Finally Home!

Well, today is Father's Day, but for me every day feels like Mother's Day.

Forgive me for not posting since Victoria's birth. All is well, I just haven't had much time to update. I spent most of the past two weeks at our hospital's NICU(neonatal intensive care unit) until they finally let out baby girl come home last Wednesday. Since then I've been living in Eastern Standard Newborn Time and I'm cherishing every exhausting minute having a baby in the house again.

She spent the first 9 days of her life in the NICU until they felt she was ready to come home. They kicked me out of the hospital a week ago Friday, but--being the stalker mommy that I am--I hung out in the NICU from 8 a.m. till 5 p.m. so I could feed her myself and not miss too much of these precious newborn days.

A week ago Saturday, they thought she might be ready to come home and let me "room in" with her. I was thrilled to be able to have a sleepover with my tiny girl in this room that they have just off the NICU. Well, I'm embarrassed to admit that I was done in by a person the size of a sub sandwich. This trial run proved she wasn't quite ready and needed a few more days in the hospital.

Her biggest issue has been her inability to get enough in each feeding. For several days she was fed with the assistance of a feeding tube in her nose. She just didn't have the stamina to nurse or take a bottle for more than a few minutes. Her other problem was not being able to maintain a good body temp. Because she is so thin, she burns a lot of calories trying to keep herself warm. We have her dressed for an Arctic blizzard yet sometimes her temp goes dangerously low. Although she was delivered at 36 weeks, she was more like a baby born at 33 to 34 weeks, but we can already tell she's going to catch up quickly.

Since coming home on Wednesday, she has eaten well and her temp has been stable. Wooo hoooo! We took her to the pediatrician Friday and we were thrilled to hear that she's back to her birth weight of 5 pounds. She is certainly the miniature princess of the house and we are so grateful for the precious gift of this special girl.

I've got a little time before the next feeding to finally post some pics.

This is the first time I was able to see my baby girl. I'll never forget feeling her breath on my cheek as Brad held her up to my face. The tears were flowing in Operating Room number 1!

This was a quick photo with me and Brad before they took her to the NICU and while they were sewing me up.



I'm still so grateful for the wisdom of my doctors to go ahead and deliver via c-section. We know now that the reason she wasn't the size she should have been is because of issues with the cord.

The recovery has been a bit harder than with a regular delivery, but it granted me some additional days in the hospital. That extra time in the hospital was a blessing because it was so hard to leave her behind when they sent me home.

Here we are hanging out in the NICU.



This is Olivia meeting her baby sister for the first time. It's hard to believe that I have one daughter starting high school and another just starting out in life, but it's actually a lot of fun having such a range of ages.

Can you tell how excited Ava is to have a baby sister? She's been praying for one for several years and is overjoyed that Victoria is here.

Daniel was so precious the first time he met Victoria. It has been so special to experience this with him and see his pride in having a new little sister.



Brady is perhaps the proudest sibling of them all. He is already very protective of her and instructs all visitors to wash their hands and not touch her head. I know Brady and Victoria will have a very sweet bond that will grow over the years. He still doesn't have the confidence to hold her, but he sits by her bassinet and chats with her. It's very sweet.



Here's Victoria spending some time under the tanning bed while in the NICU because of jaundice. She's fine now and she and Daniel have the best summer tans in the family.


Here are some pics taken with my phone. They didn't appreciate flash photography in the NICU so I had to sneak these when I got a chance.

We were so happy when she was moved from the warming bed to this hospital bassinet. We knew it was one step closer to her coming home.

Who says babies can't smile? This was taken when she was 3 days old. We can't wait till she's able to smile all the time.

Here she is in her fleece Halo sleep sack. Even though the temps are in the 90's outside, our girl almost always has this on to keep her warm.

This was a sweet moment holding her in the NICU. I still have those "pinch me" moments of not believing that this little treasure is mine.

Finally the feeding tube is out! She hated it and was always pulling it out and frustrating the nurses. She didn't like the monitors' wires either. Ava sang the song "I've Got No Strings" from Pinocchio when they took it all off.

This is her at home dancing in her bed.

Oh, gotta run. Time for a feeding. Here's one more photo with her celebrating her first Father's Day with her dad and siblings.

I'm so grateful for my husband, my father and father-in-law, and my Heavenly Father. It was a special day indeed.

Much Love,

Kathie

Contractions

Made it through another week. A great week in many ways. A stressful week in many others.

The week before last my doctors appointments went well. The baby looked healthy, no signs of distress, no issues with the cord placement, and my amniotic fluid was within a more normal range.

This week showed some new concerns. The baby is fine but continues to do her Cirque du Soleil performances in utero. She prefers to be sideways or breech which is not popular with my healthcare providers this late in the pregnancy. My fluid is again in excess and, because of where the cord is, now I'm at great risk for cord prolapse and because of her continued movement there is concern about another cord accident.

Last Thursday my regular doctor treated me like I was a walking time bomb--asking me how quickly I could get to the hospital if my water broke and making me promise that if it did I wouldn't take a precious minute to call or even grab my suitcase. He said that if we can catch her head down at any time with the cord in a safe placement, they will go ahead and induce.

My next scheduled appointment is Monday morning with the specialist and then in the afternoon with my regular doctor. Monday is our 19 year wedding anniversary, so having our new baby girl in our arms would sure be a sweet gift. (Brad, you are off the hook on a romantic dinner out. Ice chips and an epidural will be fine.) But I know the docs at my specialist's office really want me to go another full week if there are no signs of her in distress (so I'd be 38 weeks), so I won't be surprised or disappointed if they send me home to let her cook a bit longer.

One thing they track often with my fetal non-stress tests is contractions. I have lots of them and have since I was 28 weeks. Just false labor that is a pain in the abdomen.

I've done this with all my pregnancies. When I was expecting Ava, I started having regular contractions at 30 weeks. They were every 4 minutes apart and strong. My doctors were sure it was the real thing and admitted me to the hospital and put me on all kinds of drugs. When they finally sent me home I was on strict bedrest, lots of meds, and drank enough water on a daily basis to fill a swimming pool. At 37 weeks they took me off the meds fully expecting her to be born within hours and . . . she ended up arriving three weeks later on her due date.

And so with subsequent pregnancies, I've kind of just ignored them. It's just my body crying wolf, every 4 to 5 minutes. (Apparently there's a correlation between my excess of fluid and the frequency/strength of the contractions.) My husband will see me holding my belly in obvious pain and ask if we need to go to the hospital and I will simply answer, "No, but I could use a hot fudge sundae and a foot massage." (Hey, I'm going to milk this for all it's worth.)

As I have these contractions, I can't help but see how much they mirror the contractions of life.

Real contractions can be scary the first time you experience them. I remember the first time I felt those muscles tighten like a boa constrictor around my waist. It was something I'd never felt before and frankly it freaked me out. As my pregnancy progressed I realized that the contractions only got stronger and lasted longer. By the end I realized these early contractions were nothing compared to the ones that left me breathless and speechless and doubled over in pain. And it's these contractions that precede the birth of something amazing.

In the same way, I've had a lifetime of different kinds of emotional and spiritual "contractions." Small trials, disappointments, detours in life. At the time I thought they were the real thing. I thought the pain couldn't get any worse. I thought it was too much to bear. But soon I realized that this was just practice labor. That my broken heart could mend. That the sun would rise the next day. That the world didn't come to an end.

It's hard to watch my children experience "contractions." Last week my kids finished school. Our sweet Christian school only goes through 8th grade and Olivia will be starting over next year in high school. She hurts leaving her dear friends and teachers and school that has been home for so long. She's feeling contractions as she faces the unknowns of what is ahead. While I know these contractions are so small compared to what she will deal with later in life, I know they are very real right now, very uncomfortable, and very scary.

Daniel also experienced contractions last week. He came home on the last day of school and wept all over his lunch. It hit him all of a sudden that his precious teacher wouldn't be going to 3rd grade with him next year. He doesn't think his teacher or group of classmates will ever be as wonderful as it was this year and he is grieving. It was such a sweet year in his life that I wish I could rewind it and play it over for him, especially after him having so many years that I wish I could erase. He has already had to deal with contractions far worse, yet this pain is very real to him as well.

When my children experience these contractions and they tell me how much it hurts and they cry in my arms, all I can do is remind them that God is good and He has a wonderful plan for their lives. This is big talk from a woman who is having contractions--literally and figuratively. I don't like the pain of uncertainty. I have moments of worry that this baby might not be okay. I have doubts as I wonder if I can be a good mom to five children.

In my mind I know that the most painful contractions of all are the ones that strengthened my faith and poured out such blessings in my life. I remember that as horrible as it was to watch my mother battle cancer, because of her faith through that trial she left a legacy that will continue for generations. I remember that as heartbreaking as it was to lose our first son, that tragedy truly changed the course of our lives and such goodness and mercy has come from it that we would not have otherwise experienced.

And yet, I still want to walk through life with an epidural. I want to be exempt from hard times and I want my family to be as well. And that's when I have to remember God's faithfulness and remind myself that "God is good and He has a wonderful plan for my life." I surrender to that truth as I face the uncertainty of the week ahead.

It's almost Sunday here in Georgia, so I'm going to go ahead a post a "Sunday Dinner" for the week. My favorite scripture about contractions is:

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds,
because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. . . .

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. " James 1:2-3, 12, NIV

The "dessert" of song is one of my favorites right now. It's "Blessings" by Laura Story--she's one of my all-time favorite artists and sings at the church that is part of our children's school. Her lyrics so beautifully sum up what God has been trying to teach me for many years.

May you remember God's faithfulness and goodness during your own times of trials and "contractions."

Much Love,

Kathie

P.S. I'm having trouble posting comments on other blogs! For a couple weeks, when I log in to leave a comment it lists me as anonymous, then when I try to leave the comment it disappears. It seems to be a problem with Blogger. If anyone knows how to fix it let me know. Thanks!

Happy Day of the Father!

We're back! We thoroughly enjoyed our first trip to the beach with Daniel. I'll share more later, but he LOVED every minute of it. He loved the ocean, the sand, the pool, the time with family. The oil threatened but never hit us. And our coming home was so sweet. He walked in the door and said what I always feel after being away, "I love you beautiful home. I love you beautiful kitties and fish and frog." It hasn't taken him long to learn that vacations are fun, but there's no place like home.

Today is Father's Day or what Daniel calls "The Day of the Father." (That's what they call it in Guatemala.) Brad prefers the Daniel's version. Sounds much more important.

I have much to be grateful for on Father's Day. I've been blessed with a wonderful father, father-in-law, and father to my children. Most of all, I've been blessed with a good and merciful Heavenly Father.

Years ago I was shopping for Father's Day cards with someone close to me. She was looking for a card for her step-father who had not been a good father--he was angry and verbally abusive and she was afraid of him most of her childhood. She was looking in the "simply stated" section trying to find something along the lines of "well, you're getting this card because I'm supposed to pretend I'm honoring you."

She said that as a little girl she had a hard time listening to people describe God as our Father. Her only example of a father was more kin to monster than Savior. She didn't need another father to fear, another father to tell her she was worthless. It wasn't until she understood that our Heavenly Father is a father of sacrificial love that she was able to cling to Him as the father she had longed for. She said, "I got a second chance to have a daddy."

I know if I was purchasing a greeting card for our Heavenly Father, I wouldn't be shopping in the "simply stated" section of Hallmark. (Because He's the only one who truly "cares enough to send the very best.")

The scripture for Sunday dinner is what I'd write on the outside of my handmade card to God:

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!"

I John 3:1, NIV

The dessert of song for today is an old favorite--"How Deep the Father's Love for Us." Joy Williams does a wonderful rendition of it. I've also included a video below from Sovereign Grace Ministries. It was shared at our church this morning and I thought it was such a beautiful tribute to the One who adopted me. (You will need to pause the playlist at the bottom of the blog so you won't hear both songs at the same time.)

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for the blessing of my husband, my dad, my father-in-law, and the legacy of my grandfathers. All are beautiful reflections of your love.

So Grateful,
Kathie

Traveling Mercies

Please don't pass out upon seeing two posts today. I know. It's as rare as a solar eclipse. Try not to stare directly into the computer screen or it might blind you.

As I was sharing about my sweet husband in my last post, I remembered a story of God's goodness that is great for Memorial Box Monday. This wonderful tradition was started by Linny at A Place Called Simplicity. Click the bloggy button below to read about her inspiration behind this idea and to link to other stories of God's faithfulness in their lives.



This story takes place August of 2008 in Guatemala. We were one year into our adoption of Daniel (that ended up taking two and a half years). We visited as often as we could so he would know we hadn't forgotten about him and to build our relationship with him. It was Brad's "turn" to visit. I remember waiting each night he was away for a phone call with the full report of what they had done that day. Sometimes I'd even get to hear Daniel's little voice on the phone saying, "Hola, Mama. Te amo mucho." (Hi, Mom, I love you so much.) I'm so grateful I can hear that precious voice all the time now.

But this particular night when Brad called, his voice was different. It surprised me because I knew he had planned to go with friends and the children they were adopting/sponsoring to a waterpark. I knew something was wrong. My mind went in all directions wondering if a child had drowned. Oh, dear God, what if it was Daniel. I could hear him choking up as he spoke. I patiently waited for the words to come, hoping this story ended happy.

Fortunately he opened with, "Kathie, God was with us today." With those words, I let out a sigh of relief.

He continued, "We had a wonderful day at the waterpark. Daniel and V. [one of the girls we sponsor] had such a precious time. It was the first time either had gone swimming. They loved the bathingsuits you sent. Anyway, the kids were worn out from our day of fun. Doug [one of our friends] was driving for our hour and a half trip back to the orphanage. I was sitting in the front next to him with Daniel asleep sitting in my lap."

Okay. Just a little side note that we would never normally let our children sit in the front seat on our laps. But when you find yourself in a van without seatbelts, trying to cram 10 people in for a day of fun, well, you find yourself doing some "when in Rome/Guatemala" kinds of things.

Brad went on, "Then out of nowhere, some people hiding in a ditch on the side of the road threw a rock, the size of a small watermelon, at our van. By God's grace it hit the bar that separates the windshield and door window on the passenger side. It shattered the windshield but miraculously the rock bounced off the bar and didn't break through. If it had, the speed and impact would have been enough to have killed me or Daniel."

We certainly rejoiced over God's protection that day. It was heartbreaking to imagine getting a phone call from Guatemala from one of our friends letting me know that Brad or Daniel had been killed. But I don't think we really understood exactly what God spared them from that day till a couple months later.

I was reading on a Guatemala adoption website a link posted from the U.S. Department of State with a travel advisory. They mentioned that stretch of highway that Brad and our friends had traveled on that day. They said that some people had been hiding in ditches, throwing things at cars. When the tourists stopped to survey damage or see what happened, these people would rob them and often even physically and sexually assault passengers.

When I read that I wept. I thought the thrown rock was just a silly prank. But not only had God spared Brad and Daniel from possibly fatal injury, He protected that entire van of two men, three women, and several little girls and boys from unthinkable violence. Praise God that the rock didn't come through the windshield and that our friend Doug had the wisdom to just keep driving instead of stopping to assess the damage.

I have put a small rock in our Memorial Box to remind us of God's protection that day. It also reminds me to pray fervently for my friends and family who are on mission trips or are traveling to complete adoptions.

Thank you, Mighty Father, for never ceasing to guide and protect us.

Gratefully His,
Kathie

Sunday Dinner: Eighteen Years Ago Today

Okay. I do still own a calendar and I am aware that it is now Monday. But I have a really good excuse for not posting Sunday Dinner on an actual Sunday. It was our 18th wedding anniversary. One gift to hubby was spending minimal time on the computer this weekend.


I'm actually technically not late on wishing my husband a happy anniversary today. When we were doing our adoption paperwork, I requested a copy of our marriage license. They couldn't find us anywhere in the system for June 6, 1992. I started to get nervous. Fifteen years and three kiddos into this and we aren't legally married?!


Then they did a search by name only and found that our license stated our marriage date as June 7, 1992. I'm thinking the secretary at the church who filed our paperwork accidentally put the wrong date. So on our adoption paperwork, we have June 7 listed. I think it gives us permission to celebrate our anniversary for 48 hours.


So the scripture for the week is:

How can we thank God enough for you in return for all the joy we have in the presence of our God because of you?

I Thessalonians 3:9, NIV

Little did I know 18 years ago all God had in store for us. Our last anniversary we spent having dinner in a Pollo Campero in Guatemala. Nothing says "I love you" like fried chicken in a Third World country. We were there with our whole crew trying to make some sweet summer memories with Daniel. Even though it wasn't what most would view as a romantic way to celebrate, it was so fitting for our life. (And if you want to feel close to your husband, spend some time in a foreign country where he's the only adult around who speaks your language.)

We've experienced laughter and tears, grief and joy, blessing and loss. And there's truly no one I'd rather go on this crazy journey with than him. And just like the verse above, I can't thank God enough for the joy Brad has brought to my life as my husband and the father of our children.

The dessert of song was a hard one. Many of my first choices aren't offered on playlist.com. But I do like this one by Brandon Heath called, "Let's Make It Last." I'm guessing he wrote this sweet song for his wife. The relationship he describes reminds me of mine and Brad's.

Happy (two-day) anniversary, Brad! I can't wait to see what God has planned for the next 18.

So Grateful,

Kathie

My Report Card

Just one more day till summer break!

Sorry I've been a stinky bloggy friend lately. I plan to keep in touch much better this summer. I'm so excited about having our first summer with Daniel home that I'm just about to pop. I promise to post lots of pics of Daniel's first summer at the pool, first sight of the beach, first 4th of July as an American citizen.

This is the time of year of final exams, end-of-year report cards, and honors day assemblies. As a mom, sometimes I wish I could get some kind of report card on how I'm doing. I wonder what kind of grades my kiddos would give me in how I care for them, serve them, discipline them, and love them.

I know that because of their maturity levels their grading system might be a bit off--deducting points when I don't let them eat candy or make them clean up. And I have those days that I feel I should be in mommy detention for not handling something patiently or reacting to a situation without first covering my words and actions in prayer. Still, it would be nice to have some kind of evaluation for this big job with little recognition.

Perhaps the report card I'd like to see the most is the one from Daniel. He spent the first five years of his life being abused and neglected by his birth mom. (I share a bit about his past here and here.)He spent the next 3 years in an orphanage without a mom. I feel a tremendous responsibility to write a new definition after the word "mother" in Daniel's mental dictionary.

I sometimes envy my husband Brad a bit. Daniel has no memory of his biological father, so Brad is writing the "Story of Dad" on a clean, blank page. Daniel's "Story of Mom" includes a "bad mom" (as he refers to her) and a "good mom." There are five years worth of pages in his heart that record her actions and words. Although we visited him often throughout our two and a half year adoption, I've really only had five months of his life with him completely in my care.

Occasionally I get little "job evaluations" that make my day. He often says, "Mom, you're a genius!" The funniest things impress him--like watching me cook on the grill, or drive the car, or fix a toy that he thought was beyond repair. He's watched me paint backdrops and make costumes, plan birthday parties and bake birthday cakes, clean out closets and host dinner parties, read bedtime stories and sing lullabies. Things that aren't a big deal for my other three, yet leave Daniel watching in awe like I'm putting on a magic show.

He'll often ask: "Who taught you how to do that?" Often I give credit to my parents, a teacher, a friend, to instructions in a manual or on the computer. Often I give credit to God for those things that moms just know how to do because we are made in the image of our Heavenly Father.

The other day he said, "Mom, I don't think anyone taught my 'bad mom' how to be a good mother."

Such a simple statement that broke my heart. It spoke volumes about how he's processing his hurt from the past. I'm so grateful that he recognizes that the problem wasn't him--that he doesn't think the abuse and neglect was because he deserved it or that he was unlovable. I'm glad that he can see that his birth mom was broken--that perhaps this is what she was taught in her own life that most likely included that same kind of abuse and neglect.

I hugged him and told him some day he'd be a great dad. And he piped up, "Because I have a great dad to teach me how."

Oh my--holding back some tears with those words. It looks like Brad and I both got good grades on our report cards from Daniel. I must say, I've never been so proud to have made the honor roll.

More Than Lots,
Kathie

P.S. I had just finished typing the above post while my kids were cleaning their rooms. They surprised me with made beds, toy/clothing-free carpet, and a huge card shaped like a cross. I think the artwork was inspired by my retelling of the "rowing the boat" story. (This analogy is oh so lovingly told when certain members of my family are expecting mom and dad to do all the work.) I think they could tell I was worn out and not thrilled with the chorus of whining when I asked them to help. They made the below artwork to say sorry and say thanks.

I had to share it. I love Ava's square that says, "Mommy, if it weren't for you we'd be in BIG BIG trouble." And Daniel's square that reads, "We love you the same like Jesus loves you."

I think it's the most beautiful report card ever.

Changing the Ending

Sorry I haven't posted much this week. (But boy am I going to make up for it with this post the length of "War and Peace.") We've just been busy.

But my thoughts lately have been about how to change the ending of someone's story--including mine. I remember doing one those assignments in high school where you write your own obituary. It had significance then as I was just trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted to be. But if I wrote my obituary now, the task would have even more meaning. I'm at an age of making major choices for how I will spend the second half of my life (or whatever days God grants me)--the beginning of my story is a distant memory and I'm shaping today what I leave behind.

I've attended some funerals lately--the average age of these friends is inching closer to my own age--so perhaps that's why I've been doing that mental obituary writing. Last Thursday was also the anniversary of my mother's passing. (I shared about the significance of that day here.) But perhaps the greatest influence of this life-evaluating has been having Daniel in our lives.

We can't change the beginning of his story, but we have changed his ending. It's like watching the DVD of a movie and clicking on "Alternate Ending." He knew what kind of ending he might have had after spending his childhood in an orphanage in Guatemala. With his adoption, the script was edited and his heart rejoices that now his story includes a family and a future. He's so precious. When I ask him what he wants to do when he grows up he says, "Great things, Mama, great things! But I don't ever want to move far away from you."

He was so sweet on Ava's birthday last week. Here's a child who has never had a birthday with a family, who went to great lengths to make sure Ava's day was special. He made her 14 cards. He made banners and displayed them around the house. He even gave $5 of his own money to Ava as a gift. It's hard to remember not having him as part of our family. He's like an instrument added to our family band and, even though his tune can sometimes be a bit off-key, I can't imagine our song being played without him. He is changing the ending to our story as well.

It is convicting as Brad and I pray about the future of our family. We know there are other children who need homes. We know we have the ability to change the ending for other orphans. Right now we are focusing on getting our four settled after two years of crazy, yet it is hard to look the other way. Knowing what we know. Seeing what we've seen. How can we say that the plight of 147 million orphans is not our problem? It is. As Christians, God has called us to change the endings of their life stories.

Last Christmas I had wanted to post my past Christmas letters that tell the story of our family. Because I was in Guatemala much of the holiday, then busy trying to get ready for Daniel to come home, I only made it to 2004. Although I realize it's mid-March, I'm adding one today. (The letter and photo below are from Christmas 2005.) And although I don't think this one is a big tear-jerker, some of you might need a tissue. (Some readers have requested Kleenex warnings.) It includes a story about my mom and talks about how love can change any ending to any story.

May you experience life-changing love in your own lives!

More Than Lots,
Kathie



Dear Family and Friends,

I began writing my annual Christmas letter December 1 with the goal of getting my holiday greetings out early. But by Dec. 2 my life resembled a bad rendition of the “Twelve Days of Christmas” (no need to sing along): 12 loads of laundry, 11 trips to Kroger, 10 days of antibiotics, 9 Christmas parties, 8 years old when my daughter figures out that mommy is making everything up as she goes along, 7 hours spent trying to get a photo with everyone’s eyes open, 6 strings of lights that burned out after I hung them on the tree, 5 mystery stains on the carpet (and company is coming), 4 hours sleep a night, 3 nervous breakdowns (which is actually a low number for me), 2 girls singing “Feliz Navidad” at the top of their lungs, and 1 husband who travels as if he’s running from the law. So add a partridge in a pear tree and I’ve got a holiday letter that will be ready by Easter.

Anyway, to those of you who billed me for the Kleenex from my last letter, I promise to go easy on you this time. This year we have nothing but happy to report--we’ve gone from “goodness and mercy shall follow” to “my cup runneth over.”

It’s been almost a year since the arrival of our New Year’s baby and this precious gift of life has brought so much joy. He fits into our crazy family quite well, although he frequently has a look of concern. I’m hoping God gave him a pre-earth pep talk along the lines of: “Okay, buddy. The good news . . . this family wants you really bad. The bad news . . . they’re all nuts.”

When Brady was just days old, the girls commented: “He’s more fun to watch than TV!” They absolutely delight in him and he in them--his biggest smiles and loudest giggles are in response to his big sisters. The only thing he lacks is personal space. His mini-mommies love to hold, sing, read, play peek-a-boo, and tickle him. He loves music--which he dances to with a Stevie Wonder-type head move--and gives a toothy grin and round of applause for everything. His first word was appropriately “uh-oh” and he took his first steps Thanksgiving weekend trying to escape from his sibling fan club. He’s become the family mascot and adds sweet sunshine to our home.

Ava turned five last March--the highlight of her year has been being a big sister. As far as she’s concerned, Brady is HER baby and we are just helping her raise him. She has bestowed on him hundreds of nicknames and does a multitude of voices to communicate on his behalf. She keeps us busy with her extracurricular schedule of ballet, gymnastics, and soccer and loves her half-day Kindergarten. Her appearance has changed quite a bit this year--she lost eight teeth and her hair has grown half-way down her back. (If you remember, two years ago her sister gave her a crew cut.) We call her “Speaker of the House” because her life is one never-ending show-and-tell. But our clown is full of compassion and she adds humor and a tender heart to our home.

Olivia, who turned eight in April, also loves her role as a big-big sister. However, she’s a bit more deliberate in her care for her baby brother. For example, while Ava carries him in a wrestling hold that resembles the Heimlich Maneuver, Olivia will inquire about the status of her brother’s diaper and the frequency of the spit-up before she showers him with affection. She is enjoying life in the third grade and continues to love to paint, sing, and cook. This year she has discovered a love to be onstage while participating in school productions and Walk Through Bethlehem at my dad’s church. (Motto: There are no small parts, only shy actors.”) This has been her year to try new things and gain independence with some old ones. It’s a joy to watch her bloom and she adds courage and creativity to our home.

Brad is well into his fifth year of working with his company. The upside of having your own business is that he can steal toilet paper from the office without an ethical problem. The downside is that he’s had to travel quite a bit. (I was suspicious of my Frequent Flier the first half of the year because Brady didn’t sleep though the night till he was six months old.) There’s nothing more endearing than a man who loves his children with every fiber of his being, which is why the time away is so hard and the homecomings are so sweet. He’s the one we all run to when we want to share our victories and it’s his should we cry on to unload the disappointments. He adds patience and encouragement to our home.

And I am deliciously tired savoring every golden moment with this crew. It’s been an adjustment having three kids in such different stages of childhood. For an old mother, I’m learning new tricks--like caring for a colicky baby while making a Betsy Ross costume, helping one child who has lost her library book while another is losing his umbilical stump, and nursing in the minivan while wrapping a birthday present in a Chuck E. Cheese’s parking lot. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to lower some standards (Hamburger Helper is considered gourmet in these parts) if I remember to raise others. (Well, who am I kidding--everything’s pretty much been lowered.)

If last year’s theme was “Goodness and Mercy Shall Follow” than this year’s is “He Restoreth My Soul.” But it’s a long road back to green pastures and still waters. I felt like I spent 2004 seeking shelter from the storm and 2005 rebuilding from its devastation.

The funny thing about the holidays is how joys and sorrows seem to be magnified under the Christmas lights. How wonderful it is to hang three stockings on the mantel this year, still my heart aches that there’s a little person missing from our family. How special it is to celebrate Brady’s first Christmas, but, oh, how I wish my mom and grandmother were here to share it with us. Yes, fa la la can quickly turn into bah humbug for those who have experienced loss.

On those days when the absence of my mom seems unbearable, I keep my spirits up and her memory alive by sharing stories about her. The other day when I was reminiscing I remembered a special Christmas. I must preface this account, for those of you who didn’t know her, by explaining that my mom was known for her storytelling. E.F. Hutton had nothing on her because when she spoke, everybody listened . . . and laughed . . . and cried . . . then begged her to tell another one. Her audience understood that her tales were “based” on actual events, but seasoned with a lot of Dixie.

Unfortunately, my dad, my sister, and I had heard all her stories numerous times. In fact, we’d heard them so much that we had them numbered like songs in a jukebox. There was one story in particular, I’m thinking it was number 237, that she dusted off every time my sister and I complained about the conditions in our household. It was kin to the “I walked 10 miles to school in the snow each day . . . barefoot . . . uphill both ways” tale that most parents told, but my mom’s “16th birthday story” was much more original and always had us in tears.

“I grew up in a blended family with five kids, “ she’d begin. “We were so poor that the poor kids of our rural Alabama community felt sorry for us. I spent my childhood wearing hand-me-downs and leftovers not only described the food, but our way of life. But this day was to be different. It was my 16th birthday and I just knew it would be special. I remember waking up with big hopes and was giddy with excitement when I was given a present. But disappointment soon followed when I opened it discovered the gift was a jar of Noxzema and ponytail holders. I thought it was a joke. No party, no singing, no special. I went to bed in my clothes with the hope that as soon as I drifted off, I’d hear ‘surprise!’ I wanted to be ready just in case there was a sweet 16 celebration. But I awoke the next day to discover that my birthday had come and gone.”

Well, this story tore me and my sister to bits. There were no funny parts, no happy ending, no way to fix her pain. How I wished that somehow we could turn back time and give her something special on her birthday.

Skip ahead to the early ‘80s, our family was sitting around our Christmas tree surrounded by opened gifts and piles of wrapping paper. My dad announced there was one present left and he handed my mom a small box. She removed the wrapping to discover a jar of Noxzema. She let out a chuckle, being a good sport, and pondered, “I wonder if it still smells like it did when I was a teen.” She removed the lid of the jar to find that it didn’t contain pungent smelling face cleanser. My dad had replace the contents with a beautiful pearl and diamond ring.

The tears first started down my mom’s face, then mine and my sister’s. Although most women would prefer their little blue box to say “Tiffany” instead of “cleansing cream,” to my mom it was perfect. We understood that with this gift of love, my dad hadn’t erased story number 237--but he had changed the ending. This is a truth I have carried my life, that a gift of love can change any ending.

There are parts of my life that I wish I could erase, but have discovered that my trials weren’t meant to be deleted. Through Christ’s gift of love, the were to be overcome. (“In this world you will have tribulation, but be of good cheer for I have overcome the world” John 16:33.) And I’ve learned to be thankful for the blessing of brokenness. Had I not endured life’s winters, there would never be springtime. Had I not had earthly good-byes, there would be no heavenly reunions. Had I not grieved at the foot of the cross, I would not be able to stand in awe at the empty tomb of our risen Lord. Had I not felt the pain and sorrow that comes with living in a fallen world, then I would not understand my desperate need to have a Redeemer who can change the ending of my story.

And so I’m ending 2005 very much the way I began the year. Most nights you’ll find me rocking one of my three (sometimes all three) singing “God is so good, He’s so good to me.” I continue to be grateful for precious family and friends who have carried us through the bad and rejoiced with us through the good. And I continue to be amazed at how the best part of my story is woven with the “greatest story ever told.”

“Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given” (Isaiah 9:6). And this Christmas we’ll be giving thanks for the birth of two babies. One name Brady whom we call “Chubba, Little Man, Boo-Boo, and Sweet Potato”--a little boy sent to heal a broken family. But most of all, we’ll be grateful for the birth of Christ, whom we call “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace”--the Son of God sent to heal a broken world.

May you have a wonderful Christmas (or Easter, depending when you finally get this) and a blessed New Year.

With Much Love from the Williams Family

Remembering the Past and Rejoicing in the Present

January 9th is usually a difficult day for me. On this day six years ago I was at such a place of brokenness that I honestly thought I'd never be the same. But for the first time since that day, the 9th came and went without tears. Perhaps it's because we've had such a precious week followed by a special Saturday. (I spent the day getting my girls ready for a sweet daddy/daughter dance and spent the evening with my boys playing games and reading books by the fire.) Perhaps it's because I'm living proof that God can heal all wounds. Perhaps it's because God's goodness and mercy abound in my life.

In honor of two special blessings in my life--one who had a birthday today and another who celebrated his birthday last week, I decided to dust off another Christmas letter from the past. (I laughed when I reread it because even back then I was using Disney World analogies. I promise to lay off the Mickey Mouse references for a while.)

I shared bits and pieces of this story when I first started my blog. (You can find it at "From Paper Rain Clouds to Glorious Rainbows.") But this letter will fill in a lot of details of our lives that I haven't had the chance to share.

You may need some tissue to get through it, but I promise it has a happy ending that only God could have written.

So Grateful for Every Gift from God,
Kathie



Dear Family and Friends,

The most frequently asked question of our December 2004 was “Where’s the Williams’ Christmas letter?” (With “Are you STILL pregnant?” being a close second.) Well, we needed the last minutes of 2004 to play out before we sent our annual update.

As you’ve probably experienced in your own lives, some years are so predictable you could almost write the Christmas letter the previous January. And other years feel like a rollercoaster ride with its highs and lows, twists and turns--leaving you in suspense as the journey unfolds.

If life were a trip to Disney World, then we’ve spent the past year riding Space Mountain. You know, the ride where you travel in an aluminum can in utter darkness as every few seconds you plunge to you death with nothing but a “safety bar” keeping you from impending doom.

To many of you this may sound like a lot of fun, but I’m an It’s a Small World kind of gal. I like riding in a boat that only moves an inch per minute while small robotic children adorned in colorful costumes sing softly. Safe with short lines and air conditioning. No surprises and nothing scary (except the song that never leaves your subconscious).

But early last year we realized we were no longer in Fantasy Land. We were busy getting read for the birth of our baby boy due Valentine’s Day when one morning I realized I wasn’t feeling the baby kick. Although I was concerned, I figured there was some logical explanation for the decrease in activity. After all, no one (except on the TV show “ER”) loses a baby so close to their due date.

Brad held my hand in the hospital room as they did an ultrasound. After a long silence the doctor told us what was too painful to fully comprehend, “I’m sorry, but there’s no heartbeat.”

We held each other and wept. Then the magnitude of what was ahead came crashing upon us. That I would have to deliver a baby that would never cry. That we would leave the hospital without our precious son. That we would have to tell my mother who had cancer and was trying to live just long enough to welcome her first grandson. That we would have to tell two little girls that their baby brother had gone to heaven.

And so, I found myself on a ride I hadn’t volunteered for. I bargained with God: “I don’t meet the height requirements for I’m short on faith, strength, and courage. I want the boat that goes nowhere--or maybe I could handle something along the lines of the teacups. But this is more than I’m humanly able to bear!”

On the ride of life there are two kinds of passengers. There are the ones who rely on their own strength to make it through. They sit as stiff as mannequins and hold onto the safety bar until their fingernails dig deeply into the palms of their hands. They ride silently or scream in terror as they suffer through the bone-jarring jerks and plunges. They grow bitter because this is not what was expected or deserved. They feel angry and helpless because this ride has no steering or brake--no way to control what comes next.

And then there are the passengers who rest in the knowledge that there’s a man in charge of the rollercoaster who will ensure the safety of each rider--that each minute of this journey was carefully planned and perfectly orchestrated. You’d recognize these passengers as the ones who lift their hands above their heads and squeal with laughter. They seem to know that if they surrender to the plan of the One who created this ride that this will be a time to appreciate not endure, not a trial but an adventure, no matter how dark the tunnels, high the hills, or low the valleys.

As Brad and I sat in our hospital room on January 8, we knew the ride had already begun. We weren’t sure how long it would last or how it would end, but we knew that our only choice on this journey was what kind of passengers we would be. So we lifted our hands to our Heavenly Father and said, “We will rest in You if You will carry us.”

He carried us through the next 24 hours. We delivered our son the evening of January 9 and learned the reason for his death was an umbilical cord knot. We named him Luke Dixon. Luke because it means “light”--for he had been our light during a dark year--and Dixon after my mom, Dixie, because he would be her baby for eternity.

She made it to the hospital and held him. It is how I imagine them together in heaven. And on January 12 we had the most beautiful baby dedication for him--a celebration of the 35 weeks we got to love him and the gift he will always be in our hearts.

God continued to carry us through February and March. Already so broken from our loss, we held each other tighter. We knew that my mother’s days with us were few. We cherished each word, hug, and moment--we had the gift of one more slumber party, one more boat ride on the lake, one more snowfall, and many “I love yous.”

She told us not to look for her at the cemetery. Instead we would find her love notes written in the sunsets, her hugs and kisses delivered by the birds on our windowsill, and her music played through the laughter of her grandchildren. On March 11 she joined her grandson and her mother at the feet of Jesus. Not because she had lost her battle with cancer, but because she’d been granted her eternal healing.

Okay, by now you’re probably regretting ever opening your mailbox. This year’s letter is better suited to be a Lifetime movie than correspondence between friends. Fortunately, our ride wasn’t all downhill. (This was Space Mountain, not the Tower of Terror.) We believed in God’s wisdom and had hope that good things were coming. After all, the 23rd Psalm doesn’t end with “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” It ends with “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow.”

We got a glimpse of His goodness in May when we found out we were pregnant again. After weeks of hearing our little girls pray, “God, please give us another baby,” we were truly grateful for this answered prayer.

And so we began our time of waiting. There’s something significant and necessary about the wait between the valley of the shadow of death and the goodness and mercy that follows. The Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years before they reached the Promised Land. The world waited 2000 years for the Messiah. There were three days between Christ’s death and resurrection. And there would be one year between the loss of one child and the birth of another--our due date in 2005 was the day we lost Luke in 2004. What a special gift that God would grant our goodness and mercy within one year.

But waiting for God’s goodness is hard. How difficult it was to start over--going from third trimester back to first. I don’t do pregnancy gracefully--my morning sickness usually took encores in the evening. So I spent last summer kneeling at God’s throne and the porcelain throne. And last fall my days and nights were consumed with counting kicks, contractions, and the calendar. But our weeks in the wilderness kept us leaning on each other and dependent on our Heavenly Father. We continued to rest in Him and He continued to carry us.

Just like the rollercoaster, our lives seemed to travel at the speed of light, yet each minute seemed excruciatingly endless. And soon we were back where we had started--celebrating Christmas being “great with child.”

We were hoping our new baby would come by Christmas. The holidays were difficult without Baby Luke, my mother, and my grandmother. The girls must have sensed my sadness because one day they speculated. “Gigi, Grandmother Little, and Baby Luke aren’t missing Christmas, because I bet in heaven every day is Christmas.” I told them that they are so right. And since Christmas represents the celebration of God’s outpouring of love on us, in a way, every day on earth is Christmas, too.

We decided to leave up our Christmas decorations until our “gift from God” was delivered. And after we rang in the new year with sparkling grape juice and tossed confetti, I went into labor.

We went to the hospital New Year’s Day. As I waited for my labor to progress and hear the magnificent announcement of 10 centimeters, I reflected back on my past gifts from God.

I remembered holding my girls for the first time--such overwhelming joy over these amazing miracles. With cone-shaped heads, splotchy skin, and sprouts of wild black hair, they looked more Chia Pet than Gerber baby. Yet, I remember thinking when each of them were placed in my arms, “Wow. She must be one of God’s greatest masterpieces.” I couldn’t believe that out of all the women in the world, God had chosen me to be their mother. And although not a typical lullaby, my grateful heart could sing nothing but the simple tune, “God Is So Good.” (You may remember from past letters that the term “tone deaf” is a gross overestimation of my vocal ability. Thus I sing on a Vacation Bible School level.)

Then I remembered a year ago when Luke was delivered. There was nothing but silence till my midwife asked, “Do you want to hold him?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. Would it be too painful to hold a child I couldn’t keep? Maybe it would be better not to see him--perhaps to pretend he never existed. But I knew later I’d wonder what he looked like and regret not saying good-bye. So I nodded and she placed him in my arms.

At 5 pounds, 11 ounces, he was smaller than his sisters, yet he looked complete . . . precious . . . perfect. I held back my tears so I could study his sweet face. I knew these few moments with my son would have to last me till our reunion in heaven. As I held him in my arms I thought yet again, “Wow. He must be one of God’s greatest masterpieces.” Then I remembered that as his mommy, I owed him a lullaby.

I waited till we were alone. I thought some might think it crazy to sing to a baby already at peace and I didn’t want to leave the hospital in a straight jacket. Then in my shaking voice barely above a whisper I began, “God is so good, God is so good, God is so good, He’s so good to me.” But this time I sang not with a grateful heart, but a broken one. This time it was not a proclamation of His goodness, but a reminder of His mercy. I sang until I could no longer contain my sorrow and anointed his tiny head with my tears.

And there we were again, starting 2005 the way we began 2004 . . . in the hospital. But this time we weren’t waiting for death. We were waiting for life. We were once again surrounded by angels disguised as nurses and midwives, being prayed over by a host of family and friends. I looked out my hospital window to see the most glorious sunset and to be reminded that my mother, grandmother, and Baby Luke were with us in spirit.

Then on the evening of New Year’s Day, our eight pounds of goodness and mercy was born. The only sound sweeter than “It’s a boy!” was his newborn cry. And when they placed him in my arms I thought, “Wow. Not only is he one of God’s greatest masterpieces, he’s proof that my Redeemer lives.”

My retired lullaby was reinstated as the anthem of my heart--and once again I found myself weeping before my Lord singing, “God is so good. You’re so good to me.” But this time it was a happy cry, as my tears of joy washed away the pain of the past year.

We named him Brady--so his daddy’s name could be part of his. And his middle names are after his dear grandfathers: Jack--meaning “God has been gracious” and David meaning “beloved.”

I wondered if my mom had “regifted” Luke. I held him close to my face to see if he smelled of her perfume, only to find he smelled like heaven. I searched him head to toe looking for an enclosed card, or maybe her signature on his bottom, but instead saw God’s magnificent handiwork. Brady looked strangely familiar, remarkably like his brother. Same mouth and chin, same eyes, same head full of hair (although we’ve since kissed Brady bald), but a new blessing.

After a year of our girls praying for another baby, kissing my pregnant tummy, and sleeping with ultrasound photos, they finally got to meet him. When Brad brought them into the delivery room to meet their new brother, they trembled with excitement. Ava whispered in her Daddy’s ear, “It’s so wonderful it feels like a dream, except it’s really true.” And later Olivia told me, “I think God gave us a baby as special as Luke.”



It was truly a triumph to leave the hospital with my arms overflowing with newborn treasure. It was almost 70 degrees for our trip home, as if nature was rejoicing in the baby who brought us springtime in winter. Just a year ago I returned home with my eyes swollen shut from crying. But for this homecoming, my cheeks ached from smiling.

When we pulled into the garage, it was like our rollercoaster returned to the platform. I looked at Brad next to me--my soul mate, prayer partner, and best friend. He cheered me on during the slow ascent up each hill and reminded me to laugh during the freefall down. We’ve shared the blessing of brokenness and our marriage, family, and faith will never be the same.

I looked back to see my daughters who had been on this ride with us--on my darkest days they gave me a reason to keep going. They reminded me not to mourn over the empty cradle, but to rejoice over the little girls kneeling in prayer by their beds.

And then I saw all of you known as father, mother, sister, family, neighbor, and friend. You had joined us on this journey from January to January. You have mourned with us, prayed for us, and now rejoice with us and we will always be grateful.

So the answer to the question, “Where’s the Williams Christmas letter?” This is it. Yes, I realize we are well into 2005, but we’re celebrating heaven-style where every day is Christmas--every day is a celebration of the outpouring of God’s love.

So this year, our holiday color is baby blue and our favorite Christmas carol is, “God Is So Good.” And we’ll not only find our Christmas story in the Gospel of Luke, but we’ll be reading from the 23rd Psalm. It always ends with “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow.”

With Much Love,
The Williams Family

Saving Private Cryin'

Sorry I didn't get a chance to update yesterday. I have come to the conclusion that my life is one long episode of The Amazing Race (and I'm in last place). And after a day of carpooling, shopping, buying, wrapping, baking, phone calling, cleaning, blood-pressure checking (just kidding, I don't even want to know my numbers right now), I was up most of the night with my sick son.

Brady has a respiratory thing made worse with his asthma. Unfortunately the treatment is giving him meds that make him deliriously sleepy followed with steroids that help open his airways and enable him to climb walls like Spiderman. The combo makes a normally delightful child seem like he has rabies. Our bedtime story was about Old Yeller. Not a typical cautionary tale, yet I wanted to send the message that I have a Nerf gun and I'm not afraid to use it.

Yesterday was quite a day on our adoption adventure, but never have I been so proud to have a husband who loves with his whole heart and isn't afraid to fight for his children. Brad makes his living in sales and yesterday he had what may have been the biggest pitch of his life.

I think where I left off was telling you that after the Branch Renap folks (kind of like our county level) said we had to go through the Central Renap (kind of like our state level) to get our birth certificate, we were so disappointed. Central Renap only takes files on Tuesdays and it was Wednesday. We also only have a couple days left to get this birth certificate and passport and do our final documents to have any chance for Brad and Daniel to be home by Christmas.

But we had a huge answer to prayer Wednesday when Brad, Daniel, and our paralegal pleaded our case and a very nice lady at the Central Renap said she would accept our file anyway and try to get the approval for our birth certificate by 3:00 p.m. Thursday. Well, our paralegal stopped by yesterday to see if it was ready only to get more bad news. The person who reviews files and gives these approvals would not be able to even touch our file till next Tuesday. Our attorney called and pleaded, our paralegal stood there and pleaded, but to no avail. But Brad had to ask himself. Any chance of Christmas at home was going quickly.

So he and Daniel walked down there and asked to have a minute to speak with the kind lady who had helped him the day before. There he again explained the situation. That we have a little boy almost 10 years old who has been waiting to finally have Christmas with a family. That our family has been trying for 2 1/2 years to get him home. That Brad and I have been switching off living in a hotel for a month trying to complete the adoption and we've hit one wall after another but are so close to being finished. That if we can just get the birth certificate by Friday, we can get our final documents to the US Embassy by Monday, and we will still have a chance of making it home for Christmas.

The sweet lady just said, "I'm so sorry. Please don't tell me this. It breaks my heart but there's nothing I can do."

Then Brad and Daniel broke down in tears, standing in a hallway with hundreds of people watching the crazy American with his little boy begging for her to just ask her boss one more time if there was any way he could review our file before Tuesday. He said if he and Daniel spend the Christmas season alone in a hotel room in Guatemala, he will feel like he has failed Daniel and his family at home. He pleaded, "If you will just ask one more time, then I will know that I've done all I can."

She went into her office. Brad and Daniel waited nervously for an hour. She returned smiling to say that, even though they were scheduled to be working away from the office on Friday, he would come first to the office and look at our file. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!!! Brad gave her my blog address (perhaps so she could see how many people are praying us home), so "Ms. G" (I don't want to give your name without permission) if you are reading, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

So pray, pray, pray (as Daniel says) that we get that approval this morning, that they are able to get the birth certificate at the branch Renap next and that there's still time to get our passport today. We need to submit our final documents first thing on Monday at the US Embassy for any chance at getting our Visa appointments before Christmas.

Thanks for your continued prayers. I'll try to update tonight.

Much Love,
Kathie