Still, I feel some uneasiness with leaving that blog to stand alone for a couple of reasons. First of all, I am afraid I gave my Momma a few more gray hairs. In a staff meeting yesterday my husband flashed his phone at me when her name popped up on the screen.
"She's worried about me. The blog."
I mean, it's my Momma. She loves me. (Hi, Mom!) After ensuring that I was not on the verge of a mental breakdown, she promised to take me to lunch. And buy me a rug for my living room. Seriously. Because what makes you feel cheered up more than a new rug? You wish your mom was as cool as mine. You can rest assured that I will be finding more reasons to write cathartic blogs about the hot mess that is my life. And it wasn't just her. I received pretty prompt messages from my big brother, my sister and my sister-in-law. I love that my family loves so big. We don't see each other often and we might be the definition of dysfunctional, but let me tell you what I know for certain: when there is a real need, my family will move mountains to help or to be there. That, my friends, is good stuff.
Secondly, more than just giving my family further reason to believe that I am an emotional basket case is this: while the last post was absolutely authentic, it was still only part of the picture. The whole truth is that it was not the whole truth. It was still a cropped picture of reality. And that just isn't sitting well with me.
My biggest fear about sharing the crazy hard that is inherent in fostering and adoption is the possibility of turning someone away from this beautiful calling. But the problem is if we are not honest, how can we possibly equip people for the task. So how do we balance this? How do we tell the whole truth? Share the uncropped picture in all of its tragic beauty? It is remarkably challenging to articulate the whole scope of joy and pain that this journey has encompassed, but I want to try. Because the unabridged truth is that as deep and overwhelming as the trauma and grief have been. . .the moments of gratification and joy are equally profound. I truly do not believe that one side of the coin can exist without the other. The harder we fight to overcome, the sweeter the victory!
So, I dedicate this post to my Momma (mom, can we go rug shopping this week?) and to telling the whole story. Because alongside of the struggle and the pain, there is so, so, so much goodness. There are beautiful moments. They are not the only moments. And there are more ugly, painful moments than I want to share, but the beautiful ones are just as real. And they are precious. And sometimes I post them on Facebook not to fool you but to remind myself of just how much goodness I have a tendency to miss.
And there are funny anecdotes. A lot of them. Like the time last week when Charlie walked into the room after a shower with 2 large squares shaved into each side of his head. (My biggest parenting fail is that I do not have photographic evidence of this.) When Steve asked about them, he answered with all seriousness, "I didn't know it was a razor. I thought it was a head massager." And the truth, way too willingly and smugly supplied by his sister, "He was trying to shave Nike swooshes into his head." (Steve kindly reminded him that I primarily use that razor to shave my arm pits. Call us for parenting advice any time.)
Or the time that we walked into McDonalds and I got the kids situated in booths while Stephen ordered. A sweet, older couple was dining a few tables away and smiled warmly at us while I tried to corral the kids at several different tables. (This exercise is a bit like trying to herd fleas.) I mustered a smile in return and the husband asked with all the
And there is so much more than funny stories. There is meeting absolute heroes of the faith who have endured SO MUCH with their kids for the sake of Christ. So that those precious ones would know Christ. There is hearing, "Mommy!" instead of "Chris!" for the first time and the startled look on both of our faces. There is a dinner table crammed with so many people and so much laughter it makes your heart hurt. There is watching your pasty white toddler, who has always and only known this family, run and leap into the arms of his chocolate brother and proclaim, "I wuv you Chawie!! There is sitting on the deck and watching an entire gaggle of kids run and squeal and catch lightning bugs at dusk. There are teachers who have seen the progress from the beginning and who wrap their arms around you and tell you that you are genuinely making a difference, when you cannot see it. There are baptisms and conversations about Jesus that make your heart soar and ache and real moments that cement this truth into my soul. Every bit of hard is worth it.
And perhaps most significant is this: the absolute helplessness, abandon and joy of reaching the complete end of yourself. Knowing that you cannot take one more step apart from Christ. Choosing love when you cannot possibly choose love again. But you do. Or you don't. And you fall on grace and find that the Cross really was enough. That there is nothing you can do to add to it or take away from it. And even though you have failed so many times that you cannot own up to all of the failure, you pick yourself up and try again, because there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING that you want your kids to understand more than the reality that His grace is enough. For you. For them. There is no trauma, no failure, no past or present. no pain or grief it cannot overcome. It is enough. That is the whole truth.
***Of course I did NOT really say that. But I wish I would have.
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