Breathtaking Wonders

My jaw dropped and my stomach sprang itself into knots when I found out about you, little one.  Another precious heart, another broken start.  I had been nervous for the better part of a year, knowing it was entirely in the realm of possibility that you would come to be.  And I was entirely incapable of convincing God that I had done enough, I had given enough, I had said ‘yes’ enough.  So it was always in the back of my head that we might be in the position we were about to be, but I had high hopes for the logic and rationale of my husband.  He would talk me down, convince me that there was no way we could parent another and that no one would expect us to.  For goodness sake, they all wondered what we were doing with five – and so did we some days.  But apparently we keep forgetting that this story isn’t about us.

It was back to back nights in April that the Great Story-Writer wrote my dreams.  One night I find myself in an entirely glass hotel on the sandy ocean floor watching the tide come in to slowly swallow the whole building.  I fall asleep under the glowing blues filled with whales, sea turtles, brightly coloured fish and all the creatures that make it easy to believe in a creative Mastermind.  The next night my kayak glides across the top of the ocean, alongside glorious cliffs.  Crystal clear water again gives window to the waters teeming with beautiful, majestic life below me.  I wake up smiling that this God of the universe gives me glimpses into something glorious, letting me behold His glory for just a moment in my sleep.  I know there is more to this divine kiss, some kind of meaning I am missing, but I have to wait.

A month later I hear Him again.  He flashes the slideshow of ocean dreams through my memory and says “you will see my wonders.”  I am excited, a little bit giddy even.  The rush of hearing His voice quickens my pulse and lightens my step that day.  And then I am nervous as I remember: every time I have ever seen His wonders it is because they are preceded by the kind of very difficult situation that requires a wonder.  I tell God that I wonder if I even want to see His wonders and He is okay with my snarky attitude. 

I get to revel in the loved-and-spoken-to aura for a week before that moment that my jaw drops and my stomach flops and my mind goes into overdrive.  The moment I find out that my daughter has a baby brother.  What now?  The first wonder is that my reasonable, rational, logical husband has been drinking the kool-aid and doesn’t say “no” right off the hop.  Or was the first wonder two years ago when these organized, type A, control freaks of parents loosened their grip on the wheel that directed the size, race, trauma, baggage, and permanency of their family?  When they opened themselves up to love and lose, to co-parent with the government, to be open to intrusion and scrutiny. 

In any case, now we are actually having the conversation about a sixth child, making the spreadsheet, listening for guidance.  The conversation is fairly circular, something like “How can we possibly do this?” followed by “How can we possibly not?” and back to “But how could we possibly do this?”  The spreadsheet lists at least 47 reasons not to take our daughter’s brother into our family.  And yet every fibre of our being knows that we will deeply regret saying no.  We waiver for days.  Uncertain we are capable of a decision this weighty.

In various ways we hear God whisper, reminding us that He thrives on being More-than-Enough when things seem insurmountable.  “You will see my wonders” echoes in my mind as His breath blows across the surface of the deep.  Is this really just the beginning, I wonder?  How much will He call us to?  What does He know about us that we don’t?  Because this doesn’t seem like a very good idea, humanly speaking.  But apparently we keep forgetting that this story isn’t about us. 

Truth speaks from the pages of scripture, like it always does.  First He catches my attention with the interweaving of His words and my dreams.  Psalm 107:24.  We were witnesses of God’s power out in the ocean deep; we saw breathtaking wonders upon the high seas.  We were witnesses of God’s power out in the ocean deep; we saw breathtaking wonders upon the high seas.  My heart skips a beat and I steep in the words for a days, amazed at how truth spans thousands of years.  Of how He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.  At how in His immense majesty He is also intimately personal.

And then my lens broadens and He speaks again.  Psalm 107:21-31

So lift your hands and give thanks to God for his marvelous kindness and for his miracles of mercy for those he loves!

Bring your praise as an offering and your thanks as a sacrifice as you sing your story of miracles with a joyful song.

Some of us set sail upon the sea to faraway ports, transporting our goods from ship to shore. 

We were witnesses of God’s power out in the ocean deep; we saw breathtaking wonders upon the high seas. 

When God spoke he stirred up a storm, lifting high the waves with hurricane winds.  Ships were tossed by swelling sea, rising to the sky, then dropping down to the depths, reeling like drunkards, spinning like tops, everyone at their wits’ end until even sailors despaired of life, cringing in terror.

Then we cried out, “Lord, help us!  Rescue us!” And he did!  God stilled the storm, calmed the waves, and he hushed the hurricane winds to only a whisper.  We were so relieved, so glad as he guided us safely to harbor in a quiet haven.

So lift your hands and give thanks to God for his marvelous kindness and for his miracles of mercy for those he loves!

We aren’t sailors, Bernie and I, but we hear the message loud and clear.  Sometimes, when God speaks, He stirs up a storm, but that doesn’t mean He isn’t speaking.  There can be waves and reeling and spinning and despairing, and none of that is the marker of whether He has spoken.  We are terrified at the notion that things are going to get that hurricane-like in our family, but it really is not hard to imagine that they will.  We worry about our other 5 kids and whether they will resent this little one for bringing more chaos.  We worry about our boys and how they will understand the balancing of our responsibility to them and our responsibility to God.  We worry about the opinions of others and what they will say behind our backs.  We worry about buying a vehicle that fits one more.  We worry about vacations, music lessons, sports, hotel rooms, airplane tickets.  We worry about three under three and six under nine.  We worry about going back to major uncertainty after our family finally feels settled.

And then when we start to pray about all of these worries we get sidetracked.  We fall asleep praying about our worries and wake up praying for this precious new life.  Who will love him, who will sacrifice for him, who will care for him, who will invest in him, who will fight for him, who will be there for him, who will lead Him to his Great Story-Writer. 

When we imagine saying yes to him joining our family we are scared.  When we imagine saying no we are devastated for him, devastated for Shania, and ashamed at our lack of faith. 

And so we say yes to God and yes to Chase.  We lift our hands and give thanks to God for his marvelous kindness and we trust for his miracles of mercy for our family.  We have been witnesses of God’s power out in this ocean deep; we’ve seen breathtaking wonders upon these high seas.  We will be witnesses of God’s power out in this ocean deep; we will see breathtaking wonders upon these high seas.  We have hope in His presence in these stormy seas and we have hope in His faithfulness to guide us safely to harbor in a quiet haven (in 20-30 years).  But in the end, this story isn’t really about us.  

It was his third day of life, I think, when the midwife came over and he weighed in too low.  We were going to go furniture shopping for the new house that day.  It was my third baby, my third boy, my third one to wear the same outfits and be buckled into the same car-seat.  I knew what I was doing.  And she told me that that was exactly what was going to make this hard.  I remember the patterns and the rhythms, but they were new to my son.  I needed to listen to him, respond to him, look at him, sit with him, hold him, slow days down for him.  This third baby of mine was on his first time at life. 

I remember rolling my eyes a bit, only inwardly I hope.  But I sat in my bed and took in my baby.  I unzipped his sleeper and unbuttoned my shirt and tried to slow down to just be with this brand new life.  I read, napped, and snacked with him on my chest.  It didn’t come naturally but ‘fake it till you make it’ has always been my parenting strategy anyway.  And he cuddled and slept and fed and bounced back by the next week’s check-up. 

But I checked the box.  I congratulated myself on doing what he needed.  And I moved on. 

Fast forward a few years and my now four-year-old son became a big brother twice over in a week and a half.  Suddenly there was a baby and a toddler and the boy, still in the midst of figuring himself out in the context of his two big brothers, wakes up very much a middle child.  Not big enough to be one of the bigs.  Not little enough to be one of the littles.  Not loud enough that I noticed.  I didn’t take enough breaths to notice.  I didn’t listen to enough cries.  I didn’t have enough hands.  Or eyes.  Or laps.  Or arms.  Or sleep. 

Jesus, I hope it’s not too late.  I hope I haven’t failed him.  I hope he finds his voice, the one I have silenced too many times.  I hope he sees its power and influence in his little world.  I hope His Father redeems all that’s been done and all that’s been left undone.  Lord, could you slow days down for me so that I can slow days down for this boy that I love?

breath

My eyes open and I worry that I'm already behind.  She screamed so long and hard it feels like I just fell asleep.  The glowing numbers of the clock come into focus and I breathe out a thank you God that I'm a morning person.  I uncurl, stretch, and make my way to the bathroom.  As I get dressed I'm reciting the things that need to happen before 8:35.  I got this.  Probably. 

Too early, One comes up for a cuddle, anxious as always on a Monday morning.  With an eye out the window for the neighbour kids who need us for five more mornings, I fill cereal bowls and smile as I remember our family win of a skating outing yesterday.  These months have been hard.  Hella hard at times.  Inviting little ones and their accompanying brokenness into our home, into our family, into our hearts.  It is heavy.  It pervades and permeates and doesn't ask permission to hang its darkness over our days.  But, is it just me, or is He deepening my perception of His beauty in this mess?  I smile at the kooky picture of the seven of us, Five's helmet-ed head peaking out from behind me, as we skate on the river. 

My smile falls as I hear the tell-tale sound of One bouncing a ball against the wall in his room.  Sure enough, he woke Two.  I stop him before they all wake like dominos.  Neighbours arrive and the morning is off and I wonder what I will behold today. 

In pockets of peace I remember to breathe.  This Almighty-breath gives life, slows the fickle worried heart so it can truly see.  This circus that makes me crazy?  I love it.  I love them.  I struggle with how much more He might ask of me.  Inside my family or outside.  It's scary to dwell on and I wonder why.  Many days I feel I have nothing selfish left in me, but oh Lord I am so wrong.  I have given, twice.  Poured out in big-enough ways, I tell myself.  Months and months in I am finally seeing how He is working, weaving, winning at the important things in me, in my littles, in those who find themselves inside our spheres.  Dare I say, He is glorying in letting me behold glimpses of the fullness of His radiance.  Where I swear it wasn't before.  Where I wouldn't have thought it could ever be.  Beholding His beauty, pressing on to acknowledge His Emmanuel presence - not only inspite of the painful brokenness, but also right smack dab in those tear-stained, unlikely-to-be-glorious, caught-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place, down-on-my-knees-wondering-where-this-is-going messes.   He is not afraid of messy and His breath gives me life.

The Other Shoe

For months I've wondered and prayed, wishing everyday for the fog of uncertainty to be lifted away.  This would be so much more manageable, I think, if only I was more knowledgeable about the longterm.  If the plan were tangible, my emotions would surely be balanceable.  But who am I kidding.  Now that they've said the words out loud - just the possibility that she will be leaving - and the futility of trying to keep a steady heartbeat is laughable.  In all probability, this move is her best imaginable, and so I can hold no hostility, besides there won't be capacity when the she moves out and the grieving moves in.  Just as my heart keeps tripping over itself, my stomach is flipping over itself.  I will spend these unremitting days chipping away absentheartedly at the daily, knowing the other shoe is about to fall squarely on the most vulnerable part of my soul.  Because there is no loophole to this loving business.  When she goes, her being gone is only the tip of the iceberg.  There will be the weight of the grief strapped to my chest where I carried her, the dimness of the room that isn't being lit by her smile, the doorway glaringly empty with no one to bounce the Jolly Jumper.  And instead of it feeling emptier, my home and my heart will feel heavy with her tangible absence.  Now I wonder at my ability to give up comfortable.  How many times is the unimaginable loving and losing a child navigable?

Adoption

My caseworker sits down beside me on the couch and I never know where in the world the meeting is going to go.  Today's agenda is Pip and longterm plans - but I never know this until she pulls her haphazard binder from her overstuffed bag.

It seems that everyone who matters is fairly certain that Pip will not be going back to her parents.  And given the last year, that seems reasonable to assume.  Reasonable, at least, to a reasonable outsider.  Slightly less reasonable to me who has seen who wonky and illogical and mysterious and messed-up the system is.  But in any case, that is what we are supposed to be planning and preparing for.

So she hands me a phone number and says I am supposed to call the adoption intake worker.  I will have to ask for adoption paperwork which we need to fill out as soon as possible.  Then we will be put on a list to attend adoption classes and eventually have our home study completed.  Ya know, again.  Because that makes a lot of sense.

But the thing is, my caseworker can't answer the important questions.  What if the case doesn't go the way everyone thinks it will?  What if Pip goes back to mom and dad?  What if she goes to another family?  How do I fill out stacks of paperwork, attend training, prepare for her to be mine forever and still protect my heart in case it all takes a different direction?  How do I trust in the face of so much uncertainty?  How do I love and not lose my mind?

She screams and thrashes in her sleep at the obnoxious time of just-as-I’m-slipping-blissfully-out-of-consciousness-myself.  Eyes closed, she kicks the side of the crib, tormented.  My words do nothing to soothe her, my gentle touch just makes her writhe that much more.  So I pull her out of bed, change the scenery, distract her with a cup of milk.  She studies my face while seems to wonder what we are doing awake in the dark of night - as do I.  Minutes later her head burrows into my chest and her weight sinks into me with trust and sleepiness.  I would breathe in the smell of her, if her frizzy curls weren’t already tickling my nose.  And I am honoured to be the one holding her in as many of these moments as she needs.

Two Daughters

The cry that gets me up of the couch turns out to just be a whimper in her sleep.  I've gotten off the couch an hour into the coveted quiet of evening and tiptoed into the girls' room for nothing.  But it must be one of the very best nothings I have ever been privileged to take in.  One sleeps on her back, arms above her head and lips still parted from where the soother was released in slumber.  I smile at her peaceful perfection in the center of the white crib before turning around.  My gaze searches for the other, pushed up into the corner of her matching crib, bum in the air, blankets gathered and clutched beneath her, curls splayed in the halo of sleep.  I have two daughters.  The words still seems surreal.  I have been entrusted with these two precious, beautiful, valuable, delightful, inherently lovable souls.  May His grace fill me with wisdom and patience and strength.  May His grace overflow to them, for I know I will not ever be enough.