Brokenness in Adoption

So often we talk about the beauty in adoption. And I often use the hashtag #adoptionisbeautiful. I believe God's heart and the message of the Gospel is on display in adoption. I'm also convinced adoption is an incredible and brave choice that both a birth and adoptive family can step into when they believe it's the best option available for a child. But too often, we ONLY talk about the beauty in adoption and completely miss the other side of the story. And it's an important one.

Adoption always begins with brokenness. If things were as they should be, all parents would be able to raise their children. Families would always stay together and fathers would always be actively engaged. In a perfect world people wouldn't struggle with addiction, there wouldn't be interpersonal violence, and parents would always have the financial and emotional resources they need. Every pregnancy would be planned and every addition to the family eagerly anticipated.

Often the brokenness isn't just experienced by the birth family. I work with adoptive families who have lived through their own brokenness. Infertility, miscarriage, child loss....many families step into adoption because of their own loss. They want to grow their family but have been heartbreakingly unable to do so biologically. Stories of childhood cancer, secondary infertility, attempt after attempt at fertility treatments, miscarriage, and the death of a child are all results of a fallen world and brokenness for hopeful adoptive families as well.

We also live within a broken system. Too often, it's easier for a woman to obtain an abortion to deal with an unexpected pregnancy than it is to find practical support and assistance to parent her child. With differences in state laws and little federal oversight, there are people, even professionals who take advantage of everyone in the adoption triad for their own benefit. Racism and classism impacts adoption and ethical issues can be found in the domestic, foster care, and international adoption arenas.

And, perhaps most importantly, is the loss an adoptee experiences. Too often the child at the center of an adoption story and their brokenness is overlooked. They have lost their opportunity to be raised by their birth family. They have lost an important connection and issues like identity, belonging, and  abandonment are commonly wrestled through. The fact that many adoptive parents may not recognize these issues or be willing to have these conversations with their child can add to the loss and grief an adoptee experiences.

In the end, someone walks out of the hospital with empty arms and broken hearts. And that heartache doesn't just last for several weeks postpartum. The brokenness in adoption is a reality for everyone in the adoption triad for a lifetime.

So where does that leave us? It would be easy to throw our hands up in frustration and decide not to step into something so broken. We could ignore the mess that's inevitable in adoption. We could whitewash and try to cover it up; only talking about the "pretty" parts. But glossing over hard things in life is never the answer. Just like everything else in this world, sin has impacted the way things were intended and this side of Heaven we have to decide how to engage with it. 

How do we step into the brokenness of adoption with the hope of the Gospel, knowing God has the power to redeem and restore? Surely it's no easy task, but there are practical ways we can acknowledge the bittersweet of adoption.

We can tell the truth about adoption, sharing the good and the hard. We can work to ensure we don't gloss over the beauty that can be found in adoption and make less of the grief and loss that's involved. We can make space for adoptees (children and adults alike) to share the love they have for their adoptive and birth families and the complex emotions they uniquely wrestle with. We can ensure birth families are honored, cared for, and have resources for the long haul. And we can advocate for change; calling for ethics in adoption, holistic care for expectant and birth families, and work for biological families to stay together whenever possible. We can hold the celebration and the grief that comes with adoption as equally important and valid. Let's roll up our sleeves together because hard things, and especially the people involved, are worth it.

The reality is adoption is beautiful. And hard. And amazing. And broken. Like the rest of life, it's a complex mix of realities. Ultimately brokenness pushes us to a Healer. It gives us hope that one day God will fully restore all things. And until then, it provides a desperate dependance on His ability to guide us through the beautiful brokenness of it all.

Repost: Losing Their Childhood

Last week I was at a party and a friend introduced me. "This is Susan. She's married to Jamy and they have the most perfect family." I smiled and shook hands, but inwardly I had a million thoughts swirling in my head. It would have been awkward, but had I been honest in those moments, I would have corrected her. "Hi, I'm Susan. Actually our family has been through a lot - hell actually. Lovely to meet you!" The crazy thing is I think most of us have assumptions about others: the pristine lives we see on social media or sitting in a pew at church. And the reality is we could all probably introduce ourselves in a similar way: Hello, I'm Susan. I'm a hot mess most days. You?

I wrote this blog two years ago and thought I would share again. Sometimes you need to dispel the myth of perfection. Other times you need to let others know they're not alone. And as a parent, we all need encouragement that we're not ruining our kids; more importantly, that our job isn't to save them. Our family, specifically our marriage, has been through a hot mess. And it's had tremendous impact on our children; they've lost a lot. But today, even years after beginning to process this, I can honestly say that God has been faithful. Not just to Jamy and I, but to Isabelle and Jackson.

It's been awhile since I've shared a more personal post here. Much of it has to do with so many beautiful adoption stories to share of my adoptive families. And if I'm honest, some of it is because it's hard to put into words what's been happening in our family. And hard to put in such a public space. But I've learned these last few years that transparency has been freeing and healing for our family and for my heart. And if I boil it down, the real goal of this blog is to tell stories of God's goodness, for adoptive families and my own.

It's no secret our family has been through a lot. Just click on the marriage tab on the blog and you'll get a glimpse into our story. One of the hardest things about going through a crisis as a family is watching our kids lose some of their childhood. They've had to deal with hard things, lost some innocence, had to deal with loss, and experienced things no one would choose for their children. 

The conversations we've had to have with them are hard enough to have with adult or even teenage children. But having them in grade school has been challenging. We've begged God for wisdom, and received godly counsel. We've fumbled through hundreds of questions that make you catch your breath and say a quick prayer asking for divine insight and direction before answering. And shepherding little hearts when you have a broken heart yourself is hard and exhausting.

As a mother, if I'm honest, it's been heartbreaking. Jamy and I have recently been grieving the loss of some of our kid's childhood in the midst of all of this. It's easy to think we've failed as parents. That our sin and brokenness has ruined them for life.

But this is not the whole story. This hasn't been all that's included in loss.

My kids are learning and experiencing the gospel in real and personal ways. When we talk about God's redemptive power, we note ways he has redeemed our family. When we talk about how God is our refuge, we can list ways we've run to him and ways he's cared for us. When we talk about miracles, we can point to amazing events in our family.

Gathered around the dinner table, we can talk and laugh and remember all of the ways God has cared for us. Huddled over them tucked in their beds we can whisper the promises again that He's given us. Crying on the couch we can cry out to God together asking Him to continue to be near.

Just last weekend for Father's Day, Jamy sat the family down and acknowledged the reality that this side of Heaven, all celebrations are tinged with some sort of grief. We talked about our past year and he gave us all gifts; leather cords to remind us how strong our family can be together with God's help (A cord of three stands is not easily broken. Ecclesiastes 4:12). We've learned that a good father points to an even better one. That our parenting isn't amazing because of what we do, but directs them to their desperate need for a Savior.

We've been knit together as a family. Going though hard things together has bonded us in incredible ways. Our kids come to us with questions, knowing they can ask anything and we'll always have an honest (and age-appropriate) answer. We often talk about fears and faith. We talk through hard things. And they are learning that we are a team; always working together for the good of our family.

My prayer is that when they look back at this season in their young lives, they can pinpoint the space when their faith became their own, they experienced Jesus in a real and personal way, and they grew to understand the gospel more fully. And looking back over these last several years and thinking about what I really want for my children, I realize my deepest desires are actually being met. Both Isabelle and Jackson came to trust Jesus during this time. 

Would I have ever chosen this for my kids? Never. Was it God's plan for sin and brokenness to rock our family? I don't think so. But in his sovereignty, he has worked it all for our good and His glory, even for Isabelle and Jackson.

Maybe your story is a bit like ours. Your family has experienced some kind of loss and walked through things you would have never chosen if you could have written it yourself. When I think of the times of the deepest change in my life, when I learned to trust Jesus even more, it's aways during seasons of suffering and hardship. At the end of the day, I can rest in the truth that God has been sovereign over our suffering; even our kid's.

So my kids have lost some of their childhood. But they've gained a personal and deep knowledge of a God who loves them. A Rescuer who saves them. A Redeemer who restores them. A Heavenly Father who never leaves them. 

In Their Own Words: For This Child I Prayed

I heard this song for the first time over the weekend and knew I wanted to share it. Then I heard the story behind it and knew I wanted to share. Kelly beautifully captures the heart of hopeful parents and wrote a song based on Hannah's prayer in 1 Samuel. I love how it speaks to God's faithfulness for families in the wait.

Infertility.

Multiple miscarriages.

Failed adoption plans. 

We grow up thinking that those words will never be part of our narrative or our friends’ narratives, that we’ll never suffer the agony of longing for a child that still hasn’t come, but all too many sit in the harrowing, ugly, silent pain of that desolate darkness.

Maybe you're one of those precious souls sitting in that darkness.

No tiny onesies to buy, no bonding during late-night feedings, no abundance of baby snuggles — none of the joys of parenting are currently part of your story. Instead, there’s soul-crushing silence.

And while that deafening silence swirls around you like a constant storm that won’t let up, you may be feeling like there’s an even greater silence from God.

No sounds of baby coos or the pitter-patter of little feet running down the hallway; no heartwarming calls for “mama” or “dada”; no “I love you’s” as you breathe in the scent of freshly shampooed hair from the little one who is curled up in your lap before bedtime.

Just. Silence. 

The kind of sorrow that sneaks up on you in the dark as you try to fall asleep. The kind of sorrow that makes its way inside of your chest and quickly builds until it rises to take residence as a lump in your throat… Which eventually gives way to your devastating grief manifesting itself through heavy tears, guttural cries, and convulsive gasps that leave you breathless.

You’ve prayed, begged, and pleaded with God, and yet there’s waiting, waiting, and more waiting. Three months, six months, a year, two years, five years… The longer you wait, the more hopeless you feel, and the wait has induced a type of gut-wrenching sorrow that you never knew existed until now.

As you bring your knees to your chest and hug them tightly, you wonder how this will ever change.

It’s scary to hope. It requires trust. It requires faith – faith that things will get better, even though we don’t know when or how.

As the tears soak your neckline and the grief mercilessly sucks the air out of your lungs, you wonder how much more of this you can endure. “Where is God in all of this? If He’s the Giver of good gifts, why am I drowning in a sea of sorrow? Am I doing something wrong?...”

As you question your circumstances, your life, and maybe even your faith, you wonder if it’s worth it to keep persevering in prayer. You hear people telling you that you need to hold onto hope, but you know all too well now that ‘hope’ is often a four-letter word.

While I’ve never experienced this particular sorrow myself, I’ve witnessed it closely firsthand, and have had the honor of walking beside two of my dearest friends through each step of this arduous journey. After years of waiting, they finally have their beautiful bundle of joy, but the hardship that they endured to get there was heart-rending.

It forces us to break down the walls around our hearts – the ones that we’ve carefully and strategically built in order to protect ourselves from the pain. You know that if you choose hope as you continue to fight this draining infertility battle, you’ll have to continue to face the harsh reality of grief head-on, and that feels like too much to bear.

It’s overwhelming, exhausting, and terrifying, and my heart breaks for you.

After witnessing the immense pain that came from loss after loss; the deep sorrow, anguish, and unimaginable grief; the difficult conversations they had with God and with each other; the words from their hand-written letters to their future little one whom they hoped they would meet someday; the days filled with hope and the days filled with mind-numbing devastation…

The song is called “For This Child I Prayed,” and was also inspired by Hannah’s prayer of gratitude after struggling through years of infertility. After years of waiting, she finally received her precious baby boy, Samuel, and dedicated him to the Lord.

And then finally being able to celebrate the impending arrival of their sweet baby girl, a song was placed on my heart.

It’s a song that chronicles their suffering and loss, their longing and angst, their confusion and hope, their sorrow and faith, their prayers and pleas, and ultimately, their indescribable joy. It’s meant to capture the heartache of the valley, as well as a type of mountaintop joy that can only be born out of the depths of great sorrow.

While a six-minute song could never fully capture the highs and lows of walking through infertility, I hope that this song still resonates in your heart if you’ve been on (or are currently on) that same journey.

After holding her beloved son for the first time, she went to the tabernacle, offered a sacrifice of gratitude to the Lord, and proclaimed, “For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me what I have asked of Him.” (1 Samuel 1:27)

I know so many couples and families who have been affected by infertility, and if you’re one of them, my prayer is that this song will bring much-needed hope. If you’re courageously fighting this battle, I pray that you feel acknowledged, heard, and understood after listening to it.

If you've been trying to start a family, and are still waiting, this song is for you. 

If you’ve been trying to expand your family, and are still waiting, this song is for you. 

If you have gone through this journey, and are now on the other side of it, this song is for you.

If you’ve been trying for a long time, and are in the deepest part of the valley and wonder if your prayers will ever be answered, this song is for you.

If you’ve never gone through this journey, but are hurting for someone you love who IS going through it, this song is for you.

If you’re just starting out on this journey, and are at the beginning stages of fertility treatments or adoption plans, this song is for you.

If you’re nearing the end of this journey, and your answered prayer is going to arrive any day now, this song is for you.

If you’ve suffered a miscarriage or multiple miscarriages, and are grieving the loss of those angels as you bravely keep fighting this battle, this song is for you.

If you feel like no one understands what you’re going through, and it’s hard to describe the depths of your pain, this song is for you.

If you haven’t told anyone about this harrowing journey, and you and your spouse are living with this secret pain, this song is for you.

If your heart is grieving due to adoption plans that suddenly fell apart, this song is for you.

If it’s too hard to go to the baby shower, the birthday party, or the church service, and you can’t bring yourself to even get out of bed on those days, this song is for you.

If you’ve suffered heartache due to unsuccessful IVF treatments, and are grieving the loss of those angels as you bravely keep soldiering on, this song is for you.

If you go to a baby shower, a 1-year-old’s birthday party, or a Mother’s Day or Father’s Day church service with a smile on your face, but sob alone in your car on the way home, this song is for you.

The Lord is on your side, sweet friend. Even if you’re at the point where you can’t stomach the word “hope,” the Lord is still fighting for you.

If you have a mama heart or a daddy heart, and are struggling to cling to hope when it seems as though everyone around you has had their desires fulfilled, and you haven’t… This song is for you.

Hold on, dear one. Miracles are possible. When you allow yourself to grieve while simultaneously clinging to hope, even if your grip is slipping and you’re barely hanging on, the fear will eventually start to crumble and light will break through the cracks.

When you feel alone in your mourning or you feel like giving up, remember that there is One who hears, who understands, who comforts. My dear friend, when you weep, Jesus weeps with you. You can lay your broken dreams, your grief, your pain at His feet.

Keep persevering. Keep praying. Keep trying. You won’t be in this place forever. I don’t know how or when your precious one will arrive, but I do know this – GOD WILL NOT LEAVE YOU HERE.

He can do more than you could ever think to ask or imagine. You are loved. You are treasured. You are held by the Father. While I can’t claim to understand God’s timing and why some couples have to wait longer than others, I do know that there’s purpose in the pain, and that you are not alone.

Give Him your sadness, your anger, your confusion, your tears. He is waiting to embrace you, to mourn with you, to comfort you.

And while I’ve witnessed the depths of despair that infertility brings, I’ve also witnessed the height of the mountaintop joy that can come from that sorrow, and I am praying that soon you will experience that glorious mountaintop.

Even when your grief smothers the words that you desperately want to pray, and you bring nothing but tears before Him, know that those tears are not in vain. Those cries are ushered into heaven as precious prayers and broken hallelujahs, and the Holy Spirit is interceding on your behalf when all you can offer is a collection of teardrops in the palms of your hands.

Not only does Jesus grieve with you, but I do too. While I can’t say that I know the exact pain of infertility, I’ve witnessed it so closely in the lives of many who are precious to me, that I’ve almost felt as though I was going through it too.

Whether you’re praying for finalized adoption plans or a long-awaited pregnancy, there is hope, dear friend. There is always hope. I am hoping with you and for you, along with so many others. May we cling to this hope together, as we anticipate the joy that is to come.

“Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning… And let us hold unswervingly to the hope that we profess, for He who promised is faithful.” – Psalm 30:5b, Hebrews 10:23

Kelly O’Roark is freelance marketer, song writer, and musician from Louisville, Kentucky, and is a graduate of the State University of New York at Geneseo. She’s been playing the piano since the age of 10, and started writing lyrics and composing music at the age of 17. While she creates music as a hobby, she uses it as a ministry to bring hope, love, and encouragement to others in various seasons of life. 

She also has a passion for creative writing, and hopes to start a blog someday where she can share her faith and life experiences through both music and writing. She enjoys spending time with her family and friends, and is excited about her new, upcoming role as a first-time aunt!

Rethinking a Failed Adoption

Failed adoption.

There aren't two other words that can strike as much fear and anxiety into the heart of hopeful adoptive parents. And the fact that these words are common with domestic infant adoption can be even more terrifying. Although these statistics are hard to track since there's not a common bureau collecting data, most professionals acknowledge the rates are as high as 40-60% of adoptions in the U.S. end in failures (although note that working with certain adoption professionals can significantly reduce these numbers).

When we talk about an adoption failing, it means that the adoption process was not completed. (A disrupted adoption notes when an adoption falls through after the child has been placed with the adoptive family and before finalization. A dissolution is when the legal relationship between an adoptive parent and child is severed after the adoption had been finalized.) There can be many reasons that an adoption fails, the most common being the expectant/birth parent(s) decide to parent. 

There are certain safeguards you can take to lower the risk of a failed adoption. Working with ethical agencies and attorneys and ensuring all of the legal steps to an adoption are taken are critical steps. One of the most critical safeguards is to make sure the expectant/birth parents have access to care and counseling, both pre-birth and long after. This allows an expectant/birth parent to have the time, education, and support needed to truly make the best decision for them and their baby (whether that's to parent or make an adoption plan). Partnering with an adoption professional can help you do all you can to ensure a safer, lower risk adoption.

But even if you do everything possible to reduce the risk of an adoption failure, ultimately the human heart is fickle and there are no guarantees in adoption. A mother and father not only have an ability to change their mind; they have the right to decide if they want to parent and decide what they feel is best for their child.

So what if you've done all you can to protect yourself and you still face a failed adoption?

Rethink the idea of failure

Sometimes a shift in perspective changes everything. Adoption is about finding parents for babies, not the other way around. Most hopeful adoptive parents desperately want to help where there's a need. Of course they want to be parents, but more than that, they want to provide an option to a birth family and a loving home to a child. 

Adoption is an incredibly unique space for a hopeful adoptive family to offer their time, resources, and love to a birth family in need. They are a resource for expectant families if they choose to sign a termination of parental rights and lovingly place their child into another families arms. When the focus is on being a resource: a safe space where the expectant family can feel confident about the possibility of entrusting a hopeful couple with their child, the perspective shifts. There's no ownership, but open-handedness. There's an acknowledgment that everyone is here for the good of this expectant family and baby, that plans can sometimes change, and that ultimately the expectant/birth family has the right to decide what that is. What if we shifted our perspective so much that sometimes, instead of a failed adoption, we thought of is as a successful decision to parent? 

At the heart of adoption is an open-handed decision to love big, love well, and love without reserve or selfishness. We talk about this often in terms of a birth mother making the courageous decision to make an adoption plan for her child. But I think there are times when hopeful adoptive families can be just as courageous to love a mother (and father) considering adoption, regardless of the outcome.

Rethink the grieving process

There's no doubt that going though a failed placement is a tremendous loss. It's a heartbreaking experience that often comes without any warning and can be devastating. In many ways, a failed adoption can feel like the death of a dream (of that particular child to be a part of your family). There's often confusion, unanswered questions, and very rarely any closure. This kind of grief is termed "ambiguous loss" and can can be incredibly difficult to work through. A failed adoption can leave you searching for answers which can delay the grieving process. 

While many friends and family can understand other losses (like infertility, death, or a terminal diagnosis), it's rare to find others in your support system who can truly empathize with what you're going through. Grief can take on many unique forms; so giving yourself the grace and the space to heal is important. Take the time to grieve like you would any significant loss. Don't discount it and do what you need to care for your heart (and your spouse's). Be patient as you think about possible next steps on your adoption journey.

Rethink what you know about happy endings

Happy endings don't write themselves like a typical fairy tale in adoption. In the end, it was inevitable that someone would leave the hospital brokenhearted. Whether it's a brokenhearted birth mother who made an adoption plan, or a hopeful adoptive family when she decided to parent, adoption in it's fullness isn't without hardship. In adoption there is no lack of the tension of loss and gain; bitter and sweet. 

Maybe in the end, nothing failed. Maybe you were meant to love and care for that birth mama and that baby for that season; over those months and in that hospital room. Maybe you were meant to pray over that expectant family and plead with God for their health and welfare. Maybe you were meant wrap them both in love in that sacred space and show up when no one else did. Maybe, in the end, you were a part of the story of a beautiful family, just not the way you imagined it.

Maybe, God is doing something so much bigger than you can see at this moment.

In the end, adoption is never without risks. When we put our "yes" on the table, unreservedly, it is fraught with unknowns. It's easy, especially after walking through a failed adoption, to want to snatch that "yes" right up, or give God your list of requirements before placing it down again. But loving big, selflessly, and unconditionally is not just a way to step into adoption, it's a way to live out the gospel.

God wants to do so much more through an adoption than "get a couple a baby." Adoption is about restoration and redemption. Sometimes it unfolds the way we anticipate. But more often, God is writing a story that includes plot twists we didn't see coming; faith we never thought would stretch us, love we didn't think would almost break us, and a front row seat to God's goodness and faithfulness. In the end He promises that all things work for our good and His glory. 

Keep moving forward. Keep loving big. Keep walking in faith. God promises when we do it's always worth it.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. 
- Ephesians 3: 20-21

Want to read more about how God can work through the brokenness of failed adoptions? Here's a few families stories that might encourage your heart:

When Adoption is Messy and Beautiful All At Once

Adoption Story: Zach and Danielle

Adoption Story: John and Ruthie (A Video Journal)

An Interview on Beauty in Brokenness

Recently I had the chance to be interviewed by Breanna, a client turned dear friend, for a new blog series, "Redefining Beauty." Here's the beginning of our chat and the link for the full interview...

BB: Tell me a little bit of your story.

SV: I had always envisioned our 10 year wedding anniversary as one big romantic celebration. When you’re a newlywed at 21, 10 years married sounds like such a huge accomplishment and so incredibly far away. I pictured us on some extravagant trip somewhere, all smiles and reminiscing about our last 10 years and dreaming of the years to come. But our ten year anniversary turned out incredibly different than I imagined. Instead of celebrating somewhere on a beach, I was alone, with two young children, and wondering if our marriage would make it to year eleven. I had been blindsided with the sin that had crept into my husband’s heart, our marriage, and our family.

Instead of the blissful ten year anniversary I had planned on, we started year 10 of our marriage separated.  I was a single mom, wondering if my husband would ever come home.  We were far from celebrating our marriage: we were fighting for it...

READ THE REST OF THE INTERVIEW HERE: Easy Like Sunday Morning

Fighting for Redemption

Sometimes I write blogs in my head or draft them out completely and never get around to posting them. I recently found this unpublished post and decided this one was worth it to come back to, even though it's dated. I wrote it over two years ago, right in the midst of our mess. I should say one of our messes. One of the spaces where I was desperately praying for my husband to believe the Gospel and wondering if our marriage would survive his unbelief. A season where I literally felt like I was fighting for our lives. 

I'm not sure why I never got around to hitting "publish" on this one. Maybe because it felt too vulnerable. Maybe because we were in the thick of it and it's hard to be that honest on top of all the other feelings when you feel so raw and tired. 

And I'm not sure why I'm hitting "publish" now on some of these brief thoughts I had awhile ago. Other than as a reminder to myself and those who might read it that fighting for redemption is always worth it, even if you don't know how it will work out in the end...

Disclaimer: I'm using these words to preach the gospel to myself today.

Our family is in a tough season. A hard space where all of the stuff you always talk about happening and preparing for "just in case" we're actually living. I’ve hesitated to share much of our family’s last year on the blog. But we're right in the thick of it: in the midst of heartache and healing.

There are unknowns and we're unsure of a lot of what the future holds for our family and our lives. In this constant state of uncertainty, it can lend to feelings of fear, loneliness, and even despair. But there are truths that are just as true today as they were last week, and last year, and hundreds of years ago. God's promises of faithfulness and loving kindness are some of the only things I cling to and that make sense in the midst of this kind of chaos.

Redemption is beautiful but long. We've been in this season for years. A dear friend recently described it as long-suffering and I feel every ounce of those words. Merriam-Webster defines long-suffering as "patiently enduring lasting offense or hardship." Admittedly the patient part of that doesn't resonate with me as much as the enduring hardship does. But knowing that God promises that our suffering is not meaningless changes everything. God's promises that "suffering produces endurance produces character, and character produces hope" (Romans 5:3-4). In this space I am banking that this kind of suffering is valuable and meaningful.

Redemption can also be lonely. I've found our family's healing has come in ripples. It starts with Jamy's heart, moves into our marriage, then our kids, and eventually out into our extended family, friendships, and church community. It's easy to get overwhelmed at all we have ahead of us. There are relationships to heal, forgiveness to ask for and to extend, and hard conversations to have. If I'm honest, I'm not sure some of those relationships are still there or will be fully restored. In the midst of waiting for the ripples, sometimes I feel stuck in the middle of where the pebble (or bomb) originally dropped feeling very alone. It's during these times I rest in the Psalms, especially where I read that God is close to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18) and a constant refuge and help (Psalm 46:1).

My prayer is that someday in the future,  I can look back and see redemption in this long and lonely space in our life.

But if not, he is still good.

In this time, he has been good and faithful, generous and gracious, kind and so, so near.  He has been enough for our family.

He has been enough for my husband.

He has been enough for my kids.

And he has been enough for me.

I'm learning redemption can look different than the way I would like it, or picture it. As agonizing as it can be, I want to trust Jesus for redemption and restoration, even if I won't see it fully this side of Heaven...

Two years after this original post, I can tell you that the Gospel transformed (and is transforming) our marriage. But reading my own words, I know that the real miracle isn't a transformed marriage. If you're reading this today and your future is unclear, know that your fight to hold on to Hope, to trust God's promises to you, and to believe the Gospel is always worth it. You might not know how this season will end, but we already know the end of the story.

God always wins.

He always gets glory.

And He never leaves or forsakes us in the midst of it.

The Lie of Adoption

Adoption is full of choices.

What kind of adoption will you pursue: domestic, international, foster care?

Which agency will your work with? What attorney will help you finalize? What other adoption professionals will you work with?

What kind of child are you open to in regards to age, race, siblings, etc.? 

What kind of openness will you share with the birth family?

The choices seem endless once you begin your adoption. You realize there are many paths to take and deciding which is the best for your family is an important part of the process. Adoption is also full of checklists and paperwork. There's a tremendous amount of forms to complete, boxes of preferences to check, and appointments to schedule.

In some sense all of these choices that are available are a blessing. There's tremendous value in doing your research and finding the best fit for your family. There's wisdom in researching all of your choices, educating yourself on what is out there, and prayerfully making decisions as a couple. And being in a space where you are accomplishing tasks that get you closer to bringing a baby home are exciting and life-giving. 

BUT. All of these choices also create a false sense of control in adoption.

Because at some point in your journey, you are left to wait. The choices have been made. The paperwork is complete. The nursery has been decorated. The baby registry is finished. And you're left with seemingly nothing else to do but wait...

And the choice is left to someone else. An expectant family looking over profiles, making their own choices about the future of their child. You realize the control you thought you had isn't near as much as you had hoped.

When all the "doing" is done, the lie of control lingers and can leave you grasping at a false sense of security and comfort. The choices being made in this stage of adoption are just as endless. But this time, they are not yours to make.

When will we be chosen?

What can we do to make sure we're chosen?

Is the expectant mom making healthy choices for her pregnancy?

How will our time at the hospital unfold?  

What if none of this works out in the end? 

This is where the adoption process can become completely overwhelming, fear-inducing, and anxiety ridden. To the point that it can even lead a family to be completely paralyzed and shaken that they are no longer in control and it's all left up to "fate."

But it doesn't have to feel this way. Our fears don't have to become controlling. Our anxiety doesn't have to become our mode of operation during the adoption process. And we don't even have to ensure we have complete control over our adoption.

We can rest, because the truth is we're never really in total control of our lives.

Even while struggling with infertility, you can't ever make yourself get pregnant even if you eat all the right things and take all the right medications at all the right times. Even with a biological pregnancy you can't choose the gender or guarantee the health of the baby. And with many other situations in our lives, there's so much that's simply outside of our control.

While initially that can be a horribly unnerving thought, it can also be incredibly freeing.

What if God's plans are better for us?  

I've found there's a crucial step that every adoptive family needs to come to in order to have peace and contentment through the adoption process. You can hold on to control so tightly that you actually miss what God has for you. Or you can release your white-knuckled grip on your plans and hand them to Jesus. 

But how? How do you overcome the fear and the "what ifs" and the inability to control outcomes in adoption?

Practically, the best way I've seen couples do this is to walk through every open door they have in front of them. Then, prayerfully ask God to slam that door shut if it's not His will. There's always a tension in adoption (and in every aspect of our lives) where we weigh good, solid, common sense and wisdom with a confident and reckless faith. When we ask the Holy Spirit to take the lead. And when we do all we can then leave it with God to do the rest. Sometimes taking the first step can feel like taking a leap off the ledge. But sometimes, knowing when to let God take over is even more challenging.

The lie of adoption (and all of life) is that we are in control. But the beauty is that God is in perfect control and completely trustworthy.

In the end, it's God who creates families. He knows best. His timing is perfect.

And when He is the author, God always writes the best stories.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. 
{Ephesians 3:20-21}

For more encouragement in the wait...

Dear Mamas in Waiting

Truth to Cling to in the Wait

What I Wish I Knew While We Were Waiting

What to Do While You Wait {a mini tutorial}

I Prayed for Cancer

It was a selfish prayer. And an ignorant one.

But there was a time when I actually prayed I had breast cancer instead of going through hardship in our marriage. Maybe it was more a common thought that invaded my heart more than an actual prayer. But one that came up often.

It would be easier I thought. I could manage chemo and hospital stays. I could have something identifiable and easy to attack. It's easier to talk with kids about sick bodies than sick hearts. Mostly I thought it would be easier because people know what to do with cancer. Everyone knows someone who has wrestled through it: a friend or a family member. And you bake them casseroles and you take them to chemo and you watch their kids. Culture knows what to do with cancer. But culture doesn't know what to do with a broken marriage. Especially when the two people in the broken marriage don't want to give up. And the brokenness lasts awhile and the healing takes longer than everyone else has time for.

Please tell me I'm not the only one. That others like to try to pick and choose their suffering too. We tell ourselves THAT thing wouldn't be as bad, or as hard, or as painful. What would you rather? Infertility? Cancer? A broken marriage? A lost child? It's all crazy-making, isn't it? To pretend we could "handle" one form of suffering "better" or "easier." That we could bear up under the weight of THAT thing better than THIS thing.

Because the truth is we've all be touched by some kind of suffering. Suffering we never would have "picked" if we had some kind of choice in the matter. Brokenness we've walked through since we're walking in a broken world, wrecked by sin and the fall. And none of us had a chance to sign up for what we thought would be the easiest or could handle ahead of time.

It's easy to look around at other's lives, envious of their "lesser sufferings" or self-righteous that we're "doing so much better." But comparison can be deadly. It can create bitterness, anger, and resentment. It contends for contentment and joy in our hearts. 

Instead of pushing away from the pain we can lean into Jesus right in the midst of it. "I'm not a theologian or a scholar," Elizabeth Elliot once said, "but I am very aware of the fact that pain is necessary to all of us. In my own life, I think I can honestly say that out of the deepest pain has come the strongest conviction of the presence and the love of God." 

What if, in the midst of my suffering, I didn't ask for less of it, but more of God?

So, slowly, my prayer changed. Instead of asking for a different kind of suffering, or for the suffering to stop altogether, my prayers have dramatically shifted. Desperate for more of God right in the middle of things. Begging him to be near and enough. Focusing instead of changing my circumstances on the outside to changing me on the inside. Asking him to make me more like him in the midst of it all. 

I used to think God sent or allowed certain specific suffering to touch me because he needed to teach me a lesson. He was the "teacher" in the sky and I was the student on the ground. And the "lessons" would just keep coming until I finally passed the test. Although I think there can be seasons like that, I see God much differently now. More as a loving Father, heartbroken beside me as the suffering in the world impacts me and my family. Walking with me, holding me through it. 

I don't think I'll ever embrace or cherish the specific suffering I've walked through (or have yet to walk through). But I can cherish a sweet Savior who promises to walk with me. Who promises that he works all things for my good and His glory. And who promises that nothing ever happens outside of His sovereignty and care.

I don't have to pray for a different kind of suffering. I just have to pray for more of God in the midst of it.

When Church is Hard

Church can be a hard space. I don't know anyone who's been in the church for more than six weeks who hasn't felt the tension of real people gathering together with all their junk.

I went to our family (member's) meeting this weekend and was struck with such a sense of home. But think less comfortable and cozy and more where you feel a shared vision and heart. Which I'm learning is more important than people you can feel warm fuzzies with. I'm learning I'd much rather feel safe than good if that makes sense.

If I'm honest this building has been a tremendous space of hurt for me in the last year. Not because I haven't had a seat at the family table. But more because I've had a harder time figuring out where to sit. When you're the family that needs the church to be the hospital for sinners rather than a museum for saints, it's easy to feel more brokenness than belonging. Coming to church feeling like you have a sort of a scarlet letter on your chest feels much different than coming to church with your stuff together. (Although coming to church feeling like you have your stuff together probably means you have some other issues to deal with...I've been in that space too.)

But that's exactly why this room felt like home this weekend. I was with people who have walked with our family through all of our junk. Sometimes beautifully. Sometimes failing. But always loving us; trying their best to extend God's grace. 

It's been messy. And hurtful. And hard. And that feels like family too. 

I'm figuring out it's safer to be in a space where you're known (scars and all) than somewhere you feel good and happy and put together. Because feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable is always better than fake: hiding who you really are. This is the space where true change can happen. Where people who know you can call out your blind spots and point you to Jesus. Where people who have a history with you can help you remember God's faithfulness to your family, because they've seen it themselves. Where people can hurt you (and you can hurt them) because our ultimate hope isn't in our relationships with each other, but in Jesus. And because of that there's forgiveness and reconciliation and repentance and true heart change.

It's freeing, really. To lock arms with your tribe and acknowledge that you're family and you're all in it for the long haul together.

So I'll keep finding my space at the family table. And help others find their space too. And as we learn to bring all of our junk and heap it together right there, maybe we can keep reminding ourselves that church is the perfect place to feel at home in the midst of brokenness.

High Tea (and other ways I date my daughter)

I've been thinking about ways to be more purposeful in my conversations with Isabelle. I know in a blink I'll be dropping her off at college and wondering if I had enough time to tell her everything I want her to know deep down in her soul. I often find myself catching my breath looking at her and realizing she looks less and less like a little girl every day.

I have so much to tell her; so much I'm still learning myself. What it means to be a woman. What true beauty is. Where real value is found. How to live out of an identity as God's daughter. In a world fighting against all of this, I want her to hear from me, clearly and often, that her character is more important than her curves. 

So over the past year Isabelle and I have gone out on special mommy/daughter dates. They've been different than the typical running out to go shopping or heading to Starbucks together to grab our favorite drink and play cards. I plan and prepare and pray for our time together.

We've had high tea at the Intercontinental and talked about where our value comes from. We giggled over petit fours and talked about identity and I might have cried a little. We've gone for facials and a skincare tutorial at a beauty counter to talk about the world's false image vs. true beauty. Isabelle picked out her first lipgloss (mama had to steer her to the neutrals) and talked about our quirks celebrated our uniqueness. We've had our nails done at the spa and discussed self-care and healthy body image.

I've used this book as a guide. Although some of it hasn't been a great fit for us (even Isabelle rolls her eyes at some of it), it's been a fantastic foundation that I can use to get good beginning ideas to fit our relationship and the conversations I want to have. Isabelle and I have even gone to a Secret Keeper Girl event when they were in town and loved it.

Isabelle is 10. Conversations revolve now around how to be a good friend, modesty, and Harry Potter. I'm praying this paves the way in the next few years for the harder conversations about injustice and boys and purity. The topics might change but at the heart of it the message won't. I pray God will give me wisdom to always talk about what it looks like to love Jesus and those around her.

I want her to be brave and kind. I want her to love Jesus fiercely and love others relentlessly. I want her to have the courage to be exactly who God made her. To be confident in her own skin and freckles and lanky frame. And to model that same confidence when wrinkles start to appear and her body carries more curves from babies.

As a mama, these kinds of conversations come up all the time. While we watch TV, driving in the car, and talking about our day. But I decided I wanted to be purposeful and plan out specific times that Isabelle would remember. Connecting them to special times we spend together; laughing over cheesecake or at the beauty counter, my prayer is that God would use these times for the truth to go down deep into her bones.  I'm praying she remembers just a little of what we talk as she braves the world these next few years as a young girl.

I want Bella to know if her identify is found in Him, nothing can shake her.

Losing Their Childhood

It's been awhile since I've shared a more personal post here. Much of it has to do with so many beautiful adoption stories to share of my adoptive families. And if I'm honest, some of it is because it's hard to put into words what's been happening in our family. And hard to put in such a public space. But I've learned these last few years that transparency has been freeing and healing for our family and for my heart. And if I boil it down, the real goal of this blog is to tell stories of God's goodness, for adoptive families and my own.

It's no secret our family has been through a lot. Just click on the marriage tab on the blog and you'll get a glimpse into our story. One of the hardest things about going through a crisis as a family is watching our kids lose some of their childhood. They've had to deal with hard things, lost some innocence, had to deal with loss, and experienced things no one would choose for their children. 

The conversations we've had to have with them are hard enough to have with adult or even teenage children. But having them in grade school has been challenging. We've begged God for wisdom, and received godly counsel. We've fumbled through hundreds of questions that make you catch your breath and say a quick prayer asking for divine insight and direction before answering. And shepherding little hearts when you have a broken heart yourself is hard and exhausting.

As a mother, if I'm honest, it's been heartbreaking. Jamy and I have recently been grieving the loss of some of our kid's childhood in the midst of all of this. It's easy to think we've failed as parents. That our sin and brokenness has ruined them for life.

But this is not the whole story. This hasn't been all that's included in loss.

My kids are learning and experiencing the gospel in real and personal ways. When we talk about God's redemptive power, we note ways he has redeemed our family. When we talk about how God is our refuge, we can list ways we've run to him and ways he's cared for us. When we talk about miracles, we can point to amazing events in our family.

Gathered around the dinner table, we can talk and laugh and remember all of the ways God has cared for us. Huddled over them tucked in their beds we can whisper the promises again that He's given us. Crying on the couch we can cry out to God together asking Him to continue to be near.

Just last weekend for Father's Day, Jamy sat the family down and acknowledged the reality that this side of Heaven, all celebrations are tinged with some sort of grief. We talked about our past year and he gave us all gifts; leather cords to remind us how strong our family can be together with God's help (A cord of three stands is not easily broken. Ecclesiastes 4:12). We've learned that a good father points to an even better one. That our parenting isn't amazing because of what we do, but directs them to their desperate need for a Savior.

We've been knit together as a family. Going though hard things together has bonded us in incredible ways. Our kids come to us with questions, knowing they can ask anything and we'll always have an honest (and age-appropriate) answer. We often talk about fears and faith. We talk through hard things. And they are learning that we are a team; always working together for the good of our family.

My prayer is that when they look back at this season in their young lives, they can pinpoint the space when their faith became their own, they experienced Jesus in a real and personal way, and they grew to understand the gospel more fully. And looking back over these last several years and thinking about what I really want for my children, I realize my deepest desires are actually being met. Both Isabelle and Jackson came to trust Jesus during this time. 

Would I have ever chosen this for my kids? Never. Was it God's plan for sin and brokenness to rock our family? I don't think so. But in his sovereignty, he has worked it all for our good and His glory, even for Isabelle and Jackson.

Maybe your story is a bit like ours. Your family has experienced some kind of loss and walked through things you would have never chosen if you could have written it yourself. When I think of the times of the deepest change in my life, when I learned to trust Jesus even more, it's aways during seasons of suffering and hardship. At the end of the day, I can rest in the truth that God has been sovereign over our suffering; even our kid's.

So my kids have lost some of their childhood. But they've gained a personal and deep knowledge of a God who loves them. A Rescuer who saves them. A Redeemer who restores them. A Heavenly Father who never leaves them.