redirect her towards the fruit snacks but by that time, her eyes had locked onto it. At the end of the aisle sat an enormous display of inflated Spongebob Mylar balloons. When I informed her she wouldn’t be bringing one home with her after she asked me multiple times, she lost. her.  cool. With several other people in the aisle, my child ripped her hand out of mine, dropped the green basket on the ground furiously and threw herself backwards onto the cold tile in a full on tantrum. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? My mind raced. I decided on flight. I could feel the heat rise in my face as I glanced around to find a young couple staring at me in horror and a 21 year old Amy-type scoffing as I lifted my screaming, infuriated child by the armpits and tucked her under my arm like a tiny, fire-breathing football, leaving my basket behind me like a bad memory, its contents all over the floor. I could still feel the heat in my face and the unforgiving Florida sun was beating on us both as I stomped to the car and my squealing baby squirmed under my arm. I must have looked like a madwoman. I heaved my door open, put her in her seat, buckled her in and we took off on a silent ride home, embarrassed about how we had both behaved.

My purpose in writing this is to out loud, in front of all of you, give myself a break.. and give every mom a break that is reading this.. and a verbal fist shaking to all of the young Amy-types that feel compelled to share their novice opinions via nasty comments or scrunched eyebrows about something they have never experienced.

I promised myself that my house would always be clean when I grew up. Reality: I have dishes in my sink every night and my laundry will never be done. My child is clean. Our books are read. We have spent our night singing songs and making crafts.

 I promised I would never wear “mom jeans” or leave the house without mascara. Reality: My child is well-dressed and is a beautiful representation of what I feel is most important in my morning routine.

My child will never scream and cry in public. Reality: My child is learning boundaries. It’s an ugly job.

 I always said I will never yell at my child. Reality: My child needs to see I’m human and I make mistakes. She also needs to see what a truly humble apology looks like.

At 20 years old, I imagined I’d be married by now, driving a Scion and travelling to Europe on my summer vacations. My husband would be a CEO of a major corporation and our children would be flawless and lovely. I would wear floppy hats on the beach and drink margaritas while my kids buried each other lovingly in the sand and said kind words to each other and I would read political satire on my very fancy E-Reader as I sifted sand between my meticulously, pedicured toes.       

Instead, I’m watching endless hours of Team Umizoomi, painting tiny toenails, scooping kitty poop, changing garbage bags, paying bills, brushing through soft, bouncy curls, getting the best hugs around the neck, learning this little person, fixing barbies, and losing my sh!t at Publix. It’s not what I pictured, but it’s real and it’s mine. I’ll take it ;)   

  

My reward.

I pulled into my parking spot at school this morning after dropping the peanuts off at daycare. My windows were down, the spots next to me were empty and the orange sun had just begun peeking over the mass of familiar houses in the subdivision, framing their shadowy peaks. I could hear my rubber tires press against the gritty cement and tiny bits of gravel pop underneath the weight of my car. I coasted into the spot and turned off the key. I took in a deep breath and smiled, which seemed to be the only thing I felt the urge to do at that moment.

When I signed up to be a foster parent, I had to swallow the fact that I had most likely signed away my future as a girlfriend, as a wife. After several relationships stalled because of my lack of free time, or their fear that I was trying to reel them into being a father, I had accepted the fact that a husband wasn’t in the cards for me and that God had called me to do something much different. I trusted that His reward for me would be bountiful. I celebrated in my friend’s relationships and engagements and pregnancies and prayed often that the choices I was making were correct. I often choked down that feeling of missing out on something, reminding myself that God’s love would never leave me wanting more.

It has been a few months since I’ve found the time to post, and my how blessed I’ve been by His grace. In November, my best friend came to visit from New Orleans, pulling me out of my fine-tuned single mother survival routine. In just one day, my life changed so beautifully. In a weird twist of fate, I ended up in the same place as my boyfriend, the golfer. The details are not as important as the outcome but they involved some Bud Light, a seedy bar and a cocktail jukebox mixture of Jason Aldean and Lil Wayne.

In just a few short months, I’ve watched my life transform in ways I’m so undeserving of. While it is far too soon to tell, I am headed towards the path of adoption with my sweet little peanut. While I type this, I can’t help but choke back tears as I remember just a few months ago typing in this same context, only the fear of losing her shook me to my very core and at times it felt hard to breathe. Now, as I type this I see a picture of my future as her mommy, I picture her toothy smile in her Kindergarten school pictures and her belly laugh as she rides a pony for the first time.    

At times, being a foster parent shows you the bad in people, it’s all you hear about and all of that bad seeps inside you completely undetected, tempting you to believe that it is all life has to offer. I’m trying to figure out how to word this next part so that it sounds as genuine and sincere as it truly feels in my heart and not just orchestrated in order to fill up page space. I’ve met a man that shows me the good in people. I wish I could find words to describe how it feels to watch my child curl up on the couch next to him and rest her head on his hip while she watches t.v., especially considering how deeply he despises Spongebob Squarepant’s grating squeals. I watch her seek him in times of comfort and plead at his feet for more chocolate chip mini muffins. Knowing that it’s not expected of him, I’ve watched him read her a bedtime story and fix her dinner plate. I’ve felt him squeeze my hand when life gets overwhelming or she pushes me to my limits and I’ve been a grateful witness to his kindness and patience when my house is full of prodding case managers, health inspectors and child therapists. He’s a horrible dancer, we aggravate each other sometimes and he will never support me in my efforts to incorporate more vegetables into our daily meals but he has shown me, in a blinding way, God’s love. He is my reward.

Ephesians 4:2 with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love,

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.