Before and After

My bloggy friend Lisa left such a profound comment on my last post that I just had to share it here: "I truly believe that adoption is 50% for the orphaned child and 50% for the family that is opening its arms wide. The Lord is asking both to trust and lean on Him with all their might."

That statement is so true. (Thank you, Lisa.)

The purpose of my last post was not to yank your rose-colored glasses off your face and stomp on them. (And forgive me if you're still standing among broken glass.) I was just feeling conviction about some things.

You see, I'm guilty of not sharing "out-takes." I have a lot of photos that don't make it on the blog, or in the scrapbooks, or on the Christmas card. It's not because I'm in denial that at certain angles I have a double chin or don't think my kiddos are adorable when their eyes are closed. I just prefer to share the photos where we are looking our best.



I've kind of done the same thing with my blog. I share mostly the good stuff--not in an effort to hide the hard times, but just wanting to make sure I record every bit of God's goodness in our lives. I also want to respect the privacy of my kids, especially Daniel. You wouldn't believe how many posts have been deleted before publishing. Writing them was cathartic for me and might have encouraged others, but if there's any chance that my child might feel betrayed by sharing something too personal, well, it just isn't worth the hurt it could cause.

The only problem with sharing only the good stuff is that you only get to see the "after" without the benefit of the "before." And when I share about the priceless things Daniel says and does, all you see is that we have adopted a very special little boy. (Which is so very true.) The part that's missing in this story is what God has done and is doing in Daniel's life and in our family.


To explain this, I'm going to have to give you another analogy. (Sorry, but this is how my crazy mind processes things.) I remember walking through a house once that friends had remodeled. It looked like something out of a magazine. I could only imagine it in its current state of perfection. They described what a dump it had been, but I was thinking "Yeah right." But then they showed me pictures of it before. The house was run down, the yard overgrown, windows broken, wiring exposed. I couldn't believe it was the same home. I had to see the "before" photos before I could appreciate all the time, money, and effort they had invested.


I wish I could share all of Daniel's "before pictures" so you could understand how God is transforming him. When we started his adoption we knew we were getting him "As Is." We knew there would be repairs and perhaps some cosmetic updating (he needed glasses and had never had his teeth cleaned), but he was just so precious that we refused to label him a "fixer-upper." All he needed was a fresh coat of love and he would be good as new. Right? We watch HGTV. How hard could it be?


But we got him home and found termites eating the foundation and mold slowly growing in the walls. His heart had been vandalized and our Daniel had words spray painted on him that wouldn't come off.


And we felt overwhelmed with the task ahead. And angry that the original "homeowners" had treated him so terribly. And we realized the box of tools we used for minor repairs on our other three children didn't contain the Power tools needed to restore Daniel.

So we contacted a Master Craftsman to do our renovation. And the estimate for the job was a lot. The invoice said "EVERYTHING." And we let Him know we couldn't afford it. And then He told us He already paid for it. We graciously accepted the help . . . and wept at the generosity of His gift.


And now I love to show the "after" photos and share the "after" stories of my sweet Daniel. But it only tells half of the story. So it makes me want to show the world the "before" that Daniel was so others can see the magnificence of God's handiwork. But then I realize these are Daniel's stories to share some day . . . not mine.


While I feel that at this time I need to respect the privacy of my family, I'm torn because I feel I'm not being fair to my readers. It's not fair to those considering adopting to not share about the challenges because they may not be prepared for the reality of parenting a child with a broken spirit.

It's also not fair for me to only share one side of things, because there are many wonderful adoptive parents who are struggling. I don't want them to read my blog and wonder what they are doing wrong or why it seems our child effortlessly transitioned into our family while theirs is having such a hard time. Had I been reading my own blog last January/February, I think I would have thought to myself, "If I have to hear another story about the precious things Daniel said on his birthday/Christmas/yesterday morning, I'm going to lose my lunch."

And I don't want people who haven't adopted to unfairly compare other's adoption stories to ours. We were fortunate that we got Daniel before the termites had eaten through the entire frame of the house, before the mold had reached toxic levels. We have not had to deal with attachment issues. He has never been violent or harmful toward any person or animal. (In spite of the abuse he has endured, he's one of the gentlest little boys I've ever met.) He has a strong conscience and an understanding of right and wrong. But sometimes children have been so hurt that God has to do a complete demolition of their will before He can rebuild. And these adoptive parents may have years of praying and waiting and loving unconditionally before they can see the beauty from ashes.

Yes, we have invested much time and prayer and love in our son, but the credit for his healing goes only to God. I don't know why some renovations take longer than others. But I do know there's a blueprint for each one of us.

We are far from finished. There's still a lot of sawing, hammering, and sanding going on with each member of our family. (Especially me.)

So as you read my blog from now on, I want you to know that for every "after" I share, there was also a "before." And if you are facing some "before" situations that look hopeless, I've got the name of a Master Craftsman that I highly recommend. He can restore even what has been condemned and His work is already paid in full.

Gratefully His,
Kathie

Writing with Permanent Marker

Today was one of those days. Two sick kids and our air-conditioning upstairs decided to take a vacation. It is roughly the temp of the surface of the sun. Thus we are "camping" in our family room tonight. Nothing like the great indoors.

An AC angel will be coming between 1:00 p.m. and 4:00 p.m. tomorrow to fix it. He will be getting a group hug from one very sweaty family--that is if we haven't melted.

Anyway, we stayed close to home because Ava and Brady felt so crummy and I took the opportunity to catch up around the house. I was picking up the sofa pillows that had been tossed on the floor when I made a horrifying discovery.

I found this.
(Exhibit A.)



That, ladies and the one gentleman who reads my blog, is the cap off of a permanent marker. I knew that somewhere around my house was a Sharpie without it's hat!

(Exhibit B.)



I knew it was quite possibly in the hands of a child who was feeling creative (and immortal) or in the back pocket of a child who was practicing her somersaults. I envisioned carpeting and upholstery, bedspreads and baseboards, getting the business end of this marker on the loose.

Most of the time my Sharpie is my friend. I label things like a rancher brands cattle. Many germs have been contained by the labeling of water bottles. Many wars have been avoided at the community pool simply because our diving toys and floats were autographed by Mom.

Still, I have flashbacks to the time that Olivia (about 3 years old at the time), got hold of a Sharpie and gave herself a Hitler moustache. I scrubbed till her lip was raw, but it just wouldn't come off. I got a lot of nasty looks at the grocery store till it finally disappeared.

I did find the marker before too much damage was done. It was in Brady's hands and he was challenging his brother to a sword fight with writing implements. I handled the situation like an undercover cop and commanded, "Put down the marker and nobody gets hurt!"

Once the marker was safely out of reach and my blood pressure had returned to normal, I shared a little analogy with my kiddos relating to the marker. We've recently had some kidding and sarcasm that I felt was going over the line. Nothing intentionally hurtful, but I have four very sensitive children who wound easily so we have a zero tolerance for things that "do not build up."

I explained that our words to each other aren't written with washable/non-toxic Crayola markers. (Can you tell I've been buying school supplies lately?) They mark our hearts and our spirits with permanence.

You can spot a child who has been told they are stupid or slow or worthless. You might as well have written the words on their faces because the hurt is so evident in their expressions. You can also recognize a child who has been told he is loved and special and a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. There is usually a light about them that says, "I'm cherished."

I still remember things that were said to me--good and bad--as a child and as an adult. Some of those things shaped who I am today.

I'll never forget a Sharpie moment with my high school guidance counselor. I remember having my turn to go into his office and discuss what subjects to take for my junior year. Although he seemed like a nice man, I was very nervous. He looked just like Kenny Rogers and I kept expecting him to burst into song with "The Gambler."

As he looked over my records I could hear the tune playing--"You gotta know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away, know when to run."

And I wanted to run. I knew I didn't look like much on paper. My grades were good, but nothing on a valedictorian level. I don't have a clue what my standardized testing showed, but knowing my weakness in math my score would probably have been higher by penciling in the circles in a pretty pattern.

He looked up at me and asked, "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

I wasn't expecting that question and didn't know what to say. I could have talked for hours about my hopes and dreams but like a ding-a-ling responded with, "I don't know."

The ball was back in his court and I was hoping he would live up to his title as "guidance counselor" and tell me what I was good at, what made me special, and what wonderful options I had to prepare me for the future.

And this was his advice: "I recommend that you take typing next year because you will most likely spend your life typing someone else's letters."

Ouch.

I know he didn't mean it the way it came out. It was actually wonderful advice that I take typing, yet I felt that he had written "worthless" across my forehead. As his instructions echoed, I realized that he envisioned my highest achievement to be recording someone else's words.

But this story does have a happy ending. His words were the kick in the rear that I needed. For the first time in my life I was absolutely determined to do my best. I'm still living out Colossians 3:23: "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men."

So each day I try to write blessings on my children's hearts--knowing it's so easy to write the encouraging words on, but so difficult to take the hurtful words off.

And guess what? My guidance counselor was absolutely right. Every time I sit down to write, I ask God to give me the words He wants me to share. What a privilege to spend my life seeking to "type Someone Else's words."

More Than Lots,
Kathie

The Sweetest Sound

I had planned on posting a Sunday dinner last night after our busy weekend, but a thunderstorm hit and my kiddos needed comforting. I thought I'd pull a Julie Andrews and started singing to them "Sound of Music" style. My goal was not to soothe them with my talent, but to entertain them with my lack of talent.


It worked. I soon heard giggles in response to my tone-deaf version of "My Favorite Things." Then I dusted off every lullaby from when the kiddos were younger. I had all four piled in the boys' room for this little concert. But it wasn't long till I heard Ava sniffling back tears in the top bunk with Brady. I asked what was wrong and she said, "I'm sad because Daniel never had you to sing to him when he was little."


Oh my. I have already grieved over the same kinds of losses. Eight years missed of being his mom. Eight years missed of him having a mom.


I looked at Daniel as I sat next to him in the bottom bunk. His face was easy to see because even though the lights were out, we have enough nightlights to give the room that "prison break glow."


I could tell Ava's words were being processed in his head. So I quickly responded with, "Don't be sad, Ava, because Daniel's not missing a thing. He has us now, surrounded by a family who loves him and a mom who has a voice that's so dreadful she can drowned out the sound of thunder." Daniel chuckled.


I continued by belting out "You Are My Sunshine" and finished with "God Is So Good." The eyelids began to get heavy and I knew an encore would not be needed.


As I was leaving the room, I heard Daniel say, "Mama, I think you have the most beautiful voice I ever heard."


You don't need the ability to sing in perfect pitch to be able to hear the magnificence of such precious words. I walked back over to his bed and kissed him one more time on the forehead. With a huge lump in my throat I mustered up, "Thanks, sweetheart. I just love being your mama."


His loving words helped me to not regret the time lost, but cherish the moments now.


The belated dinner of scripture for this week is:

"Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones."

Proverbs 16:24

The song of dessert is "Sweet Sweet Sound" by Sarah Reeves. I have a mental list of singers under the heading "Please, God, when I get to heaven could I sound like. . . . " Sarah Reeves is on that list.


May your own life be filled with the sweet sounds of those God has blessed you with and may you offer up your own sweet sounds to Him of thanks.

More Than Lots,
Kathie

Life's a Beach (and Pool)

Saying hi from Rosemary Beach, Florida!

Sorry I haven't posted in a while. We arrived on Saturday but haven't had internet for a couple days.

We've been enjoying every minute of Daniel's first trip to the beach. I don't have many pics to share yet because I left the thingy that connects my good camera to my computer at home, but here are a few from Olivia's pocket sized digital one.

This is Ava, Daniel, and Brady enjoying kayaking fun with cousins.

This is a quick pic before going to dinner.



And this is with a large stuffed alligator at dinner.



After two and a half years of mentally Photoshopping Daniel into our family memories, it's such a blessing to have him sharing it all with us.

My belated Sunday dinner of scripture is simply one about the sea:

"Mightier than the thunder of the great waters, mightier than the breakers of the sea-- the Lord on high is mighty."

Psalm 93:4

Few things make me realize God's greatness like the ocean. I awe it, fear it, revel in it, delight in it. Just like I awe Him, fear Him, revel in Him, and delight in Him.

I have many thoughts about the ocean that I'll share later, but one small thing I love about it is its healing power. We all came on vacation with our scraps and cuts. I have a cut on my hand that reminds me that I'm long overdue for a tetanus shot, the boys' knees look like they have been grated like a piece of cheese, and my teen's legs look like she's been shaving with a chainsaw.

On the drive down, I reminded all the injured that the salt water would heal our wounds. And, you know what, two days into our trip and you can hardly tell where are boo-boos were.

It reminds me of God's love. I know if I just immerse myself in the healing power of His grace, I find healing of wounds that I thought would always be raw and infected and bleeding. Sometimes it stings at first, but I know that is the first step toward restoration.

As I soaked in the sea playing with my kiddos, I saw healing--not only in body, but in spirit. Primarily Daniel's spirit. It's a beautiful sight to behold.

This week's dessert of song is "Ocean Wide" by The Afters.

May you celebrate God's greatness and experience His healing.

More Than Lots,

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.

Making Progress

Sorry for not posting much this week. Just busy with life.

My girls have just one more week of school left (they attend a fabulous classical Christian school) and my boys are wrapping things up, too (they attend a fabulous school in our home with a teacher who looks just like their mom).

I don't know about you but by May I'm nauseated by the smell of dry erase markers, have nightmares involving bibliography cards, and can feel a panic attack coming on by simply purchasing poster board. (I think my eldest daughter's science fair project required more planning and money than my wedding.) The only words I dread more than "I don't understand the Pythagorean Theorem" (my thoughts about math are here) would be "Mom, I have a test on the Periodic Table of Elements tomorrow." Let's just say few folks are happier about the end of the school year than this mom.

It has been almost 5 months since our sweet Daniel arrived home on Christmas Eve. He has made such remarkable progress. Things that used to make him scared or anxious no longer do. When he first came home, things as simple as riding in the car or going to a place he'd never been before would cause meltdowns. Bad habits and behaviors are quickly being replaced with wise choices. He looks healthier and is growing like a weed.

He can speak and understand English as if he was born in the US. There's even a bit of a Southern twang mixed with his Spanish accent. (It's very cute.)

He's learning to trust us and respect us. He now understands that his home is a safe place, he will always have plenty to eat, and his family loves him no matter what.

Occasionally, we will see flashbacks of old behaviors. Evidence of old fears. Re-injury of old wounds. Those moments are heartbreaking to watch . . . often hard to handle.

But the remarkable thing is that he sees it as "the old Daniel", too. He realizes it as soon as the words of anger come out of his mouth, or the pouting lips and furrowed brow wrinkle his face, or the fear and anxiety make his little body tremble. Often all it takes is a gentle reminder from Mom and Dad and he is able to pull it together--sometimes more quickly than others--and understand that he isn't that boy anymore.

It makes me think of our adoption as sons and daughters by our Heavenly Father. Our hearts, minds, and actions reflect our new Father. We seek to honor Him, we seek to resemble Him.

Things that used to cause us to be fearful no longer do. Bad habits and behaviors are quickly replaced with wise choices. We learn we can trust Him to provide, protect, and love us. We begin to understand His language and His Word. We become able to share things of our Father with others.

But occasionally, we forget we are the child of a King. Old fears return. Old temptations beckon. Old lies convince us that we are beyond help and unworthy of love. And we act as if we're ungrateful for the gift of grace and loving sacrifice that paid our ransom.

But then our Father reminds us that we are forgiven . . . that we have been chosen . . . that we are forever changed.

And on those days it is hard to parent an adopted child, I remember I'm an adopted child, too.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for the miracle of adoption.

Gratefully His,
Kathie

Building Trust

Ahhh, May.

May always seems to be one of those months that chews me up and spits me out. Still doesn't compare to December--in which I'm like a bad science experiment and turn from a solid to a liquid. Let's just say partially eaten and decomposing aren't good looks for me.

This is just a crazy theory, but perhaps because this month is so challenging for moms is the reason why someone chose to celebrate Mother's Day in May. I must admit, it keeps me from going on strike.

Probably like many of you, I'm busy helping the girls finish their school year with tests and projects, music programs and ballet recitals. I'm also helping the boys finish their homeschooling year so we don't have as much to do this summer. This week has been so crazy that even Princess Leah and Luke Skywalker (our goldfish) are starting to complain about the condition of the house. I've got a pile of laundry that might be eligible for some kind of Guinness Book of World Records and a bathroom that looks like it belongs in a gas station. Since I don't want a rep from the Health Department to visit, this will be a quick post between loads of laundry and toilet scrubbing.

We had another "getting to know you" encounter with Daniel the other day. Even before Daniel came home, our hope was that we would be able to earn his trust. He has experienced a lifetime of disappointment and neglect. We soon realized that his level of trust was in negative numbers.

He needs to trust that there will always be enough food. To trust that we won't abuse him. To trust that we know what is best for him. To trust that he is safe. To trust that he is just as loved and part of the family as our other children. To trust that we won't abandon him. We are still trying to earn that trust a little at a time.

What I didn't consider was that he would also have to earn our trust. Trust that he would be honest. Trust that he would be respectful of our home. Trust that he wouldn't harm his siblings or pets. Trust that he would be a loving member of our family. He has earned that trust quickly but the other day I realized that he hadn't yet earned it completely.

We had embarked on a quick trip to the grocery store and had actually made it to the check-out without too many, "Mom, can I have . . . " episodes. But there we were at the register--I was eyeing the home and garden magazines and the boys were eyeing the gum. The boys asked if they could have some, I remembered a cup holder in my van that had become the final resting place for gum that had lost its flavor, and felt certain I had made the right decision by saying no. To my surprise, they took it really well and just replied with "Okay, mom."

I proceeded to unload my groceries onto the check-out counter feeling good about life, then out of the corner of my eye I saw Daniel fiddling with something in his pocket. My thoughts exploded into a dialogue of "Did he steal some gum?" to "No, I really don't think he would take something."

As the check-out lady chatted with me about Daniel's cast and shared about the time her granddaughter broke her arm, I smiled and nodded hiding the fact that my blood pressure was rising and my stomach was churning. I debated whether I should ask Daniel what was in his pocket or head home to confront him there. I didn't want to falsely accuse him, yet it was a real possibility that he had stolen something. That was his old way of life. That was how he survived.

I finally leaned over, pointed to his shorts and whispered, "What's in your pocket?" I don't think he fully heard me, but looked down, discovered his fly was open, turned red (okay, with his beautifully pigmented skin he doesn't really turn red but he looked embarrassed), zipped up and said, "Thanks, Mom." Oh great. Not only am I the driver of the get-away car, I've been letting my possible felon walk around showing London, France, and Batman underpants.

By this time I could see that, without question, he had something in his pocket. Ugh! What should I do? I wished I was on one of those game shows that let you phone a friend. Or if I could just quickly Google "Adopted son. Stealing. Mom freaking out."

I didn't want to overreact. I know many people have stolen things or "permanently borrowed" items when they were younger and they aren't currently members of the mafia. Still, Daniel knows he has a clean slate and a fresh start. He has such good character and a strong conscience and I was sad that his old temptations might have such a hold on him. I knew this small incident could tear down the trust that had been built--I would later wonder what else he might steal. That I would question his future words and actions.

I could almost hear the theme song from "Cops" playing ("bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do . . . ). I leaned over one more time and asked, "Hey, buddy, what's in your pocket?"

He looked at me with those big eyes and slowly pulled from his pocket a handful of . . . Nerf gun bullets. That were his! That he brought from home! Oh, praise God! I hoped he didn't know that I hadn't trusted him--that my mind had already had him convicted him as a Bubble Yum thief. I tried to contain my elation and nonchalantly said, "Yep. That's what I thought you had in there. Be sure to take them out of your pocket before I wash your shorts cause they might melt in the dryer."

My check-out lady has never had a customer so giddy in answering that I didn't have coupons and preferred plastic to paper. I skipped out the store with my heart rejoicing.

That night when I tucked him in, I told him that one of the things I loved about him was that I could trust him. I asked if he trusted me. He sweetly nodded. When we said bedtime prayers, he grabbed my hand and held it tightly. I was grateful for one more brick laid on that wall of trust--a brick that we put there together.

More Than Lots,
Kathie

Broken and Healing

Sorry I've been quiet for a few days. I was actually about to post something earlier this week and decided to hold on to it a bit. It shares some personal things about one of my daughters and, although she's given me permission to post it, I want to give her a few days to make any edits to respect her privacy.

I first want to say thanks to all you sweet people who read my ramblings and many who even take the time to comment here and on Facebook (some of my pre-blog friends comment there). Many of you cracked me up with your comments about my snake story last week.

When I first started writing my blog, I was a bit nervous about sharing such personal information and photos that complete strangers could see. I seriously thought about making my blog private. But then I wondered if perhaps our story could encourage others who were going through the same things, so I prayed for God to only send readers who I could call friend. Thus far, every faithful reader and loyal lurker has been worthy of that title.

Okay, I mentioned a bit last week about Daniel's broken arm, but didn't go into details. I think I'm in denial about the whole thing. I just feel like a stinky parent that Daniel lived three years in an orphanage and never broke a bone but has not even been home 4 months and is wearing a cast. Ugh! I've nominated myself for Most Negligent Mom.

It happened Saturday, April 10. We had spent the day at Brad's mom's beautiful wedding and reception. When we got home that evening, it was still daylight. He offered to take the kids outside to play. Daniel had just recently learned to ride his bike without training wheels and wanted to take it for a spin. (Perhaps crash would be a better word than spin.)

I was still changing out of my wedding clothes when Ava ran in the house screaming, "Come quick, Daniel is hurt." Not words a mom wants to hear. I followed her down the street to our cul-de-sac and he was sitting crying next to his mangled bike with Brad rubbing his back trying to assess his injuries. I was so relieved that he was wearing his helmet and I didn't see any blood. (No blood equals mom not passing out.)

Brad relayed the story and Brady reenacted it in his super slow-motion. Daniel started down the hill on our street, panicked as his speed increased, and forgot how to break. He plowed into our neighbor's van parked in their driveway, but as he reached out to keep from hitting the van, he hurt his arm.

Daniel stopped crying and there was no swelling, but when we saw what he had done to the van (also needs pricey medical attention), we knew he'd hit it pretty hard. Brad took him to the ER and an X-ray confirmed that it was broken. He was proud to have the honor of being the first child in our family to break a bone. We were not proud that the ink on our Daniel's new insurance card is still drying, yet we've hit every dentist, eye doctor, pediatrician and ER within a 10 mile radius.

Daniel has been so great about it. I think he has really enjoyed the extra TLC after so many years without it. We got his permanent cast a couple days later. He chose a red, white, and blue star design and announced this was his "welcome to America" cast. I love it. It's perfect for our new little American boy.

He asked me why he needed the cast to fix his broken bone. I tried to explain that the cast would protect his arm while it healed. It keeps his arm from moving too much and shields it from things that could re-injure it.

It made me wish that I could put his broken spirit in a cast--to hold him tight and protect him from further harm. Perhaps we can wrap him with love, surround him with scripture, cover him with prayer. His arm cast only needs to be on for 4 weeks, but I wonder exactly how long it will take Daniel to heal from his brokenness.

Sometimes I forget he is broken because he looks just fine on the outside. They don't make X-rays for the spirit, yet there are times he cries out because it hurts where he has been fractured. Like the stress he felt when we went on vacation and left the cats home alone for a neighbor to check on. He worried and cried about them the whole time, only to later learn that his birthmom had left him alone for days at a time with just a little bit of food.

Then there was the time at the grocery store when I was about to pay and realized I'd left my debit card at home. He watched me closely as I searched my purse and even had beads of sweat starting to run down his face. I could see that he was about to break down and he asked, "What do we do if you don't have any money?" He relaxed when I told him I could just write a check. Later he shared that often his birthmom didn't have money for the food they needed and had to leave the store with nothing. Sometimes she'd send him back in to steal something.

And just yesterday he grabbed for some paper towels and accidentally knocked the iron stand that holds them on the floor. I was cooking dinner and didn't see what happened but hearing the crash I turned around to find Daniel crouched down covering his head. I assumed it had fallen on him and asked if he was okay and he cried out, "I'm fine, I'm just so so sorry." He was covering his head because he thought I might hit him. I assured him that even if the stand had broken, he wouldn't be in trouble and I would certainly never hit him. He exhaled and smiled at my response, but I knew I had simply given some verbal Motrin to a kid who had much to heal from.

It seems he will need his emotional cast for a while. And there may be days that it will itch and he will insist that he doesn't need it anymore, but we will keep holding him close, surrounding him with scripture, and covering him with prayer.

Daniel may be the first in our family to have a broken arm, but he's not the first to have a broken heart. But the good news is that you can never be so broken that God can't heal you. I am living proof.

More Than Lots,
Kathie

The Weaver

Last night, we had another first as Daniel's parents. He came into our room and said, "Mama and Dada, I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?" As he crawled into our bed and wiggled between us into the safest place this little person could find, I wondered what his dream was about. With all the things he's been telling us about his past (I shared a bit about it here), I honestly don't know how he doesn't have nightmares every night.

The first five years of his life (before being taken to the orphanage) were nothing but extreme poverty, hunger, abuse, and neglect. I will not share the details, for this is Daniel's story to tell, but he's shared things that I'd expect to see in a movie or read in a novel. Not things told by a child who calls me mommy. Who laughs at my dinner table. Who snuggles up with me in my bed.

I remember renting the movie "Slumdog Millionaire", but halfway through I just had to stop watching because it was too heartbreaking. Even though I knew it would certainly have a happy ending, I couldn't hang on long enough to get there. I guess I wish I could do the same with Daniel. I know what happens later in his story, that he finally gets a family, but I want to pretend that the years before he got here were just a bad dream. I want to rewind his life and erase the bad. I wonder why this little boy had to go through so much before coming home.

It reminds me of one of my favorite poems. It more eloquently says what I was trying to write on Sunday.

THE WEAVER

By Benjamin Malachi Franklin

(1882-1965)

My life is but a weaving

between my Lord and me,

I cannot choose the colors

He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow,

and I in foolish pride

forget He sees the upper

but I the under side.

Not till the loom is silent

and the shuttles cease to fly,

shall God unroll the canvas

and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed

in the Weaver's skillful hand,

as threads of gold and silver

in the pattern life has planned.

I was given a beautiful Guatemalan tapestry for my birthday by Brad's cousin (thanks, Suzanne!).



She had won it at a fundraising auction and thought of me. She'll never know what an encouragement this gift was. It was June 2008. We were almost a year into our adoption and just weeks earlier found out that our dossier (completed in October 2007) had never been submitted to the Guatemalan government. We had missed critical deadlines, the Hague had gone into effect December 31, 2007 closing adoptions to Guatemala, and it looked impossible to ever bring our son home. There were some dark threads woven in those months. All we could see was the tangled mess of the underside.



But I knew God's hand was working on this tapestry. Our hearts were already tied to Daniel's. We knew God could fix man's error and provide a way for Daniel to come home. Oh how I wished then that I could have had a glimpse of the finished tapestry of our adoption and what beauty is being woven now.

Daniel has many dark threads in the tapestry of his life. Rows of black that I wish I could rip out. I want to show him my tapestry and say, "I understand hurt and pain and loss. See, I have dark threads, too." But to be honest, my darkest ones look gray compared to his.

Today I brought out that tapestry that Suzanne gave me along with some others that I plan to have framed and displayed with a copy of the above poem. When Daniel saw it he said, "Oh, it's beautiful!!! Where did you get it?" I told him that it was given from a friend who believed his adoption was a work in progress, but knew it would someday be a beautiful masterpiece.

And here's two brothers who stopped long enough with their play to say, "Mom, take our picture with this pretty blanket!"

God's busy weaving today--but as the mom, I play a large part in what colors are added. (A humbling thought.) My daily prayer is that I would have wisdom, patience, and strength in parenting so my words and actions would add only cheerful colors to their lives.

Ava once said that when Daniel got home, she wanted his life to be so full of happy that he wouldn't even be able to remember what it was like to be sad. We've already been so blessed to witness these threads of happy being woven into our lives. Such a beautiful contrast to the dark threads of the past. And these moments--these threads--are certainly silver and gold.

May God weave beauty into your tapestry, too!

Much Love,

Kathie