Redefining Greatness

           Each summer, I have high hopes of achieving greatness in motherhood. And each fall I realize that greatness is highly overrated. Sometime in August I become very okay with mediocrity and the whole “just keep them alive” method of parenting. (It’s okay to judge me if you must. I’m far too tired to care anyway.)

            I start out the summer being a “Yes” Mom. I tell the kids they can have the second popsicle, that they can use the playdough without supervision, that they can stay up late to catch fireflies. And by August I am back to my “No” Mom self, swiftly denying all access to Dad’s tools, things that require all of my batteries, nail polishes/paints/anything that stains, and all things that are sugar-based.

            I’m unsure why I feel that each June will be different than the last – that my children will have matured magically in the previous 9 months, that they won’t fight incessantly, or that they won’t suck my love for summer away once again. But each summer I test out my re-found optimism, only to realize that it doesn’t quite fit in with me and my special needs family. Because in a home filled with our specific kind of nuts, we don’t have the strength for continual optimism.

            No, in our home, we have roles that we hold tightly to – ones that don’t allow for much deviation from out callings. We have myself, The Enforcer – I’m the rule-setter, consequence-maker, and death-glarer. We have my husband, The Worker – the one that is gone all day and then gets to play with our spawn, giving him the extra title of The Fun One. Then there’s my oldest, The Bully. He’s the one that taunts, teases, and pinches the minute my back is turned. But its okay, because my next oldest is The Tattler, also known as The Instigator. She is the reporter of all things (necessary or not), the one that loves to hear her own voice, and the little shadow that begs to be pinched so she has something else to tattle about. And finally, we have The Toddler. He’s 2, he tantrums, and he’s supposed to be my “normal one”.

            Yeah, optimism is quickly replaced by realism each and every summer. But before you think we are too pessimistic for your taste, let me give you a glimpse into one particularly warm July day…

            The Toddler woke promptly at 6am, ensuring that he could start his energetic throwing of toys before the heat became too great. But hey, since he wasn’t throwing the toys at the dogs or the television, I continued to pay bills and do laundry before the Bigs woke up… which was naturally 20 minutes later. The rest of the morning was spent reminding children to do their morning routine, the very same routine they’ve been doing every day for years. I stared at their shocked faces when they were informed that yes, indeed, their underwear needed to be changed every day. For always.

            We did daily homework assignments to ensure that no one became stupid over the summer… this meant that I spent an hour arguing with The Tattler that 10 +23 does not equal 1023, all the while The Bully wailed that he couldn’t understand his story problem: “Billy had 18 apples and gave Tommy 6. Tommy then gave 3 apples to Judy. How many apples does Tommy now have?” Meanwhile, The Toddler ate all the crackers and screamed every time a commercial interrupted his Paw Patrol marathon.

            We finally finished all the assignments and my bills got paid (sort of) so we promptly got ready for The Tattler’s library program that morning. Only, where was my phone? I had it earlier while I did the banking, but where was it now? No worries… we found it a half hour later… in the refrigerator, courtesy of The Toddler.

            We were the family running into the library drenched in sweat, A) because we have no air conditioner and B) because we are incapable of attending any library program on time. I don’t know why and I no longer have the motivation to care. I handed my middle child over to the sweet ladies in charge as I avoided the irritated glances at their watches. The Bully began looking for a new book while The Toddler attached himself to a handful of cars at the train table.

            I sat anxiously, waiting for the inevitable tantrum that The Toddler throws each and every time we enter the library. It’s the place where he had his first injury (last summer, banged lip off the train table, bled all over their carpet), where we screamed bloody murder in the bathroom for ALL to hear (two summers ago, while trying not to smack his head off the toilet paper holder as I had to nurse him in the bathroom because I was asked not to nurse him in the children’s section), and where he continues to dominate all the toys because by being the baby of the family, it’s basically survival of the fittest.

            That day was no different. I watched in slow motion as my small child grabbed a toy away from a sweet little boy with Down’s Syndrome. The boy tried to get his toy back, but my child in turn hit him with the toy. It was like I was moving through jello, unable to run through the sea of scattered toys fast enough, when the other boy began to scream a high-pitched wail that was not only warranted, but appreciated (because, hey, it wasn’t my kid screaming for a change).

            I promptly grabbed up The Toddler, apologizing profusely as I handed my purse off to my oldest. I ran my now-screaming baby out to the parking lot as he hit and kicked, flapped and hollered. Outside it was a balmy 831 degrees and my child’s sweat was making it impossible to hold him as he raged. And, as I fought to control a person 1/4th my size in the public library’s parking lot, a police officer pulled up alongside me.

            “Everything okay, ma’am?” he asked with concern.

            Sweat dripping into my eyes, making my hair stick to my running make-up, I tried to smile as I responded, “Oh, of course! Just a bit of a toddler tantrum is all!” I made a slight attempt at a chuckle, but it ended up coming out as more of a maniacal laugh than anything.

            Twenty minutes and a two walks around the block, The Toddler was still being a jerk, but it was time to go in and claim my daughter from her program. It was then that I looked down and noticed that, amidst the struggle with my youngest, my wide-necked t-shirt somehow had managed to be pulled all the way down, underneath my left boob. I had talked with our local law enforcement and walked two blocks with my one of my breasts completely hanging out. (And no, I didn’t feel a breeze, thanks to my super unattractive full-coverage mom bra.)

            Defeated and repositioned, I threw my kid over my shoulder and marched through the library to claim The Tattler. The sweet librarians once again eyed me with fear because my child’s screaming was interrupting their announcements. I forced a smile and said something clever like, “Kids, what do ya do, right?” before grabbing all of my children and running-not-running for the door.

            We arrived home just in time for The Toddler to take a nap, which means that he pulled his weenie out and peed through his crib like a boss just before drifting off. But I didn’t care. The pee would still be there when he woke up and there was no way that I was going to wake him to change his sheets. So I turned the fan on him in an attempt to dry up some of the wetness, like any mediocre, realist mom would do.

            I came back down the stairs to see The Bully pinning down his sister as he wrenched her arm behind her back. Grabbing him up by the scruff and then swatting his bottom, I sent him immediately to his room. The Tattler proceeded to tell me that her brother had just pinned her on the ground and wrenched her arm behind her back. (Yes, thank you for stating the obvious. Would you care to do any other work for my eyes, like tell me the color of the walls or describe to me my own outfit?) But because I still had just a smidgen of Good Mom still in me, I refrained from the sarcasm and reminded her that I had just taken care of the issue, assessing her arm as we talked.

            It was then that I noticed the dog poop on the floor. Just because of life.

            Meanwhile, The Toddler was awakened from his nap by a mooing Bully who refused to calm himself down. Not that it mattered, because we had a church event to leave for and there was still the whole pee incident happening upstairs in the crib.

            All bodily secretions sufficiently cleaned, we managed to make it to the church on time. Naturally The Toddler proceeded to push down another baby in our church and scream at the top of his lungs when redirected. To keep the peace, I put him in the nursery's pack-n-play for a time-out. However, The Tattler proceeded to inform me that I was a bad mother for just leaving him to cry without getting him out. At that point, I gave her one of my infamous death glares, reminding her that she was insanely out of line and should probably keep her well-researched parenting advice to herself.

            The Bully sulked in the corner and refused to talk to anyone, The Tattler cried for being glared at, and The Toddler’s screams could still be heard 3 rooms away. It was then that a sweet friend of mine from out church mentioned that I should get my youngest checked for autism.

            Tears welled in my eyes, not at the thought that my son could have autism, but at the fact that I had already asked his pediatrician this very question and was assured that he was completely NOT autistic – leaving 2 options: He was either a terrible child, or I was a terrible mother. Either way, the tears were there and I did my best to hold them at bay while I made small talk and acted like everything was fine.

            We left the event early because… well, because I have kids.

            Upon arriving home, I noticed that the temperature had cooled ever so slightly, so I told the kids to play outside. And as I stepped through the grass to set my purse on the patio, my foot got stuck in a hole that one of the dogs had dug and my ankle painfully rolled until I heard a snap. Since I was in my own yard and there was no sense in holding back anymore, I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

            Terrified, The Tattler ran inside and got me every ice pack we own. The Bully attempted to keep The Toddler from crawling on me like I was a jungle gym… because normal toddlers take crying as a call for playtime, apparently?

            My husband arrived home minutes later to me sitting in the yard with ice packs surrounding my swollen ankle. He saw my puffy eyes and listened as I told him about the library and my boob, the police and the wrenching of the arm, the poop and the pee, the church and the hole. I told him that I was a bad mother, incapable of achieving greatness.

            After sending me to my room to recover, The Worker/Fun One played with the kids in the yard. I heard them laughing and following directions. No one pinched or peed on anything. No one screamed or tattled. Everyone just played. In the distance I could hear a dog vomiting, but I didn’t go downstairs to clean it up. It would inevitably still be there in the morning.

            Two weeks later, I went on vacation with my kids, my parents, my brother and my nephew. I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of unwinding. The Toddler only peed on things twice and my parents took over when The Tattler and The Bully got into it. I relinquished my crown as The Enforcer for almost 9 days and found myself laughing with my children. I even got to be The Fun One a few times!

            So, as August has begun to wind us down to those last few moments of summer, I am okay with my mediocre status. I realize that it doesn’t make me a failure to not reach greatness each summer. It’s okay to say “No” and to hide the hammer and nails and to take naps when The Toddler finally goes down for his afternoon sleep. It’s okay to reclaim my batteries and make bedtime earlier. And it’s certainly okay to be The Fun One sometimes.

           But whatever the role, whatever the situation, whatever the daily liquids I get to scrub… I can rest easy, knowing that I kept them alive for one more summer. And that, my friends, is greatness redefined.

When Bio Parents Die

           In the world of adoption, there are so many issues that parents and children face. Whether the parent is adoptive, foster, or biological, there are numerous decisions and issue to consider. Open versus closed adoption, visitation schedules, when or if to tell a child they were adopted, what information to share about biological parents and health histories are only a few in a sea of vast choices that families need to make, depending on their particular circumstances.

            My older two children were adopted out of the foster care system when they were 4- and 6-years-old. There was never any question they were adopted, as they had and still have vivid memories of their pasts. They are half-siblings, both sharing the same mother but having different fathers. My daughter knows nothing of her birth father – he was incarcerated at the time of her birth and signed rights over immediately. My son, Cameron, however, knew very much about his birth father.

            He knew the feel of the man’s belt on his back, legs, and bottom.  He knew the signs of drug use and saw first-hand the relentless torment that an addict can inflict on young children. He knew the fear of seeing his pets killed, having his house set on fire, and being abandoned in a hospital – left wondering if anyone would ever be back to pick him up. And he knew the terror of nightmares. Ones that still haunt him to this day, reminding him that he may never, in fact, be safe enough to dream like a regular boy.

            And now, my son knows the feeling of confusion. While perusing the online local newspaper, I came across the obituary of Cameron’s birth father. In a state of shock, I jumped up from my chair, my body unsure of where it was going exactly, only knowing that it could no longer stay in its previously seated position. My husband had taken the kids to a local fair and would be returning shortly. I called him instantly, making him aware of the situation. Together, we decided to tell Cameron and his sister the news when they arrived home.

            Although some may question our decision to inform our 10-year-old of such traumatic news, it was a choice we came to easily. Cameron may not mentally be up to speed with other children his age, due to all that stunted him in his earlier years, but he knows more about this sad world than most children ever should. In fact, just a few days prior to learning the news of his bio father’s passing, Cameron was in tears at the psychiatrist’s office, reporting continued nightmares and fears that his first dad will return in the night and try to kill him – revenge for reporting the abuse those 4 years ago.

            Because of Cameron’s Reactive Attachment Disorder, he often doesn’t process his feelings well. They get lost somewhere inside, convoluted by all the grief, all the loss, and all the unreliable adults he has known. Why should he feel safe expressing feelings, or even feeling them at all, for that matter, knowing that he did for 6 whole years before anyone cared to notice that he was hungry, that he was sick, and that he was being grossly mistreated.

            My husband and I sat both kids down at the kitchen table upon their arrival home. It was then that we told them the news we'd learned only an hour before. Wanting this to be a teachable moment for both of my children (as they both struggle with RAD), we talked about how it’s OK to feel more than one emotion at the same time. We talked about how it’s OK to feel sad, even though this man was associated with so many bad memories. We also talked about how it’s OK to feel relieved – happy, even – knowing that this man will never hurt another child again, and knowing that Cameron could now sleep easy.

            My son sat there, taking it all in. He went through a few of the grief stages right away, starting with denial. He hit on anger a bit, too. There was also sadness. Confused about this strange amount of biological loyalty suddenly appearing within him, he tried to brush it away before I reminded him that his first dad, although incredibly flawed, was also loved and created by God – the same God that loves and creates each of us. And to feel saddened by his death is very normal. And in the same breath, I told him that he could feel happy, as well. He was allowed to feel safe. Free. He was able to put the past to rest and find new dreams to occupy his sleep.

            Cameron and Taylor both peppered me with questions and a wide variety of emotions that evening. Cameron even went as far as to make me promise to read the obituaries religiously, just to make sure we don't miss it if his baby brother dies, the little boy that has been missing from out lives for nearly a year.  But what I wanted Cameron to see the most was the obituary itself. In the list of this man’s children was Cameron’s name.

            What you have to understand is that my son’s first family was very bitter that he caused them the inconvenience of all the court hearings that followed. Not only had they refused to attend the CYS-scheduled visits with him, but they refused to acknowledge his very presence at each hearing that followed. They would glare at him from across the courthouse lounge or lavish his sister with attention, ignoring my son completely when he would sheepishly try to say hello. They even went as far as to refuse to give CYS the family’s medical history, which has been a significant stumbling block as we’ve faced all the health scares with Cameron’s kidneys.

            And as he sat there, slowly reading through the many words he didn’t understand in his bio father’s obituary, he finally came to a name he knew. Seeing his own name in front of him, his head popped up suddenly.

            “They remember me? That means they don’t hate me anymore!” he said as tears slipped from beneath long eyelashes. He showed more emotion from the relief of simply being acknowledged than he did at the news of a close relative’s death. Because from the start, that’s what all children want. They want acknowledgement, assurance, care, and love. And from his first family, he didn’t get any of that. So, in one small gesture, a family that could have left his name out of the newspaper, chose to include my son and heal a small part of his heart – a part that I would never have been able to heal.

            I don’t know where this man stood with his Maker when he passed. Quite honestly, we had stopped praying for him a couple years back when Cameron made it quite clear that he didn’t want to do anything that would make him remember the man. And as time went on, he was only mentioned in therapeutic moments when being listed as a source of so much early childhood trauma.

           Also relieved at his passing, I am grateful to the writer of the obituary. I am overjoyed that Cameron was not passed by once again. And I do pray that this man, Cameron’s biological father, was able to find peace in God at the end.

Less Than Quality Time: The RAD Dilemma

            Raising children where quality time always ends in tears? This is my life. This is their lives. And maybe this is your life, too. I’d like to think that after 4 ½ years of living with me and my husband, I would be able to do JUST ONE activity with my kids without RAD showing up to join the party. But sadly, that is not our reality.

            I’ve noticed that I’ve been conditioned by their emotional outbursts to avoid quality time at all costs. It’s my survival mechanism. Now, as their mother, I obviously can’t do this. And as a therapist, I obviously know that I shouldn’t do this. However, deep inside, I know that if I engage with one or both of my older children doing something they’ve requested, inevitable tears or tantrums will follow. It somehow won’t be good enough, I won’t have helped both children “equally”, or their high expectations will be disappointed with my imperfect parenting performance.

            Therefore, I feel exhausted before we ever begin a craft, a Lego project, or a tent made out of blankets. I am often ready to quit by Step 1, even though being the Keeper of the Children, the one responsible for teaching them all these seemingly impossible things, doesn’t allow for me to be the one to quit.

            Here’s what I know about my kids and their Reactive Attachment Disorder issues:

1)      Self-sabotage is REAL and it shows up whenever we do anything that requires thought, creativity, talent, or social skills.

            All things that my children perceive they may fail at becomes an instant enemy… even if it’s something they, themselves, have chosen to do. A perfect example of this is my son. At 10-years-old, he has struggled to find his strengths in life. Sure, he brags to his friends that he can do this or that, and he tries to show off in the most awkward of ways, but in his heart, he believes he is a failure. So when we attempted to do a craft of his choosing this afternoon, he blew up within the first 3 minutes. After he “calmed down”, he then proceeded to work far below his capabilities on the rest of the activity. Finally, after I’d helped him and assured him that it was wonderful and that he is talented and that he is loved and ALL the things that he needs to hear each and every craft we do, he tossed his finished product into the trash.

           It is easier to sabotage their work than to try their hardest and others realize that they aren’t perfect.

2)      Sabotaging others is a definite, particularly if the other person is currently receiving praise or attention.

           This is the case with my children, 100% of the time. When one is accomplishing something and gaining praise from an adult, the other “accidentally” breaks the successful child’s trophy, art project, report card, or fort. Without fail, if one child tries and succeeds, the other child tries even harder to spoil their efforts.

            It feels better to know that someone else is miserable right along with them, even if they have to create the misery themselves.

 3)      The more love they’re given, the more they believe they are unloved.

           I know, it makes no sense, but it’s true. When my children are given any amount of extra attention, it somehow serves as a mirror to their pasts – reflecting back to them any other moment when they felt betrayed, cast off, or unwanted. So, the more I cheer at a swim meet or gymnastics event, the less my children try – the defeat dripping off them with slumped shoulders, frowns, and all-out quitting. Immediately following a good report card, I am constantly peppered with self-deprecating statements such as, “I know you like her better, don’t you? Just admit it!” or “I’m stupid and you know it. That’s why you wish you never would’ve adopted me.”

 Believing they are unlovable is easier than believing they’re capable of being loved.

Photo by http://www.fathers.com/s5-your-situation/c18-divorced-dad/rj-jaramillo/

           Parenting a child with RAD often means choosing not to get overly excited when they do something well in order to prevent the self-sabotage.

           It means celebrating holidays and birthdays with minimal excitement or stimulation in order to prevent tantrums.

           It means keeping my own emotions level, even when I want to show excitement, grief, anger, or happiness during basic life events. I do this in order to keep them from ruining the moment with their need to try to mimic my emotions inappropriately or, worse, act out behaviorally so that the attention is back on them.

           It means loving them carefully, almost so they don’t know they’re slowly being loved and the self-deprecation can’t take over.

           It means making myself still build forts and Lego constructions and art projects, despite knowing that it will likely end in disaster.

           It means preparing for fall-out when a stranger compliments one of my children and not the other.

           It means gluing together all the broken things that were ruined by a jealous and insecure sibling.

           It means choosing the days wisely – picking quality activities on days with enough time to also deal with the following melt-downs.

           It means looking at other families and being envious that they get to go on vacations and holidays and day trips – jealous that they get to enjoy their children, not just survive them.

           And it means saying “I love you” even when it will be returned with “No you don’t.”

           Parenting a child with RAD means writing blog posts and hoping that someone else out there will say, “Yes! Me, too!” and that we can be a reminder that we’re just doing our best – trying to love and teach kids that don’t always know how to accept our offerings. Because at the end of the day, we actually aren’t responsible for their successes or their failures. We are only judged on our own actions and efforts – our choices to build the forts and create the weird-looking art projects that would NEVER be shared on Pinterest. We are accountable only for our love, not theirs.

           And parenting a child with RAD means building up those walls of support, speaking those words of encouragement, providing those breaths of fresh air to our fellow parenting Warriors.

We love. And that is enough.

The Day The Fridge Died

Yesterday I found myself in a bit of an odd situation.  It was mid-afternoon when I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by scattered condiments and salad dressing and a random jar of maraschino cherries.  Looking back, I’m thinking I should’ve just tossed them out then and there.  After all, I couldn’t recall the last time we had ice cream sundaes, so they were probably expired… if items like that even do expire.  But there I sat, a broken open container of almond milk pooling towards me lazily as I glared at it through bitter tears.  In the background, my children frantically knocked on the door – the very door that I had locked moments before after banishing them into nature.  It was a mere 30 seconds before they both realized they needed to pee.

 I feel the need to explain my emotional state to you all.  

 This week was Day Camp Week for my oldest (my oldest who is on a new medication that has made him speak every thought that pops into his head… I had no idea that he was capable of thinking so frequently).  This week was also Vacation Bible School Week for our church, which I help lead.

When I first realized that both events landed on the same week, I immediately went into a state of hypervigilience.  Frantic, I planned out each hour of each day for the duration of the craziness.  Throwing in three doctor appointments, setting up for VBS, and the half-hour commute to and from day camp, all the while accounting for the toddler’s nap schedule, I estimated that I had roughly -8.65 hours to accomplish all that needed to be done for the week.

I hadn’t even started yet and I was already behind!!

Obviously this was also the week my trusty babysitter had to travel out of state for work, so I did what I had to do – I panicked and then reminded myself that it’s only a week.  And we can accomplish anything as long as we know there’s a time limit, right?

Well, that’s what I used to tell myself anyways, before this week happened, that is.

To sum it all up, here are some of the daily events that got jammed into my already crazy schedule:

1)      To start the week off, I stabbed myself through the middle finger of my dominant hand.  Yes, there was blood.  Yes, there was nausea and dizziness.  No, this is not what caused the refrigerator to explode its condiments all over the kitchen… that happened at the end of the week!  Using a fondue prong to poke a hole in dried up nail glue for my daughter, I accidently pierced through the top of my finger and straight out the side.  After bandaging it thoroughly, I realized that I was going to be attending VBS with the inability to bend my finger down all the way – causing me to flip off each and every parent, child, and volunteer I met.  Nothing says “Welcome To Our Church” like the worship leader giving everyone the finger.

2)      This week, my toddler threw a royal fit in the mall parking lot, a place where we were killing time before having to pick Cameron up from camp.  This occurred during the middle of a thunder storm, and I dropped my purse, spilling all the contents under our van.  I climbed under the vehicle to retrieve my things, coming up soaking wet and filthy... and then my shoe broke.  My new shoe.  It broke beyond repair, leaving me to go collect my son from camp a wet, muddy, shoe-less mess... and all the other parents looked at me with pity.  

3)      Wyatt also decided to pack his cuppy into my purse before we left the house for the day.  Only the lid wasn’t shut.  Only after setting my purse on my lap later that day did I realize that my legs were getting wet.  When I lifted the purse, RED juice dripped from the lining of my brand new bag, staining my pants AND all that was inside.  My umbrella is now pink, you guys.

4)      While at the store, Wyatt basically exploded in his diaper.  This occurred shortly after we realized that we’d left the diaper bag at VBS the prior night (because having no sitter, he was forced to come to VBS and eat his weight in cheese balls with the very generous ladies working the snack station!)  Seeing that the only thing we had left was a swim diaper in the van, I tried to make due.  Except a half hour later, we stood in the middle of Walmart as peed dripped down Wyatt’s legs and shoes.  And since he fell asleep on the way home, the fact that I had to change his drenched clothes completely woke him up, rendering him napless for the rest of the day.

5)      Taylor tried to tell me that she broke our ceramic garbage can by “looking at it”.  When I looked at her like she had 3 heads, she burst into tears, saying, “You never believe me!”  Of COURSE I don’t believe you, honey!  Because you’re 8 years old and you don’t have dark magic!!  You obviously didn’t cause the garbage can to explode with your laser-focus!  But what do I know?  I only have 2 degrees… and she can’t even spell “garbage can”.

6)      This week, our audio-visual system at the church decided to malfunction.  Why?  Who knows, because I have about as much technical experience as a giraffe.  I spent over an hour unplugging and re-plugging cords in, turning machines off and restarting them, calling and recalling friends that could tell me what the “little red button” does and if the “blue knobby thingys” are important or not.

7)      Over half of our VBS volunteers also had crazy weeks, causing most of them to cancel some, if not all, of the days they were scheduled to help out.  Luckily, we had other random people stop by the church and we sucked them into our madness (after having them fill out the necessary paperwork, of course)… not that it helped me remember several of their names.  Sadly, I ended up calling everyone Sweetie or Buddy in order to save face.  (Bur rest assured, they were needed and they stepped up, so I love them.  Whoever they are.)

8)      Because our church welcomes those that sometimes don’t fit in at other churches, we found ourselves on the receiving end of a group of kiddos that were “energetic”, many of whom have special needs.  Now, for the record, I LOVE that our church is this place.  I love that we open our arms to everyone and are willing to make them our family within seconds of shaking their hands.  This, quite honestly, is my favorite thing about where we worship.  But as the needs of the many flew around me like confetti in a tornado, I found myself running after AWOLing children, pulling a googly eye out of a little girl’s nose, keeping a child from pulling up little girls’ shirts, and uttering the phrase “For the last time, please stop licking your neighbors’ ears!”  And to top it off, I found a half-eaten lollipop in my purse, securely stuck to the inside lining… and we didn’t even have suckers at VBS this year.

Photo by www.scholarcenter.com

And then, finally, as the week was drawing to a close and my sanity was waning (OK, let’s be honest, I lost it somewhere on Tuesday after my shoe broke), someone ate all the pepperoni out of our fridge.  My pepperoni.  And the VBS power point I was working on took 6 hours to do something that should've taken 20 minutes.  And did I mention Cameron’s new medication and the incessant talking?

 Friends, this is when I broke our refrigerator door.

I'm not exactly proud of breaking the fridge.  They say that it is in our moments of weakness that we find our strength.  And I did.  But there was no pepperoni and I hadn't eaten, and therefore, the fridge needed to die.

My husband returned home that afternoon and quickly surveyed the children locked outside, fear etched onto their little faces.  He cautiously unlocked the door with the key and worked his way to the kitchen.  Shattered pieces of broken plastic and food residue littered the floor.  Silently, he walked towards me as I hyperventilated at my computer, willing it to work.  Kneeling down beside me, he gently offered me a hug.

“So… are we having a rough day?” he tried.

My face still puffy from crying, my hands still shaking from anxiety, I received his hug and just let myself relax into his big arms.  When he pulled back, there was a trace of a smirk on his face.  He lovingly nicknamed me “The Hulk” before allowing the children to come back into the house and finally pee.  And I was given strict instructions to go out to eat and have some alone time.

I didn’t argue.  After all, he was right.  I needed some alone time.  I needed to regroup after all the craziness and constant running from place to place this week.

That night, four children came to know Christ at VBS.  Four small souls that didn’t know who God was now will spend their eternity with Him.    

I tell you all this because of one important thing:

In the midst of it all, It Is Well.

When VBS seems like it’s a disaster, then It Is Well.  When my purse and all its contents are ruined and I’m left shoeless and muddy, It Is Well.  When my pepperoni runs out in the middle of a low-sugar moment, then It Is  STILL Well!  (And when my husband saved me from breaking the rest of the appliances with my super-human strength, It Was most definitely Well.)

I got thinking, maybe your week has been somewhat like mine.  Maybe you've felt the stress and maybe you've lost your cool.  Maybe you've felt the pressures of having to be everywhere for everyone, doing everything and not feeling like you've got any help or like everything you touch breaks or falls apart or you have a toddler (enough said) or a child (or two) with mental health issues or behavioral needs or emotional trauma.... 

Maybe you've reached your limit this week and you think you can't possibly go on... that a day of rest cannot get here soon enough!

Even so, It IS Well.  It is so well that God gives us the right to cry and be frustrated and angry and sad without Him losing control of our situations.  He allows us to be human and emotional - and then to rest, knowing that He's got it.  He's got your kid.  He's got your job.  He's got your health.  And he's even got that relationship that's on shaky ground.  He's got YOU, Friend.  All of you, every single part.

And even if you don’t have big arms to physically rest upon, know that God’s arms are always there.  He’s holding them out to you, just like He held them out to four beautiful children this week.  Just reach out and remember that He won’t let you go… no matter how many fridges you destroy.

We Don't Have to Agree in Order to Love

            I am a parent of children with special needs.  Oftentimes I find myself on the receiving end of terrible behavior and on the giving end of yet another lecture or adult tantrum.  I do not always agree with my children’s behavior, but I love them anyway.

            My husband is not perfect.  He sometimes says bad words while doing home improvement projects and he lets our children ingest far more junk food than I would ever allow on my watch.  I do not agree with each of my husband’s choices, but I love him anyway.

            I don’t feel that this is a difficult concept to understand.  Do you?

            Because lately it seems like society is struggling to realize what is so basic to me.  That we can love without agreeing.  That we can find a way in this world without feeling the need to be cookie-cutter in our beliefs.  That we can reach out to others, even when we are on different sides of the political, religious, racial, and gender fences.

            I ask myself daily, What is going on with this world?  Why is there so much need to make everyone believe the same way in order for us to exist with one another? Why must we “take sides”? Why are we judged for not changing our Facebook profile pictures to support the latest world crisis?  When did being either Republican or Democrat mean that we are no longer united, or even simply American?

            I am a Christian.  I am a registered Independent voter.  I am Heterosexual.  I am a Caucasian woman, wife, mother, and daughter.  And I’m terribly concerned about the fact that our culture is pushing me into a corner where I am only allowed to associate with those of “my kind” out of fear that my love for ALL mankind may be tainted by intolerance or disagreement in some way.  I am even more concerned that so many of those around me seem unaware that they, too, are being pushed into their own very specific corners.

            As a person, I don’t have to agree with your views on sexuality, your opinions on gun control, or your stand on immigration.  And as a Christian, I most certainly do not have to change my own beliefs to co-exist with my neighbors.  Because in my eyes, ALL human life is precious.  And that is why I will mourn for every life.  Whether that life is lost to cancer, a shooting, suicide, war, or even execution on death row – you will not find me on the rejoicing end of anything that means one person is given permission to take the life of another.

            Perhaps that makes some of my Republican friends angry.  And maybe some of my Democrat friends will send me frustrated emails.  I would guess that even my Christian friends could find some way to disagree with something I believe.  But here’s the thing, folks.  Are you ready?

            I still love you.  We don’t have to agree on everything.  We barely have to agree on anything!  You are created by a God that has a plan for your life.  And whereas you may not be on the same path that I think is correct, I still love you.

            Understand this.  My love is not a Tolerance vs. Acceptance kind of love.  It’s not a love that means I’ll bad mouth you behind your back when I walk away.  I will love you with the only kind of love that I know… the kind that allows me to still hug my kids before bed, even when they’ve been complete turds.  And it’s a love that lets me snuggle close to my husband at night, even though we fought about money just hours before.  It’s a Godly love – plain and simple.

Photo by www.pocketcultures.com

            For some reason, we always try to include ourselves into the tragedy of others.  We put our own views ahead of what we’re called to do, which is love others through their pain.  Why can’t we just grieve our country’s repeated losses without being judged, lessened by disagreements over lifestyle, or arguments over political debate?  At what point are we just blatantly disrespecting another’s loss by including ourselves in the mix, like it’s somehow about us personally?  

            Just as easy as it was in the beginning of this post, I will say it again:  I do not have to agree with someone’s choices in order to grieve their loss.  Period.  Because it’s not about us.  It’s never been about us.  It’s always been about a sinful world, in need of a Savior – in need of large amounts of grace and mercy.  And when the world is hurting, I want to be Jesus’ hands and feet of that mercy, not another roadblock that pushes people to their respective corners.

            So today, as a concerned citizen, I say this:

            If you do not have love for any particular person or group, then please allow God to check your heart and fill you with His love – one that is pure and prays for those who struggle or who are causing contention or who have committed a crime.  Ask Him to give you love for those who are like you as well as for those who are very unlike you.  Let yourself be overwhelmed with the loss of any life and to pour yourself out in any way that you can.

            And I also have this to say… to those of you who feel defensive – to those who walk around feeling targeted or unsupported – to those who are always ready for an argument or judgment or political battle – You, too, should allow God to check your heart.  Learn to accept love from those around you without turning everything into a debate.  Learn to disagree peaceably and to not make every act of kindness from another group into something that fits a particular agenda.  Allow yourself to put down your weapons and your fists when someone offers a helping hand.

            Because we are all people.  And we were all created by the same Holy God.  And we all need His love.

            And we can all learn to love, despite disagreements.

            Choose to be peace.  Choose to be hope.  Choose to be love.