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Tuesday, April 21, 2015


This boy.  He has no idea what is about to hit him.  No idea that in a few short weeks, Lord willing, he will be orphan no more.  That he'll belong to two bros and three sisters and 20 Kevins and a Keloid scar named Steve.  And a mom who defrosts Lucy's hot dogs in baggies in her arm pits while making everyone's lunches.  He has no idea the chaos and beauty and sheer lunacy that is this family.  That we regularly drag our kids to Ann Arbor just to buy peanut butter and popcorn, that laundry gets cleaned but not folded, that there are more toys in the yard than in the garage most days, despite ridiculous threats.
Y'all, we might be two weeks away from having him in our arms, his chubby cheeked, curly lipped self (yes mom, he does sort of look like Grant.  Sort of.)  Father is throwing open doors and showing me once again that my trust is barely enough to keep my lips above water and yet, his hand, it's always there, pulling me away from the abyss of my doubt.  I told my sister this week I feel like a remedial student in trust school.  Totally failing that class most days.  Laying in bed, wondering if Father will answer the big prayer to get us there in time for his birthday on May 7, doubting wether all the pieces will fall in.  And if they don't?  Father will still be on his throne.  Because the delivery part is not my deal, just the go part.  So I'm packing like a madwoman.  Thinking and over thinking how many NoGii bars and Aldi's dark chocolate and beef sticks these people of mine need to survive another China trip.  Wether he'll need pull-ups.  If his buns are squishy and how soon it'll be before I feel comfortable giving them a little squeeze.  Whether his eyes are the same black as his sisters and how they'll get along.  How long it will take to hear him say mama and how badly it'll wreck me.  If my girls will survive two weeks without us and how wicked sad I'll be to give them some last sugar before I head to the airport.  Oh my stars, can't imagine walking away from their sweet selves.  
But there is this: our boys needs us and I would move heaven and earth for any of my children, Chen XingYou being no exception.  And so we'll pack twenty deodarants for the orphanage workers (don't judge me) and we will buy our plane tickets in lieu of taking the kids on a smashing vacation this summer and we will walk away from two people we love most in the this world, leaving them in such capable hands, to go and redeem another that we love most.  
Because we have been called for such as him.  Cannot wait.  
So we wait for our Travel Approval to be issued.  
And you'll know when it happens because we will be shouting it from the rooftops.  Us and the Smalls, who keep reminding me that this is family work by their eager anticipation and, in Lu's case at least, their sometimes funky moods as they get less than all of me, my mind split in seventeen hundred million different directions over seven thousand miles.  This is family work.
This is me being real.  Admitting to you that I sent Dan to take the kids out to dinner even though I already had flank steak marinating in the fridge simply because I needed to hear myself think for one hour.  Admitting that one hour was woefully inadequate, but happy to see them run through my back door anyway.  Can't wait till those 5 become 6.  Slightly terrified of when those 5 become 6.  Just being real.

Monday, March 30, 2015


We are coming off a couple rough weeks here.  I spent one whole nap time a day last week crying on the couch.  Crying and praying and reading my Bible and swearing I couldn't do this another second and then feeling Father assure me that I, in fact, could.  It's just been hard.  Hard, y'all.  This girl, she's the world's teeniest terrorist and sometimes we think she was sent here to undo us.  She controls us from her chair, set high on the counter, pointing at things faster than we can retrieve them and not really wanting them anyway once we do.  And just when we think we've got this bonding thing nailed, she gets sick or we go away for dinner or something and we realize again what complete idiots we are.  What utter dolts.  We know nothing.  She is king.  We are her serfs.  All bets are off with this one.  A wise woman once likened three year olds to drunken bipolar trolls.  Yes.  Add in inability to speak and the incredible adjustment from a life of neglect and near starvation to a totally foreign family and I think we're getting close.
This baby, we love her so much.  I ache with it.  She spent the better part of last month mourning something.  Our five day escape?  Some hurt of her past, just remembered?  We'll never know.  But she reacted fiercely, holding her food in her mouth for hours, refusing to swallow and losing two whole pounds, while I stood for hours by her chair, trying to coax her favorite foods down, tears rolling down my cheeks, growing angry and sad and hopeless in turns.  And she wants nothing to do with daddy in those sad times.  Wants only to be held by me, which is beautiful, but sometimes threatens to suck the life right out of me.  I lost count of how many times I tripped over her in those weeks, her needing always to be 3 centimeters close, always.  I shut the door of the bathroom, desperate for 5 minutes of solitude, only to open it minutes later and find her standing, silently, on the other side, self soothing, right arm rubbing left elbow, rubbing head.  It's her safe place, that rub.  And half of me wants to scream while the other half wants to cry with her.  She has been hurt.  There's no question of that.  Our baby has been hurt bad and we are only beginning to help her heal.
And I'll be real, since it's sort of my thing, and say that in my ugly moments I have looked at this child, whose progress seems so slow, who demands the lions share of my time and energy, I have looked on her with ugly resentment.  She has cost us so much time, money, energy.  We have given her everything.  And so a couple weeks ago, I collapsed on the couch after watching her refuse another meal, after laying her down with blankie and George and telling her I loved her.  I collapsed, wailing to Father.  I felt the need to remind him of all we've been through in the past 10 months.  Of how I have four other children who need me and a husband too and how I used to be able to pour myself out outside the realm of therapy and doctors appointments and bonding exercises.  I helped him recall how much we have given to bring her home and graft her in, because surely he'd forgotten.  And as I lay there, I heard my Father remind me, gently, always gently, "Beloved, those things were never yours to begin with.  Not the time, not the money, not even your very life.  Never yours."
And it's been a game changer.  This remembering that Father calls us to pour ourselves out on behalf of others, that our time, our resources, our very lives are not ours but belong to the one who will direct them for his purposes if we will only ask and listen.  And it won't be a rose garden, you can take that to the bank.  It'll be ugly and hard and it'll break you, but I'd rather take a day in the hard of Father's Kingdom work than a year chasing my own dreams because that'll leave me emptier than when I started.  I've spent many years doing that.  Do it still, often.
It's a hard line to toe, this adoption stuff.  It's so important to me to be real about it.  To not paint the picture that grafting a hurt child into your life will be all unicorns and rainbows, but also to not scare people away from this work.  It's the best thing we've ever done.  The hardest, most exhausting, best thing we've ever done.  Maggie has changed us, all of us and we will never be the same.  She has given us far far more than she has taken, has wrecked us in the best ways.  And all the things we've given her?  They were never ours to keep.  The things we are most reluctant to let go are the things Father bids us give.  For me it's been my time.  It's the hardest gift, the one I most resent having wrestled out of my greedy hands.   And Father, in his great mercy, has given me her nap time.  Two hours every day where I can find rest for my soul and body.  Because that's vital too.  If you're going to pour yourself out, you must make time to be refilled.  And somehow, miraculously, though sometimes I feel I've poured myself all out, there is always more.  Not because I'm enough, but because he is.  And so I wander through these days wondering how in hades I'll have time for one more, but knowing that the Father who has placed all these Smalls in our home will provide what we need to parent them.  All and more, because he is gracious and kind and enough.  There will be days when I forget that, happens all the time, but I'm asking him to boost my memory and break me in whatever way I need to be broken so that his precious work becomes my precious work.  And give me grace to do it with a right heart.  At least most of the time.  And while I'm waiting for those things, could we talk about perhaps miraculously solving the problems of toothpaste in the sink and why no one can seem to hang up their coats?  Can we solve those at least?  Because sometimes I think my sanity hangs on them.  Yours?
This is me being real.  Smirking over poor Lulu who, upon seeing a flyer in the mail for our adoption agency, sweet little available faces all over it, sighed "We're never gonna get a dog, are we?"  Prolly not Junebug.  20 Kevins, a bearded dragon who long to be a carnivore but must be a flexitarian, 6 Smalls and a keloid scar named cup is full.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015


Dear Birth Mother, our baby turned three yesterday.  Only we pretended it was Sunday because she can't read a calendar yet and it just worked better.  I watched her opening presents, dressed in the pink satin dress we bought her on Shamian Island, big gold bow in her hair, teeny gold ballet slippers on her feet and I ached.  This baby, we love her so, but her being here with us means you've suffered greatly, have sacrificed much.  I know that now.  Whatever circumstances led you to the choice you made to leave her, it must have ripped you up.  And, so, these early days of February must be made of sadness and longing for you.  I thought that while I watched our girl signing 'thank you' for her presents, thought it while she dug into her chocolate chocolate cake, thought it watching gift after gift involve her beloved emms; everyone knows her so well.  Everyone except the one who conceived and grew her.  She is beautiful, this baby.  She is somber, smiling only when really tickled, laughing only when it's hard-won, but she is happy, still.  I know that.  She is adored by her sisters and brothers.  They dote on her, laughing at her smallest antics.  God has used her to break them and us for the orphan.  That's the most beautiful gift she's given us.  This baby, she is healthy.  Her palate is repaired, she can eat anything (but won't because she's a stinker), she runs, she is learning to make sounds and using her hands to speak to us when her mouth fails her.  She lacks for nothing, I promise that.  I held her this morning and whispered to her of you.  This baby we have birthed, you and I, she blesses me.  Raising her is a relay race and your leg is over, but you ran it well.  You carried her, labored for her, birthed her, loved her enough to let her go.  You are valiant.  Her foster mother ran her leg and it was brutal, but it made our girl strong, birthed in her a fighting spirit.  Now it's my leg and I'm running hard, with this baby we share.  But I want you to know, need you to know, that I see you.  That I spent the better part of the last nights laying in bed praying comfort for you.  Asking Father to supernaturally give you the sense that all is well with your girl.  That His peace would cover you like the softest of blankets as you wonder what became of her.  I wish now I'd followed others examples who have left signs at their child's finding sites, telling all who see it that this child has been found and is going to be forever loved.  Entreating mother's and father's hearts to be at rest from the ache of the not-knowing.  Wish we'd taken the time to find that doorway outside that furniture store, but we were overwhelmed with her needs and didn't.  So let this be my sign, posted for all to see.  We have found this girl.  She is home now and is forever loved.  And this won't replace your ache, but I pray it eases it some.  She is home.  She is loved.  And you, as her bearer, will always be dear to us.  Will always have a main part in her story.  And we will tell her.
So on this day after, I honor you.  I feel strange thanking you, when it is only terrible brokenness that forced your hand, but thank you.  Father has brought her home and she is well-loved.  Let that soak into your mama's heart.  Happy birthday, birth mama.
This is me being real.  And totally unprepared for the bittersweet that was her birthday.  This mama's heart has been burdened.  May it always be so and may the burden lead me to prayer for her salvation and peace.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Six months today since we walked into the mint green room and waited.  Six months since we spotted the workers coming through the door with two scared littles, one by hand and one in arms.  I can't describe it, how it felt.  It's like giving birth and finally seeing that sweet baby face, but different, because you have fought tooth and nail for this one.  And have traveled across the world and filled out thousands of papers and paid tens of thousands of dollars and you have wondered all this time if it would actually lead to this.  You've been pinching yourself since landing in this very foreign land, sure that something is going to happen to make it all fall apart.  And then, there she is and it's you that's falling apart.  Because she's orphan no longer, the minute they place her teeny, weak body in your arms and something in you dies, but it's good because it needed to.  It's a bit of your selfishness and your innocence.  This is what I learned six months ago today:
~You can't unknow what you know.  We took off from Hong Kong and I wept silent tears watching out the window as a country that once terrified me became smaller and smaller.  Wept knowing we were leaving millions behind who, like her,  need food and love and forever.
~It's hard.  They'll tell you that, but they'll sugar coat it in the same way women at a baby shower tell you you'll probably be tired some.  The don't divulge that you'll be so exhausted you'll think you might die of it.  Adoption is like that.  There are days still I'm sure I'll die of it.  But I'll happily go down with that ship for the sake of one less.
~It's good.  They'll tell you that too, but they'll get it wrong.  How can they describe what it's like, possibly? Just like how you can never find the right words to tell a new mom how great it'll be.  Just can never find those words.
~It's the work we are called to.  Not just me, all of us.  Don't you doubt it.  It's laid out in black and white, clear as a bell.  This has hit me upside the head lately, since all our children have asked for a Chinese brother for Christmas and my China mamas are chewing on going back for one more.  Just one more.  And one asked, how do we know if it's right? and another said, it's adoption.  If it's not a clear no, then it's a yes.  If it's not a clear no then it's a yes.  Kapow.  See what I mean?
~It's a step forward and two steps backward.  Maggie is walking all over the place.  Awesome.  But if a friend comes over who is a mommy, she'll choose her over me every time.  Not awesome.  She said "help" tonight.  Awesome.  But it took me 45 minutes to feed her enough to feel ok about it.  Not awesome. One forward, two back.  It's a strange dance and one that leaves my muscles aching most days, but she's just about the sweetest little partner, so I'll stay on that dance floor till I drop.
~It has wrecked us.  All of us.  The kids would rather fly to China and snatch up another sibling for Christmas than open a pile of packages under the tree.  Except Lu, who, according to her pictorial list is really longing for a cheeseburger and a bag of balloons.  And if it was between the new American Girl carriage with bells and working lights, it'd be a toughy for sure.  But at the core of it, they have been wrecked and are longing to hear stories of children set down into forever families.  It's part of their vernacular now.  They play orphanage on their home days, wonder aloud if any of our friends will decide to adopt, set lofty goals for how many times they're going to adopt when they're grown up.  This.   Is.  Beautiful.  I would do this whole thing over just for the side benefit of growing kids whose hearts have been broken for the orphan.
~I get it now.  This whole salvation thing.  Get it with a clarity that has brought me to my knees more times than I can count in the last year.  Maggie and I share a birth story.  You do too.  Redemption stories always start in the ugly.  It just makes sense.  Hers did and so did mine.  The poverty, the dirt, the yuck, the whole thing.  It's how it starts until a Father who longs to call us home enters in and invites us into his family and suddenly the ugly is made beautiful.  And when Father says that he desires to set the orphans in families I think he just might be talking about you and me too.  Redemption is his most precious work and it ought to be ours too.  The redemption of orphans through adoption and fostering, the redemption of lost neighbors and family and coworkers.  All of this life is meant to be working toward redemption and if we're not working too, then we are just standing in the way.  
Adoption, dude, it's a killer.  Yours and mine and hers.  Literally a killer.  There is a Jesus with nail scared hands that prove your worth, that pay tribute to your adoption. And if you haven't signed on yet, then you are still an orphan, despite an incredible Father who longs to make you his.  Please, join this family.  We are waiting for you.
This is me being real.  Thankful for redemption in my own life, thankful for it in yours, blessed to my toes to be a part of Maggies.  And pretty sure she would rather have had a family who came from a more temperate climate, but we will have to do.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


This life man, it's no joke.  I have to keep remembering that Father never promised us a rose garden.  Quite the opposite in fact.  No matter how closely you're following: trouble.  That's what he promised.  Trouble and new mercies everyday.  They're sisters, Trouble and Mercy.  Never one without the other, thank goodness.  We've felt them both in spades these last months.  And I've been trying to keep my eye out for Mercy when Trouble is hanging off my back and driving me nuts.  Trying just as hard to not keep a keen eye for Trouble when Mercy is making my day sweet because nothing is a Mercy buzz-kill like a Trouble sighting.
These days, they are so full.  Hours are spent distracting Maggie with board books with one hand while I shoot food into her mouth with a syringe.  She cries and I wonder for sec how I'll pay for this later, what weird attitudes about food she'll develop that will have to be therapized out in her teen years.  But then I remember that she's too small to really know and remember and by the time she's old enough to begin collecting memories, she'll be healthy and the syringe will be a lost in the funhouse that is repressed memories.  Until then, she's stubborn, but I'm stubborn-er and it's survival.
I have committed to myself that these lovely afternoons while she is napping and on which Lulu is often at school, depending on how much fight I woke up with in me, I will spend time at rest.  Which often looks like napping, but really I'm laying down and talking with Father.  We've had sweet times He and me, reading through my Bible study, chatting, sharing a cuppa.  It's becoming a highlight.  And we've worked a few things out:
~This work, it's Kingdom work.  And, as such, it's going to come under attack.  It's going to be ugly and expensive and it'll probably break all my nails, but it won't break my spirit because it's the work Father has called me to, so He's providing.  In lovely and surprising ways.
~Where I've gone very wrong is self-medicating myself through these long, sometime brutal days with food.  Have done that my whole life and am doing it still.  And it's sin, plain and simple and it needs to stop.  Because if I really believe that my body was created to be a temple and if I believe further that this work I'm doing (wife-ing, mothering, friend-ing, etc...) is my Kingdom job, then stuffing it full of junk, making it lethargic and slow, wearing a cloak of shame as the numbers rise, wearing a cloak of shame at all, it's the opposite.  It's damaging to the work.  And if I do the math, then anything that's hindering the work is sin.  Black and white.  Calling it anything else is the devil's kool-ade and that's one thing I'm not putting in my mouth.
~Women have this incredible capacity for circling the wagons.  They make meals and text encouragement and offer to pick up kids.  This circling?  This linking arms?  It might be amongst the most vital Kingdom work around.  It matters big. And if you're making it your work then you are doing right.
This post...I've written it dozens of time in my head as I've muddled through the last year and now I'm saying it poorly, but perhaps being the most eloquent in the room is less important than being the most honest right now.  And if so, then let me say it plainly: it's hard.  And I've chosen wrong ways of coping often.  But where there is Trouble, there is also Mercy and as long as they come packaged together it's all manageable.  If you're in a Trouble place, court Mercy on bended knee.  And while you're at it, invite Thankfulness and Humility to the party.  If you're in a Mercy place, be vigilant for Trouble, but take Service's hand and go looking for someone who needs Father in flesh today.  Always, always go forth and do this work with the most grace and brokenness you can muster up.  It's precious, this work we're doing.  It matters.
This is me being real.  Wondering what I can do to encourage you in your work today?  And eager for Lu to hop off the bus in an hour since last I saw her she was screaming in her teacher's arms while reminding me of her grievances against Kindergarten.  Namely, the boys being "incest" (obsessed) with fighting and her having to color inside the lines.  Not telling what's going to hop off bus 22 later, but pretty sure I'm going to get an earful.  Kindergarten is her Goliath, she reminded me this morning.  Indeed it is.  Food is mine.  What's yours?

Monday, September 29, 2014


I washed and folded her new footie pjs, placing them in her Matilda bag, along with her favorite board book, a lovey and a new toy.  There is a water bottle in there and formula and some almond milk.  And now there are some tears as well.  Because I've been so blessed through twelve years of parenting to never have to hand a baby over to a surgeon, but tomorrow I will.  Will place her in capable hands, even if they aren't mine.  Will whisper a prayer over her sweet forehead as my lips brush her brow.  Will do what millions of much braver parents have done so often, and for much trickier reasons.
This baby, she has consumed my time these past four and a half months with feeding and holding and bonding.  She has exhausted me, blessed me, thrilled me, humbled me.  I have worked so hard.  We all have.  Hours of feeding a day, each meal lasting so long it melts into the next, dishwasher filled with baby spoons and formula stained water bottles.  Her little tongue works so hard with every bite, every swallow, to push the food and drink past her cleft and down her throat.  It's all so effort-full.  And nursing her through a cold brought a new reality: food is only one facet of her difficulties.  Poor baby had snot running out her mouth.  And she sneezed in her nose, mouth locked tightly shut as it always is.
We thought about this beforehand.  Wondered if we wanted to put a pic up this way, but until you see it, you can't know.  This is what it looks like y'all.  It looks like we're forcing her mouth open, but that's Tessie's hand on her forehead, patting it, not holding her down.  She's happy to show it off.  That cleft is the width of my finger at least and goes from her gum all the way to the back of her throat, splitting her uvula in half.  When you look in her mouth, you are actually looking at the inside of her nose.  This is why food ends up coming out her nose like some horrible play-doh toy.  This is why she has had such struggles gaining weight, why it takes hours to feed her.  
This baby, she is the bravest person I know.  She has survived two mothers leaving her, survived nearly starving to death, an abrupt culture/language/family/home/food change.  She is a warrior.  Which is why, even though my stomach clenches at the thought of the pain she is going to endure, I am so happy that this part of her struggle will soon be over.  Tomorrow her surgeon, who in God's providence is renown in his field, will use the muscles and tissues already there to create a palate for her.  He will cover it all with skin he'll graft from the insides of her cheeks.  He will ensure that she has the structure she needs to begin speaking and eating.  We.  Cannot.  Wait.
Her cleft, which surely caused her birth mama to have to leave her outside a furniture store on a February day a couple years ago, I'm sort of in love with it.  I fell in love with her cleft lip, wonky teef peeking through, mourning when they fixed it in China, even while knowing it needed to be so.  She is fearfully and wonderfully made.  We know that full well.  And we are so thankful: that she is here, that she is well, that she is His.
This is me being real.  Wondering if I can get a shot of Versed tomorrow morning to.  Wake me up when it's over.

Monday, August 25, 2014


She cried.  Parents of adopted children will know what a milestone this is.  Institutionalized children learn quickly, experience as their tutor, that crying gets you nowhere, that noise will net disdain before it nets touch, so they clam up.  For three months I have laid her down at night and not heard a peep from her until the morning.  With the other four, this would have been cause for celebration.  But with Maggie, it has signaled that we still weren't safe enough for her, that this silence had not yet been unlearned.  She lays in bed in the morning, eyes open, totally still, and waits for us to notice that she is awake.  I have yearned for her to call out for me, to make some indication that she is awake and would like to be up.  Silence.  Until Sunday morning when I heard her little bunny hop come down the hallway.  Laid in bed chewing on my lip, resigned to wait for her to come to me even if it took forever, listening to her funny crawl make it's way closer.  It was a good sign.  She is now comfortable enough to get herself out of bed in the morning.  But she was still silent.
And then last night, our sleep was interrupted by the sad sound of her.  She was inconsolable.  It was the sweetest sound.  She has learned that if she cries out, someone will hear and come.  In fact, six someones heard and came.  And there we all were in her room in the middle of the night, the Smalls concerned for this new noise as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, my mama's heart growing and growing.  So I rocked her back to sleep and whispered in a language she can only partially decode that I hear.  That I will always come.  Mama will always come.  And I dreamed as I rocked of a day when I can teach her about a Father who will too, and with an absolute certainty and stability I can never offer.  Not really.  But until she understands that, I will happily stand in.  Will rock her in the middle of the night, our tears meeting up on her cheeks as she settles in to the certainty of mama and will whisper a thousand thanks to the Father who ordained that she be born where she was and then brought home so we could be hers.  My heart is full.
This is me being real.  And thinking it's a least a little crazy that a middle of the night, whole family awake, baby scream fest should be what is making me smile.  But I never claimed to be anything but a little crazy, so you prolly knew what you were getting yourself into when you started reading.