So, we did this today...

That's an adoption application.  

I wish you could see the grin on my face as I just typed those words.

We've been talking about adoption for months now, but I'm sure people doubted that we would actually go through with it.  I doubted, at times, that we would actually go through with it.  Yet, the paperwork is finished and ready to be mailed to the agency tomorrow.  

None of this felt real until we sat down today and worked through the questions together.  It's like the first time I went to Peru.  I had raised support to go, gotten my passport, and bought my plane ticket, but I don't think it occurred to me that I was leaving the country for the first time ever until I was sitting on the plane.  It's also like when we got married.  We had been talking about and planning the wedding for a year, yet it didn't click that the guy at the end of the aisle was, indeed, going to be my husband- until I was on my daddy's arm and the doors of the chapel flew open so that I was looking at Andrew.  In both of those situations, I was simultaneously overjoyed and terrified, and I find myself there again today.  Overjoyed because I'm going to be a mom.  And terrified because, well, I'm going to be a mom.

Our journey toward becoming parents will probably look much different than most people's.  While our friends are having gender reveal parties for their babies, we'll be creating a scrapbook and praying that a birth mom chooses us.  As moms-to-be sit through childbirth classes, we'll be at adoption seminars.  When other families are going to doctor visits, we will be having our home study done.  I used to resent that our road would be different, and it is still hard to accept sometimes.  But, different just means different- not better and not worse.  The end result is the same, anyway.  

Let's be real for a second and get back to that part about me being terrified.  I have no idea where we will get the money for all of this.  Do you know that adopting from an agency costs $15,000-$20,000?  Oh my.  I'm a teacher, and Andrew wants to go into ministry.  Here's a shocker- we're not wealthy!  We'll take out a loan, apply for grants, be creative, and work hard, but still... that is a lot of money.  

I'm also afraid of the questions that people will ask.  "Where did you get that baby?" or, "Are you ever going to have your own children?", as if our child is on loan from the public library.

My parents worry that an adopted child of ours might exhibit some unfortunate tendencies of his birth parents, consequently making our lives difficult.  I'm not worried about that one.  Honestly, if we ever have a biological child and she ends up anything like me, she will be a hot mess.

Mostly, I am terrified that an adoption might fall through.  Maybe the birth mom will change her mind.  Maybe we'll get attached and then the dad won't come to sign his paperwork.  Maybe we won't get picked at all.  I can't think about those things happening right now.

In short, 2013 already looks like it will be full of all kinds of unknowns.  A couple of years ago, I would have been panicking about that.  But, I've learned that the unknowns always have a way of working themselves out in the end, and that my worrying is only going to make me miserable.  I can't believe I am saying this, but I am really at peace, even with our lives completely up in the air in so many ways.

We saw Les Miserables last night, and I bawled my eyes out, like everyone else.  (Go see it.)  There is one scene in particular that struck me.  It is when Jean Valjean has found Cosette and carries her on his shoulder, away from the innkeepers, promising to forever "be a mother and a father to her."  The years pass in a matter of seconds in the movie, and as Valjean continues to carry Cosette through life, he says something about how he has found love like he has never known before.  Because he adopted her.

Maybe 2013 will be the year that we get to experience the love of being parents.  There are not enough words to express my excitement, and there is not enough room in my heart to contain my joy.  

Friends, this is big.

 

Why I came back to church

(I'm never quite sure who reads my blog, so I'm not going to post names of former churches or our current one.  My intention is not to denounce one church while singing the praises of another; I simply want to sing the praises of a God who showed up when I was convinced that He didn't exist or care.)

"It don't matter if you don't believe,

Come Sunday mornin' you best be

There in the front row like you're supposed to.

Same hurt in every heart..."

-Kascey Musgrave

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love country music for its honesty.  The song says it like it is; this is what we expect: Do the church thing regardless of what you do or don't believe.

There was a point in time, not very long ago, when I used to cry and feel physically sick before going to church most weeks.  In the one place where people should be able to come and feel safe when falling apart, I felt constant pressure to slap on a smile and pretend that all was well when my soul felt dead.  Despite the fact that most churches say they want you to "come as you are," they really only want you to come a certain way, because honesty can be uncomfortable and people with problems are a lot of work.

Another contributing factor to my anger and bitterness toward the church was Christians.  Christians can be some of the most ignorant, hateful, arrogant, and cheesy people that exist.  I wanted no part of that (and still don't).

So I gave up on God, and I was determined to walk out on church, too.  That's a big deal for someone who grew up in church every Sunday and has always done the "right" things.  I just didn't care anymore.

I don't know how I eventually stumbled into our current church, except that I came with dragging feet and a lot of encouragement from my husband.  I came with cynicism, doubt, and unbelief.  And in the midst of all of that mess, God came, too.

I don't understand it and I can't explain how it happened, but as I kept coming back to church, I started to find that I wasn't so resistant.  We had a family event a few weeks ago and couldn't make it to church.  And for the first time in years, I missed it.  Not because I felt pressured or obligated to go, but because I wanted to be there.

You see, Christians can still be hateful, ignorant, arrogant, and cheesy.  And unfortunately, those voices are often the ones that speak the loudest.  But as I have tried to figure out what Jesus is like instead of letting Christians influence my perception of God, I have learned that he is kind, wise, honest, and good.  I can't answer all of the tough questions about why He allows certain things to happen, nor can I prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that He exists; I only know what He has done for me and that in my darkness, He has proved himself to be very real.

I was determined to never be a member of a church again because of the perception that people generally have of churches.  But, we recently joined our current church, and I'm actually glad that we did.  Not because it is a perfect place, but because, with all of its faults, the Church does many things well.  I think that there is value in being a part of that.

Ultimately, I didn't come back to church because I suddenly started thinking that all Christians are awesome, that churches aren't full of hurt and hate, or that I was good enough to make an appearance again.  No, I came back precisely because I'm NOT good and I somehow found rest in a church and in a merciful God when I had nowhere else to go.  In turning my life upside down over the past two years and taking away many of the things that I wanted the most, He gave me the one thing that I needed the most: himself.  That is still incomprehensible to me, because I never would have wished for the events which have o ccurred since 2010, and yet I am thankful (finally) that they have happened.  More than anything, I am thankful for the grace that does not let me run away forever.

When tragedy strikes

I hugged my students a little tighter this afternoon as they walked out my doors.  Tragedies sure have a way of putting things in perspective, don't they?  The disaster in Newtown, Connecticut, hit especially close to home for me, an elementary teacher.  The faces on the news immediately brought to mind the faces in my classroom.  As much as I sometimes despise grading papers, writing IEP's, and updating data sheets, I would do all of that a hundred times over rather than lose a single one of those precious children to the hands of a wicked man.  My heart hurts.  Such devastated parents.  Such lost siblings.  Such a broken world!

Facebook has blown up with all of this, naturally.  I can hardly read my NewsFeed without tearing up at the gut-wrenching sadness that is being manifested.  I can also hardly read it without feeling angry at the fact that people can be so insensitive as to ignore the hurt of this tragedy in order to promote their own agendas.  I'm sure you won't have any trouble thinking of examples.

We are on our way to Dallas for my Uncle Ross's funeral, and I can't help but think of how wildly inappropriate it would be to walk up to my aunt tomorrow and tell her about other matters which should concern her more than her husband's passing.

How, then, should we react to death?  When Jesus's friend, Lazarus, died, Jesus was "deeply moved." He wept. He hurt.  In that moment, Jesus did not promote other agendas.  He knew anguish, and he showed that Emmanuel ("God with us") means entering into people's heartache.  Jesus, of course, cared about "issues".  But he cared about sorrow, too, and he knew that there is a time for both.  Lazarus's funeral was not the time to discuss gun control, because the answer to tragedy is not more or less legislation but God himself.

I am awkward in sad situations.  I don't quite know what to offer, so I have a tendency to say something ridiculous and immediately wish I could hide under the nearest table.  Friends, in the midst of this tragedy, perhaps we would do well to be silent.  Now is a poorly chosen moment for debating issues and stirring unnecessary controversy.  Out of respect for the families affected, let us do our best to understand their hurt, to "be deeply moved" by their sadness, and to grieve over lost lives.  Let's step off our platforms and allow our silence to scream that people matter and that all is not right with the world.  

"I don't know."

As a little girl, I was always inquisitive.  I'm sure that most small children are.  In new locations and situations, I consistently had at least one question.  God bless my sweet parents.

Does everyone on the planet have a different number of hairs?  Yes.  Everyone?!  Yes.  Even identical twins?  Yes.

Can I skip my vegetables?  No.  Why does Dad get to?  Your dad is a grown man.  Do all grown men skip their vegetables?  No.

Where do babies come from?  Maybe we'll discuss that later.  When?  Not now.  Later.

Why did Grandma get cancer?  I don't know.  Does Granddad know?  No.  Then who does know?

Obviously, I was not only inquisitive, but I was also persistent.  I wanted answers, I wanted complete answers, and I wanted them immediately.  Not a lot has changed.  Then, and even now, "I don't know" is insufficient and unsettling.   

When Andrew and I went back to the doctor for his second follow-up appointment a couple of weeks ago, we weren't expecting our situation to be any different.  (We recently found out that his surgery in April yielded unfavorable results, and we didn't think that that had changed.)  What we were hoping for was a reason why, an explanation.  Because of the vast amount of medical research and technology available these days, we anticipated that the doctor would be able to say, "Your situation is like this because of X."  "You will be able to have children if Y."  I would have even been okay with, "It is highly unlikely that you will get pregnant because of Z."  A "no" would have allowed me to close the door and move on.  Instead, he looked sympathetically at us and said, "I'm sorry.  I really don't know.  I've done all there is to do." 

We are one of the thousands of cases of "unexplained infertility."  I hate those words.  I've felt sick about the whole situation.  I've been angry.  I've been confused.  I'm still all of those things at least some of the time.

But what I'm slowly discovering is that freedom does not come in having the answers that I want, or in having answers at all.  On this side of eternity, there will always be questions that don't have answers.  I think freedom must come from resting in the knowledge that God can make beautiful things out of the "I don't knows," because He does know.  I'll probably forever be attempting to make sense of that. 

Back to when I was little, my parents never told me, "MR, we really can't take another question."  They never got annoyed.  They never told me that I was foolish for not knowing.  Instead, they encouraged me to keep asking.  So today, I will keep asking.  And I will try to trust that "I don't know" isn't the end of the story.