Word of the Year(s)

Each new year brings new goals and new resolutions. Promises made to yourself of this year being the year you stick to a weight loss plan or pay off all your debt. Determination to read a new book each and every month, to wake up before the sun (or with the sun - depending on the time of year) and sip coffee while spending time in silence.

I've made so many resolutions and never kept them. It's easy to start a new year out with promise, but it's harder to stick to those promises. In 2015, I stopped making resolutions, and I started assigning a word to the year.

My word for 2015 was

We were deep into foster care, and we were living in uncertainty. Uncertainty and I have never really gotten along, and I wanted to run. I chose to stay. To me, abide meant to sit and wait. Abide called me to breath deeply and to be patient. Abide reminded me to stay as present as I could and to enjoy what our life looked like then.

So I did just that. I sat. I studied. I played with littles. I welcomed their biological mother into our home. I attended court dates and meetings. I offered help. When August 2015 came, I started to look for a new job. I had once thought that abide meant I needed to stay where I was - in my house and in my job and in that life - for the whole year. But what abide meant (for me) was that I needed to go where I was led and not hold tightly to what I thought my life needed to be.

It all happened so quickly - interviewing for a job and visiting Oregon. Then accepting the job and moving, all while saying goodbye to the littles.

My word for 2016 was

In the beginning of the year, I was raw and split wide open from the loss of the littles and also the gain of a new life in Oregon. I left friends and relationships in Oklahoma uncertain of what friendship and life would be like in Oregon. I said yes to offers of dinner at strangers turned into friends houses.

I cried so many tears. I sweated so much. I realized that I couldn't just power through any sort of loss. I relearned the power that food has over me, and I opened my hands and my heart. I fought through the desire to have everything picture perfect at all times. I focused on what I could - the changes I could make and the changes I could not. I stepped out into love - offering my support to friends who were adopting. 

I became the friend I had during some of the lonely times of fostering and the friend I had always wanted to have. I put away my blog and stuck to Instagram. I stopped tweeting and started living. I listened to countless books on tape and considered my life story (so far) and how I wanted the next year to look.

I said yes to trips with friends and trips alone. I said yes to cooking. I said yes to so many things, and I realized how much life better is when you say yes instead of no.

2016 led me to deeper relationships and community. Vulnerability saw me through marriage difficulties and provided me friends who are family. Vulnerability welcomed me into a place of being more known by others and of knowing myself more.

My word for 2017 is

There is so much of the world to see. There is so much life to be lived. I won't be able to experience it all or see it all in one year, but I want to start the process of learning about the world, it's places and it's people. I want to be open to the lessons that are out thre.

Discovering is not just about finding new places; discovery happens when you revisit places you've known before and forgotten. Discovery happens when you happen upon places you know well but with an openness of learning something else.

Discovery happens in the kitchen as I learn new recipes. It happens as I drink more water and feel the change in how I see and feel and move. Discovery happens in the gym as I run a faster mile or further on the elliptical than I have before. Discovery happens when I increase my weights and watch as new muscles take shape.

Discovery happens as I grow closer with friends and family. Discovery happens as my husband and I create more memories and come up with new goals for this year and years to come. Discovery happens as I learn more about myself and who I want to be.

I'm not sure where discovery will lead me in 2017, but I am excited to find out.

The Stifling, The Letting Go, and The Moving Forward

Just over a year ago, we experienced a loss. In many ways, we knew the loss was coming. We controlled the date that it happened and how it happened. We controlled it because it was already so ambiguous that I simply could not handle any additional unknowns.

I remember the day clearly. It was a Thursday. We were late in getting up and out the door. Usually, I would have been in a tailspin for that reason, but I wasn't then because I knew what was coming. It sounds ominous - maybe more ominous than it is.

We went out for donuts. My husband, me and the three littles we loved and stressed over and cared for and nursed back to health for two years. They really didn't know what was happening. We had talked about it some, of course, but it's hard to explain what the change means to three littles who can't quite understand concepts of time and space.

We splurged on extra sugar for the donuts. And then we watched as their faces got messy. We wiped down their chins and their hands for the last time, and we drove them to daycare. We had decided, along with their biological mom, that we would keep the day as normal as possible. They would go to the daycare they had attended for two years, and she would pick them up from there and then take them to her house. This had happened before. It wouldn't be a shock to the system.

The hardest part of the day was leaving the daycare knowing we would not be back, knowing we would no longer be the people they called if the littles were sick. Walking through the main office and back to our cars, I watched the drawn faces and the quivering lips of the people who had known, loved, and taught the littles for two years. They didn't quite understand why this was happening, and as overwhelmed and unsure as we were, we didn't know how to explain.

Additionally, in so many ways, it wasn't our story to tell. It still isn't. Our story involves two years of love and laughter and struggle and uncertainty. Our story does not involve the choices the state made or the biological parents made. It's taken me 14 months to understand and accept that.

the stiffling

I left for Colorado on a planned trip quickly after we said goodbye. But before I left, I sent an email to the littles worker and his supervisor as well as our foster care certifier and supervisor. I wrote incredibly difficult words with tears streaming down my face. I let them know that we were "done" and that the littles could not come back to our house after the weekend. I did this to control how the loss happened. I did this so that we could prepare for our next move. I did this so that the littles biological mother would have closure and certainty that her children were home. I did this because, until I sent that email, there was no certainty on when trial reunification would happen. I did this because, until I sent that email, there was every intention that the littles would come back and live in our home until I left to move to Oregon.

This was such a lonely time for me and for my husband. We both deal with grief so differently, and I wasn't able to be there for him in the way he needed me to be. And he wasn't quite ready to move forward and jump feet first into a new life and new reality, one that was absent of three littles who called me "mom" and called him "dad."

Over the past 14 months, we've discovered a new life. There are moments we miss them - so many moments, and there are moments where we realize our life likely would not look as it does now if they were still here. This isn't to say we minimize the impact they had in our life or minimize our ability to do things with them, but realistically, so much of what we have now would not be possible or feasible if we had three small children to care for.

When they first left, I hoped for text messages from their biological mother. Those were a reminder that we still mattered and that the littles were okay. They allowed me to breathe. I also searched Facebook for pictures and any sort of update - just wanting to know they were okay and healthy and happy. Then there were times when I received calls from pharmacies in Oklahoma letting me know that their prescriptions were ready to pick up. Those calls broke my heart. I had so hoped that maybe, just maybe, their parents had been right. Maybe they wouldn't get sick once they returned home and lived in a house without dogs. But they did get sick, and I often knew.

I reached out to their biological mother and to the caseworker asking that my number be taken off as the number to call or text about a prescription. And it was - I think.

Walking through this ambiguous grief has been just as difficult for those who love us. Maybe it has been even more difficult. How do you comfort someone who lost something that was never really theirs to keep? Foster care is always intended to be temporary. The hope is always for children to be able to return home safely. It doesn't always happen that way, of course, but that is the intention. Intention or not, saying goodbye isn't easy. And truly, if you pursue foster care the way you are supposed to, your heart will break when you say goodbye.

Love isn't fleeting. Love is messy and changes you and hurts when it leaves. And as much as I wasn't a perfect foster parent, as much as I think of all the things I did wrong, I know that I loved those three as well as I could and as hard as I could and with as much strength as I could.

the letting go

It took me several months to come out of a fog. While I pushed forward and ignored any thoughts of the littles, I couldn't fully make the leap. Work went well - as well as it can when you are a social worker. I found friends. I started to make a new life. My husband joined me two months after I moved, and we started the process of figuring out who we were individually and as a couple now that we were no longer parents.

The journey since our ambiguous loss has been a hard one. I can only truly speak to what it has been like for me. I can only truly speak to what I have learned and how I have changed. And I can say that I still have so long to go but that, for the first time in years, I am okay with that.

When we were fostering, I felt as though I were drowning. In August 2015, just two months before we said goodbye and 22 months after we first said hello, I was able to put to words the sensation of drowning.

I equate foster care with drowning. Any sort of life and help you get... You cling to. And sometimes you get greedy with wanting more because you are fighting for your life. When you are fighting for your life, you can't be bothered to think about much beyond surviving.

This has been reverberating through my head. As we have journeyed through foster care, lifesavers have been cast at us and hands have stretched out, but we haven't always recognized it or been able to reach back out because of the current and seaweed pulling us back into the ocean.

I don't think the sensation of drowning ever goes away - even once there seems to be stability.

There is also always the sense of possible loss looming. How do you prepare to grieve or actually walk through the stages of grief when you signed up for this knowing goodbye was likely? It's not cut and dry. It's just another way to drown.

But Jesus walked on water. He reached his hand out to Peter when Peter sank from disbelief. He does the same for those who foster. He's calmed the waters some for me and has taken the anger away, replacing it with sadness. Anger is easier... I can use it as a shield. But sadness gets to the root of my heart and allows me to feel.

I feel the constriction of lungs and the seaweed gripping my ankles as I fight against the current and stormy seas of foster care. But I also feel Jesus reaching out and holding me steady (once I stop fighting him) and teaching me how to float and how to swim again.

Foster care changes you. The change will stick, and you'll never be the same. That's what happens when you come face-to-face with darkness and light, when you catapult out of the safety of the boat and into the torrents of humanity.
(originally posted on Facebook.)

For many reasons, I wish I had shared this sensation of drowning sooner. I wonder what life would have been like if I had been able to articulate how difficult it all was instead of my words sounding as though I constantly needed and asked for more. Fostering was such a lonely season. We lost so many friends; at least, it felt as though we lost so many friends. It's possible that I pushed them away. Whatever the case, I learned something so important about myself. I realized I was stifling myself and alienating others. I recognized that this needed to change and that only I could change it.

the moving forward

I've been working on that for the past 14 months. It's a slow process - this changing and morphing into the person you want to be while forgiving yourself and others for past hurts. It's a process that's not quite done, a process that will continue for the rest of my life, a process that I have to constantly recommit to.

My life now is one in which I am learning to slow down. I am working to pry my fingers away from this sense of perfection. I am reminding myself of how important it is to struggle and that making mistakes is just as important as finding success. I am finding that I am better able to find God in the mess and the muck than I am in the perception that everyone else's life is perfect and mine can't quite measure up.

For the past year, I've stepped away from writing. I've dabbled some in posting musings on Instagram and in writing a few pages to my novel, but mostly, I have focused on other things. Rather than rushing, I have allowed myself to marinate in the beauty of life in the Pacific Northwest and in the importance of just living life in the moment versus feeling as though every bit has to be chronicled for the world to see. There's no longer this need to show everyone just how well or not well I am doing. Instead, there's perspective and growth.

As I look forward to 2017, I do so with open hands. 2016 came and I grabbed a hold of it, determined to make it fit what I thought I needed in order to get over the loss I experienced in 2015. 2017 is a reminder that sometimes the worst things in life bring the most beauty. Grief is stiffling, but the life that comes after the loss is often filled with more air and light than you ever could have imagined.

see you later...

In the future, I may return to blogging, but for now, you can find me on Facebook and Instagram.

This space served such a wonderful purpose for so long. And for that, I am grateful. I may take down specific posts in the future as some of it is no longer reflective of who I am. I don't want to forget where I came from or what I walked through, but I also want to be fair and honest in how life is portrayed.

Love, Grace, and Dislike for Foster Care

I lived in the same house for nearly 15 years. Rather, my stuff lived in the same house for nearly 15 years while I made dorm rooms and apartments and summer camp cabins my home. (In an effort of true transparency, much of my stuff still lives with my parents but in a different house; I don’t want them to throw any of it away, but it won’t fit with all my new adult years stuff.)

When my parents put my childhood/teenager home on the market, my closet door was covered with bumper stickers because, at the time, that was the thing. I remember there were also a lot of Journey stickers because that was also a thing. One of the stickers read “I’m not opinionated; I’m just always right.”

I knew everything back then as a teenager and then as an early 20something. And I made sure that everyone around me also knew that I knew everything. I was absolutely lovely.

It’s easy for me to say that was just a phase, but again, in an effort of full transparency, I am still very much this person when it comes to certain things. Most of those things have to do with social work and foster care, but this personality trait of mine also lends itself to my marriage and relationships. I am working on it because this trait isn’t quite as lovely as I once considered it to be (while everyone else held on tightly and hoped the phase would pass swiftly… So sorry this is who I am).

I don’t want to be a foster parent. Even though I clearly know everything about parenting and foster care (because CLEARLY). But really I sort of despise being a foster parent. It’s not that I dislike caring for the children or providing for their needs. This does occasionally get old, especially when I am trying to go to the bathroom or study and there is a never-ending, always off key chorus singing songs from “Frozen” or ones made up. Also? They never do this for my husband, but he is able to laugh and enjoy this torture done to me. It is simply not fair.

My issue with foster care is the system. I mean this as a whole and the smaller pieces involved.  It is against every fiber of my being to allow others to make decisions for me or mine. And when you foster, eventually the children feel like they are yours. It’s not that you want to sever any ties with the family that birthed them but more than you want to fight passionately and completely for only good things to come across these little lives.

I say little lives, and in the numeric age of the children, they are often little. But the experiences… So many of these “little people” have lived more lives than any of us could ever imagine living or wanting to live. Some have gone hungry for days, learned to cook before they could dress themselves, and cared for siblings that are just barely younger than they are. Then there is never-ending change, relationships lost, frustration and anger they have no verbal way to express, and the expectation from so many that they act like regular kids.

And the system doesn’t help this. If you know me at all, you know I can rant with the best of them about this system. I have plenty of ideas on how to fix it but some of those ideas simply are not appropriate for a public forum. (I was once told by a supervisor that I should never be allowed to speak to the press because of some of these ideas. I have, thankfully, gotten better at keeping some of these thoughts to myself. You’re welcome.)

Children were never meant to live these sorts of lives. And I don’t just mean the children currently in foster care but also the ones who exited foster care, had babies, and then watched as the system that hurt them swallowed up the little ones they had thought they could love enough to fix some of their broken places.

The system is not something that should exist. It shouldn’t have to. Though I am grateful it does because every child deserves the opportunity to live in a safe home and to know they are loved. Did you know that animal welfare came before child welfare? So many human lives that were seen as less important while animals were protected. Bless it all.

The system now hopes to protect, but the lines on this are so blurred. How do you know what is best for a child? Is it okay to remove constitutional rights from people by also removing their children and then deciding they are never allowed to parent again. It is just so weighty.

We aren’t called to judge. Only God can do that, really. But with foster care, there are court hearings and a judge presiding. There are overworked and underpaid attorneys and case workers. Many who specialize in the field of social work have left child welfare due to the system and the disgustingly low pay; instead, many states now employ anyone with a bachelor’s degree. I know because I was this person, and looking back now, I do not know how or why I got the job. This simply should not be the case. Knowing what I know now (thanks USC for making me a bit more of a know it all about foster care), I see that it is essential for those with a background in social work to be in this field and no one else. The things at stake are too precious and consuming for anything less.

I am grateful Jesus was present when I was a recent college grad with little knowledge of poverty or struggle. I also am keenly aware that God is good, and that those experiences have reignited this passion for foster care and the forgotten fatherless that is in my belly, heart and mind.

There’s so much talk of fatherlessness but so little action. I think that no one really knows where to start. I also think that, often times, people are afraid of the system in place and don’t want to anger anyone at the top. I’ve tried to do this, but since I have this personality trait of feeling I am always right, I have pushed the envelope professionally and such. I am so grateful God is good and seems to have a hand of protection over me, even though I am sure I cause him some headaches and lots of mutterings about “what is this daughter of mine thinking?”. I’m comfortable with that that…. I think.

Additionally, I think fatherlessness and poverty on American soil is easy to forget. We forget that these stories exist around us. We push them out of our mind. We stay in our bubbles and protect ourselves. We go on missions overseas to paint orphanages and play with children, but we don’t volunteer at the local shelters or purchase new linens or mattresses for the worn out beds. By no means do I want to elicit shame on anyone. I am just as guilty. I walked away from child welfare and the grueling work. I talked about things but didn’t honor anyone with the way I spent my time. I am in need of these reminders as much as anyone else.

So, yes, like I said I don’t want to be a foster parent. I am so tired of having to ask permission or so many things. I am exhausted from waiting on other people. And I really hate that there is no definitive plan to my life, that I can’t control or anticipate anything. I think God probably loves this because it is forcing me to run to Him and forcing me to trust Him since I can’t seem to navigate things the way I feel they should go.

I want nothing to do with this side of life. It would be easy to just move on, but I would never be able to forget. I wrestle with this daily and if I can even go one more day as a foster parent. Ask my friends and my husband. They know. They get the texts and the sobbing in the bathroom phone calls.

Of course, I don’t want to admit that I hate foster care. I don’t want this frustration to translate to any families. It is solely reserved for the system. I also feel quite guilty that I can’t be this adorable, ever affirming foster mother but instead fall into the category of “spicy with a side of salty” in how I operate. I also struggle when I am told how “amazing” I am because I feel like I am living this lie and double life as there is a war waging inside of me daily.

But I also believe it essential to admit my frustrations so they don’t fester and splatter, burning whoever is standing too close to the boiling anger I often have. Because my frustration with the system should not harm anyone walking life out with me. And because others need to know hos frustrating the system is. Those in the system need to know it is okay to be angry and to fight for something better.

I used to think everyone should foster. There is enough need for it after all. I completely retract that. This stuff is FREAKING HARD. And not all of us should do it. I daily wonder if I am even remotely cut out for it.

But we can all serve. We all have to step into it somehow to alter the system. The system has to change before any additional damage is done to the lives of parents and children and case workers and all those other people who somehow find themselves in the world of foster care.

Jesus never wanted systems to rule. He wanted people and love and grace. All those things should be a part of the system and humanize it in such a way that loving and lasting changes happen. If we can strengthen this generation, the next generations will be better off.

I may not be right about how to fix it all. (That was so hard for me to write.) Or right about my specific place in it all. And I get all too riled up and beyond with the system and the impact it has on my life. (Did I mention I am bent towards selfishness? Because I so am.)

Something has to change. I have considered this for so long. I have hidden from it. Chewed and wrestled with it. Cried out to God about it. Gone to the church about it. Waited for someone else to fix it. Begged for help. And still so little happens. 

Click above watch Remember My Story (Removed Part Two)

I want to try being less right and more open. I want to let go and open my hands up to Jesus. I want to see the world change so that foster care doesn’t have to exist. I want children to have full bellies and whole brains and mended hearts. I want all of this because it is essential to the world and because it is what every person and child should have.

I’m not lovely or meek when it comes to this all. I am a snotty and crying mess that tends to mimic the roars of a lion versus the baa’s of a lamb. I am never going to be lovely or meek; just ask my husband as he often (rightfully) blames my tendencies for any grey hairs poking through. But I am firm in my belief and resignation and desire to see real, true change take this world by storm.

Operation Shrink-A-Bootie (take 3435803049492)

Years ago, I read The Weight-Loss Diaries by Courtney Rubin. Blogging and chronicling weight loss seemed so novel at the time (at least to me), and I remember thinking "I could do that. I want to do that."

It's difficult to think about that because that was nearly 10 years ago. And for anyone who has struggled with weight, who has yo-yoed as I have, it is almost sickening to think about the 10 years that have passed me by.

I am not saying that you can't live while carrying around extra weight. I have remained alive and breathing for the past 10 years. I have traveled and worked and fostered. I have graduated college and begun graduate school. I have purchased a home and several cars. But I have also hidden behind the weight. Because sometimes hiding is so much easier than facing things head on.

I could be wrong, but I really don't think there is anyone who is overweight who doesn't wish they were a bit thinner. Yes, you can be happy and satisfied at any weight. And yes, people come in all shapes and sizes. But when you're more than just a tad overweight, there is this wish to be thinner, and this little voice that tells you life would be better if you just dropped 20 pounds or 30 pounds, may even 50 pounds.

That little voice is a liar and a bully, of course. Because weight doesn't dictate life or any one person's experience with life. It is only a facet of life. Yet, it is one that takes over.

I compare myself physically whenever I go out. And I almost always become self-conscious, feeling as though I am the largest person in the group and that this somehow devalues me compared to others. I also do this at the gym, as if I am trying to find an excuse to leave or as if I am trying to find someone else who is in the same boat so we can establish solidarity. I'll be the first to tell you that comparison truly is the thief of joy.

There is so much that you miss out on when you compare. I hid from that realization for quite some time, keeping my nose in my text books and spending far too many hours working on papers for graduate school. While I enjoyed everything I was learning (and still do), I also enjoyed that I had a reason why I couldn't go swimming or walking. I did the same thing with my poor, pitiful knees. "Oh no, I can't do that. Bad knees and all."

It's true that I have to adapt with my knees and that school is important. But those things also can not and should not be reasons to skip out on trips to the park, playing in the water, or wearing shorts. Skipping out on so much results in not quite living.

I did this a few weeks ago. I thought I was over it, and then, I met a group of ladies I had only communicated with over Facebook (sans one). We were all selected to be on Jen Hatmaker's launch team for "For the Love." We had similarities and topics to discuss, and yet, I felt out of place at the table.

I went over the differences in my head. I smiled and engaged some, but I felt uncomfortable in my skin and unsure of how to really participate and remain present. No one at that table did anything to cause me to feel the way I did; my subconscious did all the work on that one.

A few days later, I expressed all of this and named it. I've been aware of it since, and I have warred against it since. Comparison is the thief of life and joy, and I will fight against it stealing anything else from me.

But it is still hard. I hate that I am here, in this place of actively trying to lose weight, because I feel like I should already be past this all. I feel like I should already be thin. I get that "thin isn't in" and it is more about being healthy. That's what I want, honestly, but I also want to see the scale dip lower and lower.

The scale isn't the answer, and my worth is not in the number I see flashing at me. I get that. It doesn't mean that I don't want to see it decrease. It shouldn't be the sole focus, but it is important. I get why people say it doesn't matter, but in reality, it does matter.

I'm not quite sure why I am, all of a sudden after six months of silence, posting all of this. It isn't exactly the comeback to blogging I planned. But it is real, and at the end of the day, as much as I would like this to be not true (sometimes), I don't know any other way to be. If I'm not real, I don't feel comfortable, and I refuse to live in such a way that causes me to hide anymore.

learning to be brave

I want to be brave. I just don’t want to be brave sometime in the future. But I want to be brave right now in this moment and with every aspect of my life.

Maybe that statement is odd to you. After all, I am foster mom. Bravery is a part of my nature and blood. Except that it’s not.

When we started fostering, I believed I was brave. And it’s possible in that moment – the moment I said yes and accepted the placements we’ve had – I was brave. Except that bravery centered around my abilities and my strengths. The second things got difficult, and I questioned if I was even cut out for foster care, all of that bravery disappeared.

It’s a conversation Justin and I have had several times. He’s noticed this trend in my life and our relationship. I become sure about one thing and then convince him to join in. Then, when things get hard for me, I am immediately ready to throw in the towel and give up. He, on the other hand, is just then realizing that we are where we are supposed to.

I guess it’s a good thing we haven’t always been on the same page. I cannot begin to imagine what life might look like if we had just given up and given in to the feelings of failure.

Recently, I’ve been praying for bravery. I’ve been resting in Jesus and his bravery because I know my bravery (just like everything else that is mine) will fail daily. I also have joined a new movement – a community of women learning how to live bravely – called #fireworkpeople. And they also help me to want to be brave.

Even with praying for bravery, I’ve been hiding a lot. Thoughts pop into my head, and I commence writing an entire post all in my head. Within minutes of putting fingers to the keyboard, the post all but disappears and immense fear takes over. I can’t write this. I can’t share my heart. I could never express foster care the way it deserves to be discussed and described. And what about confidentiality?

Some of the fears are warranted. I want to be extremely careful with confidentiality. I never want to place myself, the littles, or my husband in a place where I have said too much or been too explicit about any one aspect of our lives.

Some of the fears are ridiculous. They are simply a way to remain hidden and to keep others out of the loop in somewhat grasping foster care and how to work through fears with foster care.

I’ve been open about the fact that foster care was much more difficult than I expected. I’ve shared some of the milestones – like making it 100 days with three toddlers in our home. We have another milestone coming up. 365 days of parenting three toddlers.

Many people ask how we are going to celebrate. And that word celebrate absolutely destroys my heart. Because I can’t celebrate the past 365 days.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’m grateful for the past 365 days. They have been the most fulfilling, difficult, beautiful, and messy days of my life. As difficult as the transition to motherhood has been for me, it has shaped me into a person I am much more proud to be.

That’s not to say that I don’t still struggle. I do. I struggle with immense guilt. I struggle with thoughts of never being enough. I struggle with the balance of work, school, marriage, kids, and not losing myself in the process. Every day brings some type of struggle. But almost every day brings some beauty with it. I say almost every day because, let’s be honest, sometimes it feels impossible to find anything good and all you do is count down to when the next day will start.

One of my struggles right now is how much loss there is with foster care. Foster care itself begins with loss – the loss of the child’s family, the loss of safety before the child comes into custody, the loss of stability, the loss of knowing what to expect (even if it’s harmful and scary). I simply can’t celebrate that much loss.

There’s another woman out there who is also a mother to the littles in the home. The relationship I have with her is a difficult one. It’s not about if we talk or how much we talk. The difficulty resides inside my head as I grieve her lack of presence in the little’s life. I also grieve that she isn’t able to experience the beautiful moments – like a one-on-one date with one of the boys and ended with us holding hands while watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

A part of me still wants them to be able to go home. Because I know how difficult it will be for them to never again be a part of a biological family. And then a part of me is utterly terrified of the day they might leave.

The littles don’t belong to me. No child belongs to their parents, but especially within the context of foster care when I am sometimes nothing more than a place holder.

So as we approach 365 days of fostering and parenting three toddlers I am aware of the pain in my heart that may never recover if I do have to say goodbye. I am also aware of the fear I have with possibly not knowing what will happen to the littles should they leave my home and my house.  But I can’t remain in my fear. If I did, I would not be able to move forward, and if I remained in my fear, it would hurt the littles.

Foster care is not the child’s fault. No child wants to go through the trauma of abuse and/or neglect and then also the trauma of removal from the home and then movement through a volatile system. And yet the children pay the utmost price. A price that increases when adults and foster parents hide in their fear of what it would be like if they had to say goodbye to littles after caring for them for any length of time.

I don’t think I can say goodbye. But I know I may have too. That’s where Jesus’ bravery comes into play. He is so much stronger and able than I am. And if goodbye is what is said, then He will see me through, my husband through, our families through, the littles through, and the littles biological family through.

I type that all out, and again it seems like I am brave. That I’m almost superhuman. And yet my lip quivers and tears flood my eyes. Because I don’t really want to walk out this life of uncertainty and potential farewells. I also don’t really want to be so closely aligned to hurts and heartbreaks. Yet here I am.

I can’t hide from foster care. I tried for a few months. I remained distant. Instead of opening my heart as wide as it could, I let my care by minimal and hid behind graduate school and work. Something happened, and all of a sudden love burst and I couldn’t pretend to not really care about the littles. The moment that happened I felt every single thing.

Holidays are hard. Because I love these littles but my heart breaks for the families they aren’t able to celebrate with. I do what I can and involve the littles in whatever ways I can. This involvement, I feel, honors the littles and their history.

I think that’s how I see the 365 day mark. It’s not a moment to ignore. It’s a moment to honor because the littles deserve to know they are cared for and important. And by honoring them, I don’t celebrate the loss. Instead I acknowledge it and do my best to ensure that the littles know they are more than just this loss. Yes, they are in foster care. But they are also silly, stubborn, adorable, strong willed, and intelligent. That deserves honor as well.

I guess that’s what being brave is right now. The kind of brave I can only be with Jesus. The kind of brave that puts my heart on the line and welcomes inevitable heartbreak for the betterment of three toddlers.

Not for the Faint of Heart

Life is not for the faint of heart. It's just not. At least life the way I want to live it, the way I feel called and compelled to live it, is not for the faint of heart.

Photograph by AW Photography

Of course there's a portion of me, bigger than I want to admit, that craves comfort. I want the job with every benefit imaginable. I don't want to experience other's pain and struggles daily. I want to come home and spend hours reading or watching TV, in my pajama's, and eat as much ice cream as is humanly possible without gaining a pound.

I want the newest iPhone. I want a closet full of shoes and bags and to live in an exotic city (read: not Oklahoma City). I want to travel and write and be asked to travel and write. I long to be known. Not in a personal way but in a way that I am recognized and that recognition fills my bank account until it overflows.

But when I am quiet, when I distance myself from the world, there's a stirring and longing in my heard to live life the way Jesus would have me. And that sort of life is not for the faint of heart.

I waiver on my heart's status nearly every day. Sometimes multiple times throughout the day. I spend time with Jesus in the morning (second week in a row of starting my day off with the Bible, which is a record) and rest in His presence.

But then I am rushing to dress three littles, play or read books for a few minutes, make getting into the car seats fun (which it never is), have a dance and sing along in the car (current faves: Shake It Off by Taylor Swift and Let It Go), unbuckle three littles and manage to get them all into their classrooms.

After that, there's work, email, grad school, practicum, and a million other items. Sometimes I seek Jesus out. More often, he is a passing thought. More often I'm concerned with not having an iPhone 6, not being thin enough, how much coffee I need to make it through the day, and reading emails while sitting at a red light.

It has to stop. At some point and preferably before I leave this earth and enter into heaven.

Photograph by AW Photography

The stirring and longing on my heart is there for a reason. I have gifts and talents. I have a purpose. I have a life that Jesus needs me to lead. Though I don't quite understand how or why, I have been placed exactly here and exactly at this moment. I have been called into a place where there are no borders, where I am overwhelmed on a daily basis and aware of my lack of strength, where I have no choice but to fully trust and rely on him.

When I listened to Oceans today on the way to work, the words slammed into me and the tears poured out of me. I so badly want to be in control of my life. I so desperately want to plan for everything that could happen and account for it all. And while I know that God has blessed me with forthsight and the ability to fight for the voiceless, I am not God. I am only me, the tiniest drop in the ocean, and I have to remember that God is bigger than any of my plans, any of my fights, and any impact I could have (or would have/should have/have had) on another's life.

The Busyness of Summer

This summer was the busiest I ever experienced. Busier than the summer I worked multiple jobs. And than the summers I worked as a camp counselor. Busier, even, than the summer I taught in China. I didn't enjoy this summer. I didn't really live this summer. I survived.

Of course there were moments I'll never forget. Experiences I am beyond grateful for. But those experiences were overshadowed by long working hours, endless deadlines, mountains of reading, and practicum hours. In addition, we participated in an intensive 10 week initiative to learn how to better parent while the oldest child placed with us learned different techniques to help her regulate, express herself, and establish that she was in a safe place.

Those 10 weeks changed our lives. We walked in a broken, messy, barely holding it together family and walked out with newfound hope. I will always be grateful for the experience- for what it taught me but more for what A gained from it. She came alive in those 10 weeks, and she invited me fully into her world. I'll never be able to describe how much it means to share the relationship with her I do now. No matter what happens I will always carry love for her and remember her as my buddy. I'll always see her reaction to "The Little Mermaid" on stage and how she loved her first big girl haircut.

Yet, I felt like a failure during those 10 weeks. There was a sense of failure before the 10 weeks started, and there is still a lingering sense of failure. Not because of anything related to the sessions but more because of what I wrestle with - all of which became even more evident during this summer.

Filling my schedule up comes naturally. Being an introvert at heart, who desperately longs for time alone to recharge, you would think I would welcome an empty schedule. Instead I tend to pile on as many tasks as I can feasibly handle with a few more for good measure. I do occasionally say no. But I usually say "no" to the wrong things and "yes" to things that might not matter quite so much.

It took a few weeks after we finished the counseling and learning for this all to come to light. More than that, it took leaving town for five days and turning off all email notifications on my phone as well as setting my iPhone to "do not disturb" to fully comprehend just how busy I had made myself and just how it had weighed me down.

I can't really remember the last time I willingly took time off - even for just a weekend. I've certainly planned to take off and have told those around me that I was going to take off, but I haven't really practiced that. It's one of the reasons I feel I had knee surgery back in 2013 (beyond, you know, blowing my knee out completely).

The busyness of the summer was tearing me to pieces. It was wreaking havoc on my family, my marriage. I felt it every Saturday my husband played with the kids while I worked or studies. I felt it every weekday I ignored the kids to study. I felt it when they exclaimed they wanted to go "bye bye" with daddy but not with me because he was always a part of the most fun times.

All of it I did to myself. Some I could more easily step away from. Other aspects were more difficult to untangle myself from. We all make choices, and some of my choices led me to a summer of non-stop studying and paper writing on top of parenting.

I know what's important. At least, I like to think I do. I say all the right things, and I work to be as fully present as I am able. But my heart goes to the grades on my papers for meaning rather than looking at the life I am living and the people (little and big) living out life in front of me.

I had to take a final when we were on vacation this August. I was able to change the date of the final to our first night of vacation rather than the second night of our vacation. But still. As soon as we arrived at a beautiful resort, I rushed into the room and settled into the desk area to complete my final instead of enjoying the beauty and the silence that was time away with just my husband. It was truly the perfect picture of the summer.

Since returning from our trip, I've silenced some of the remaining busyness. I've stopped taking on so many duties at work. I've enjoyed time spent in front of the television. I've made memories with the littles in our home. I've even read a few books.

I've heard Jesus in the silence and the stillness that weaves through my daily life. During the most intense moments of the summer, I struggled to believe in his presence. I thought it was because He had forgotten me, but it was me who had silenced him while focusing on everything else. I made the choice to make time for everything but Him.

Getting out of town allowed me the opportunity to breathe. There was a noticeable change to my person. I rested. My head felt clear for the first time. The strength I depleted during the summer returned. I connected with my husband and held coherent conversations. I even got to meet Jen Hatmaker.

It's been a few weeks since we returned. I've battled the busyness. I've spent hours on the couch. I've continued to connect with Jesus. But my mind is swimming. I'm stuck between purging our house and de-cluttering with this intense desire to take on a million projects - spreading myself entirely too thin.

We're in a stage of a transition. I'm transitioning with school and my practicum. We're transitioning with the littles (always and amen). We're discussing the future and what we think that looks like (simply so Jesus can blow it up and show us just how wrong we were). We're engaging with other families and even more with orphan care. There's so much happening. And while I'm terrified that I'll get swept up in all the transitions and lose sight of the constants, I'm also terrified of remaining still and quiet. Yet I know the stillness and quiet is exactly where I'm meant to press in.

How do you bid farewell to your reaction to life when you have no choice but to just see your commitments through? How do you balance the quiet with the insisting assignments and projects? How do you invest where you are when there's also a future to plan? How do you engage in the life you've been given when the life looks wildly different than anything you dreamed?

If you've got the answers, I'm all ears. Until then, I'm going to try to rest, to plan my time wisely, and to make as many memories as I can..... (and maintain a 4.0 in grad school because I can't quite give that up).

Oh wow. You are busy.

This post originally appeared on Not Quite Qualified on March 9, 2014. Like so much... much is the same and much is different.

I hear those words on a daily basis. It's usually followed by "I don't know how you do it." And I sometimes nod. Other times I want to cry and curl up in a ball and just hide under the covers to watch endless episodes of Parenthood for days on end. Somedays, I feel like I must be doing something right - that the fact that I can juggle so much is a testament to my personality.

We went to church today, and I was able to meet one of my sweet friend's mom's after the service. We talked about our littles and some of the day-to-day struggles, and after I delved a bit into my life, my friend's mom turned to my husband and asked him if he was the Stay-at-Home Dad. It was a sweet question and completely warranted. It's one we've wondered about endlessly, and we've decided for now that attending daycare (and therefore both working full-time) is the absolute best thing for our three littles.

Still, there is no way I would ever be able to begin to live my life were it not for my husband's support. He's given up more days and nights than I could ever express. He's taken all three kids to McDonald's PlayPlace or down the street to the park more times than I could even begin to count to allow me time to read and to study and to pick up the house. He shoulders so much in an effort to provide me a bit of sanity. Because when I'm not around the littles, I'm usually working or studying. It's rare that I get even a minute to myself. Unless of course I'm sick. And then I watched 12 episodes of Parenthood in one day.

It's not to say that we don't share the responsibilities. Because we do. And it's not to say that he doesn't also get time to himself. Because he does. But still, at the end of the day, Justin takes much onto himself and becomes second so that I can pursue social work and my master's degree in social work.

I wouldn't be able to do any of this without him. Not the piles of laundry. Not the endless dishes. Not the toddler themed dinners. Not the nighttime routines (which he did by himself last night so I could study). Not the sick days. Not the doctor's appointments. Not the court dates.

Often I think about giving it all up. About forgetting grad school specifically. And I wonder about the career path I've chosen. There are times I'm sure Justin wishes I would give it all up. But he would never ask me to or demand that I do. Because, somehow and some way, it works. this crazy, hectic, always going life, works.

We do get tired though. There are nights when we can barely crawl into bed. There are mornings when it hurts to wake up and times when we both feel sick from pure exhaustion. And we ask and wonder (sometimes out loud and sometimes silently) if we can truly do this for the rest of our lives.

Usually, when we get to the ends of our ropes, God does something to show us that He's still there. And then He lengthens our ropes - sometimes a lot and sometimes just a little. But always the rope is lengthened.

How thankful am I for that. How grateful am I that in those many, many moments of weakness and guilt and questioning Jesus is there to tap me on the shoulder and whisper (and sometimes yell) in my ear that He's bigger than all of it and that if I would just let go and focus on Him....

I spend most days feeling guilty. I feel like I am constantly taking time away from some aspect of my life. If I work too much, I lose out on time with the littles and my husband. If I hit my snooze button for an hour (or longer), I miss out on time with Jesus. If I eat dinner with my family, I might not answer a call for work. If I go to bed early, I likely will not finish all of the reading I have for grad school. It's a continuous cycle, and I feel lost inside of it - much like socks go missing each time a load of laundry is started. And yet, somehow, it's all alright. Just like it's okay for socks to somewhat mismatch, it's okay for me to go to work with no make-up and to miss picking up the littles from daycare. It's okay because I'm still here - doing the best that I can, just as every other mother and father does.

Jesus has been reminding me that guilt does not come from Him. He's also repeatedly showing me that He has brought me to where I am that and that He placed Justin in my life so that we could walk through this season (and many others) together. Jesus has also been reminding me that I do so much more than I think I do and that I do it for the benefit of my family.

I take care of much of the behind-the-scenes matters. I go to WIC appointments. I schedule doctor appointments. I pick out clothes. I manage to get all three littles to daycare in time for breakfast (most days). I do the laundry (most weeks). I wipe snotty noses. I know the tell-tale signs of littles who are getting sick. I rock the littles when they wake up at night. I answer calls from the daycare and coordinate with Justin on who is picking which sick little up. I dedicate time to my job, to people's lives. I read. I study. I write papers. I edit other's papers. And through it all, I love people.

I love my husband. I love our littles. I love my clients. I love those I work with. I love my friends and my family. I even love the people that often seem and feel unlovable (though I have to constantly go to Jesus for that one). I do a lot. I am busy. But we all are. And Jesus works in us and teaches us through it all.

There's no life that is inherently harder than someone else's or busier than someone else's. At least, that's how I believe. Yes, some schedules require a bit more maneuvering and creativity. Yes, some people fall on harder times while others seem to sail through life. Yes, some people get sick with cancer and those don't. But we are all given the lives we are for a reason. I would struggle to walk in the shoes of a stay-at-home mother of one, and she might stumble in my shoes. And that's a beautiful thing. It's a reminder of who Jesus is that we are not all called to live out lives that directly resemble one another.

The other thing that Jesus has been reminding me of? How beautiful it is to remain silent. How wonderous it is to listen. I'm still working on this one as I have a tendency to talk, talk, talk, but He's showing me that it's good not to respond and that it's okay to simply emphasize. And to remind myself, and anyone who might listen, that Jesus is over it all and that He sees our lives - how different and how similar they are - and knows what each of our specific needs are.

So, yes. I am busy. But so are you. And Jesus? He's the busiest of them all.

Questions and Answers: Foster Care

{This post originally appeared on Not Quite Qualified. Some of the answers are in the process of changing, but I'll get to that at a later date...}

(Picture taken by AWPhotography... If you're in the OKC area, check her out!)

It's funny how, once children enter you life, people feel as though they have the right to know any amount of personal information. I've never been pregnant, but I've watched friends (and clients) cringe when strangers ask to put their hands on pregnant bellies in hopes of feeling a kick or an elbow.

And yet, people don't generally ask someone how quickly it took to become pregnant. There's no question of how the pregnancy was obtained - the old fashioned way, a turkey baster, IVF, etc. Instead, people accept a pregnancy and reconcile it in their minds as being normal.

Justin and I have always talked about adoption. It was a running joke between the two of us that we didn't really want to create a child. We both knew what we had been like as children and teenagers, and while our parents survived those 18 years, we weren't quite sure we would. We've also joked that we weren't quite prepared to have children that looked like us. While everyone goes through an awkward stages, ours had been a bit more than awkward, so we decided to protect any future offspring from immense awkwardness and simply adopt.

Of course, there were a few years when we weren't even sure that we'd ever have kids - even through foster care and adoption. Children are forever. They require an amount of time and energy that we weren't quite sure we were ready to invest.

But then a situation presented itself. We prayed, and we following the calling firmly planted on our hearts and in our laps. There have been many bumps along the way. We've questioned our sanity and our future more times than I count. But even of the absolute worst days, we know we followed the call and do not look back at the past 10 months with any amount of regret.

The questions have stabilized some, but they still come up when we jokingly explain that we went from 0 to 3 kids in one fell swoop.

So what questions do we get? They vary. These are the Top 10 most often asked questions. As well as the responses I want to give and then what I actually day.

1. Why do you foster?

What I Want To Say: Why did you choose to have biological children? Why does it matter? Why don't you foster? What I Actually Say: We feel called to foster care. And to adoption. For me, personally, I feel it is important to care for children who are already born. There are so many children who need a home and need love.

2. Are you all able to have your own children?

What I Want To Say: Does it matter? {Then several expletives.}  What I Actually Say: We don't know, but it doesn't matter to us. We consider them our kids. {And sometimes I might delve into the personal a bit more, but for the most part, this is as far as I go.}

3. Are they all siblings?

What I Want to Say: Does it matter? Why do you even care? Regardless of DNA, they live in the same house, so yes, they are siblings.  What I Actually Say: Yes. We wouldn't have three if they weren't! 

4. Do you have any biological children?

What I Want to Say: Does it matter? Biology does not make one child more "my child."  What I Actually Say: No.  I don't think we'd be able to have three additional kids on top of biological children.

5. Their parents won't get them back, right?

What I Want to Say: We wish they could. In our heart of hearts, we wish all children could be raised by their parents. We would love to be able to form a mentoring relationship and help to reunify a family. Not a day goes by that I don't realize the aching truth that I am raising children who originally knew someone else as mama. Not a day goes by that I don't feel the weight that accompanies the heartbreak children experienced before they came to live with us. They shouldn't have to be in foster care.  What I Actually Say: We don't know. All we are here to do is to stand in the gap and love them for as long as we have them - whether that is for a few days, a few months or forever.

6. I don't think I could give them back. How do you do that?

What I Want to Say: So you'd rather not foster and protect yourself while thousands of children suffer and spend nights at the shelter? I don't think I could do that. And it's not like there is any guarantee that you will have a biological child for 18+ years. Nothing is certain.   What I Actually Say: We take it one day at a time. At the end of the day, it's not our call to make. And really? How do we not?

7. Do they still have visitation with their parents?

What I Want to Say: It's really none of your business. And why does it even matter to you?  What I Actually Say: {It depends on who is asking and if they have a right to the information.}

8. How long have you had them?

What I Want to Say: Does it really matter? Some days it seems like forever and other time it seems like it's only been days. Some days I feel like I can do this for the rest of my life, and some days I feel like time is crawling.  What I Actually Say: Several months. Though it often feels like they've always been there.

9. Are you going to adopt?

What I Want to Say: I really can't think about that right now. If I say yes and then something happens, I'll feel awful. But if I say no, then I don't want you to think I'm a terrible person either. It changes on a daily basis. Sometimes an hourly basis. Though I firmly believe every family who does adopt... They always find the right child or children. Somehow it all works out even if it doesn't make sense.  What I Actually Say: Yes, if that is an option. If not, we will love these kids as though they were ours for as long as we have them.

10. How do you do it (meaning work, school, kids, etc.)?

What I Want to Say: I don't know. Most days, I don't feel like I do anything. Most days, I feel like I let multiple people down all at once. Most days, I feel like it's not okay for me to struggle. I feel like people think I've got it all figured out when they ask that question, and I just don't have anything figured out.  What I Actually Say: I don't do it. I can't do it. Jesus does it. And really, you just adapt to whatever you have in front of you. Starbucks helps too. 

There's a central theme that runs through those questions. At one point, I called it prying. I found it highly frustrating. And while I still sometimes struggle with the questions (and the nerve), I understand that people are, for the most part, simply trying to understand a foreign concept. It's easy to come to terms with two parents parenting their biological children, but it's nearly impossible to understand parents welcoming in children from difficult places with hard behavior.

I choose to believe that people are inherently good, that the questions they ask come from a place of love and of worry. It doesn't mean that the questions don't hurt. Because they do. I've spent countless hours trying to understand why I have to be different. I've spent countless hours feeling as though I am less than other women and other mothers as I do not have a deep seeded desire to birth a baby and care for said baby from infancy onward.

I have learned much about myself since we first began the journey of approval for foster approximately one year ago. I've realized how hurtful some of the words I spoke were. And I've learned to stop comparing myself, my story, and my venue of motherhood to those of other women. We are all different, and those differences include how we choose to start a family or if we choose to start a family.

I think questions are warranted. They are essential to beginning a dialogue about the need for foster parents. But those same needed questions can also hurt. It's up to you and to me to figure out how to engage in the dialogue without making anyone feel as though they are less than someone else.

I am no better than anyone else. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, about me that is amazing. I'm flawed (as you can tell by some of the answer I want to give). I have some pretty terrible parenting moments, and sometimes I have some stellar ones as well. 

I'm Coming Back. Ever so slowly.

I'm coming back to the blog world. Ever so slowly.

Truly, I never really left. I just walked away from this space in the hopes of redefining myself in another space. In other words... I got scared and I ran. Which I'm really quite good at it. Except I have two bum knees and can't run so fast.

After several months, God caught up with me. I rested. And now, all of a sudden, I can't shake this ever present feeling that I need to write. That even though I am busy and filled to the brim and not quite sure what is going on in my own life half of the time.... I need to write.

So here I am.

Except I'm first going to post the heartfelt posts I originally wrote on the blog I ran away to (Not Quite Qualified) and then start with some new musings and writings. GULP. I hope you'll stick around. And I hope my words will no longer stick in my throat, my heart, my stomach, really anywhere but on the pages they are meant to fill - both literally and figuratively.

A lot has changed over the past almost eight months but a lot is also the same.

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I Don't Know How You Do It (originally posted on March 7, 2014) at http://notquitequalified.net

"I don't know how you do it."

Those seven words are often uttered with a mixture of awe, confusion, frustration, and slight judgement. Whether people mean for those words to come out in such a way is an entirely different matter. I can not speak for another person. I can only share how I feel on the receiving end of the words.

I'm no different than anyone else. Truly. I struggle just as much (if not more) than other people. I have my good days, and I have my bad days. There are times when I get everything done, and there are more times when it feels as though every aspect of my life is crashing down. More often than not, it feels as though my body is under water and my head is slipping beneath the waves - my arms and legs too sore and worn out from treading water for so long to be able to hold me up above the surface for even just a second more.

They say that in our weaknesses He (meaning Jesus) is strong. I can't argue against what they say because I know it to be true. But often I can't see his strength as I am too busy holding onto my own.

The thing is that I am good at balancing multiple tasks. I tend to thrive when I'm busy, overwhelmed, under pressure, and all too scattered. During the moments of silence and solitude, I struggle to get anything done. But what I'm finding now is that this thriving is slowly giving way to (what I feel is) failing.

I can't keep my head above water much longer. But I'm not so tired that I'm read to see just how strong Jesus is.

Maybe it's a woman thing. It could be a social worker thing. Or possibly a foster parent thing. Either way, I am all three.

And no, I don't know how I do it. Most days, I don't feel like I do it. And that it could be anything at all. It's parenting, it's responding to any number of crises in a reasonable amount of time, it's being married (because, yeah, I'm a wife too), it's studying or writing a paper (did I mention I'm in grad school?), it's pretending to wash, fold, and put away the neverending amounts of laundry, it's cooking a somewhat healthy dinner.

In my weakness, He is made strong. You would think I'd be about ready to fully realize the truth of that often overused statement. You would also think that my arms would be chiseled to near perfection (my thighs, stomach, and butt too) from all the treading of water. But you'd be wrong there, too.

For whatever reason, I am here in this stage of life. It's a stage of life that makes absolutely no sense. A stage of life that leaves me speechless and overwhelmed on a daily basis. A stage of life that constantly results in me whispering "oh my" and looking around in the hopes of understanding at least some of the craziness that makes up my reality.

The only thing I know is that I have been called. I have been called to the frontlines of the orphan crisis. I have been placed in the positions I hold. Even on my worst days (and those seem to be increasing in number), God has decided that I am one of the ones He has sent. And while it's more than tempting to turn around and run the other way (or to just go to Mexico and peace out with a margarita for forever), I'm staying where God has placed me and praying that He might provide me with clarity and knowledge that supersedes anything I could possibly hope to create.

God does not call the qualified. Instead, He qualifies the called. I am the ever changing proof of the truth in those statements as I am not qualified for any of the roles in my life.

Welcome to the insanity, the craziness, the neverending questions. Welcome to learning that I can't do it. Welcome to my accepting of the call in the hopes of becoming maybe the tiniest qualified.

these are the foster care days...

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Tonight, after all three toddlers were asleep and the husband had tucked himself into bed, I went to Target alone. We needed milk. And bananas. Diapers and Pull-Ups too. And a gingerbread soy latte.

There were a few other things we needed that I likely forgot and a lot of other things we didn’t need that I remembered to throw into the cart.

I pushed the cart out to my car, the wind whipping at my cheeks, and I wanted to cry. I still want to cry an hour after arriving home, putting the groceries away and filling up yet another trash bag of food to be discarded from our refrigerator (evidently our family of five is not a fan of leftovers; sorry, Grandma and Grandpa).

It was 18° when I left Target and a brisk 17° when I arrived home. I wanted to stay outside in the cold all night. There was something about the cold that felt real to me.

This past Saturday marked 100 days of parenting three toddlers. We celebrated with donuts that morning and then a date night that evening. Then a Sunday with me sick and a week beginning with a virus making it’s way through every tiny human.

Those 100 days don’t seem quite real to me, and yet, at the same time, the past 100 days feel the most real days that I can remember.

It’s been hard. Achingly hard. I have felt alone in ways I can’t even explain. And I have felt completely inadequate almost every single day. I have seen the worst sides of myself. But I have also felt more loved in those 100 days. I have seen the best sides of my husband. I have heard baby giggles that tickle my heart. I have wiped away real tears and ignored many, many fake tears. I have wiped runny noses with my sleeve and finally started carrying both tissues and boogie wipes in my car. I have stepped on blocks and alphabet magnets.

I stopped talking to God. I even thought He wasn’t quite real in my life. I have struggled in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be able to quite put into words. And I have felt as though I’ve conquered parenting for at least a minute or so.

I’m still afraid to walk out of the house, and go anywhere but the daycare, with all three toddlers, but I am getting braver. I still don’t know if I’m quite cut out for parenting and I wonder if I am doing more harm than good. But I am trying – every single day I am trying.

We went from zero children to one child and a grandchild this summer then back down to zero children and my heart hurt. Then we went from zero children to three children, and I thought it would be okay – maybe even slightly easy (why – I have no clue). And my heart hurt.

I don’t know anything about plain parenting. I have no idea what it is to plan for nine months (sometimes longer) and wait for a baby. I don’t know what it is to have a bond to a newborn baby still covered in goo in your arms. I don’t know the endless sleepless nights or the fear of breaking a baby that weighs less than my Ugg boots.

I only know foster parenting. I only know the parenting that occurs on a day-to-day basis with questions in your head about how long you will have the children and if anything you do really works. I only know scrambling – buying three of everything all at once and catapulting yourself into a world of fevers, potty training, hiding vegetables in food, shuffling the work day around, monthly visits with OKDHS workers, and the ever present question of “are you going to adopt?”.

I don’t know if I could do any other kind of parenting. But I’m trying to learn.

I explain our situation to people. And they tell me how amazing I am, how impressed they are with everything I juggle. I appreciate those words of affirmation, I need them somedays, but I always joke and say I’m just dumb or crazy or a synonym of those words. Because what sane 28-year-old couple opens up their home and hearts to three children all at the same time?

What I’ve found, though, is that I look at our three (or at least I used to) as foster children, I saw them as temporary. And maybe they are. But I can’t see them as that. Instead, I need to (and want to) see them as mine – for however long they are here. Because they deserve to know they are home, they deserve whatever stability I can provide for however long I can provide it.

Tonight, before my husband tucked himself into bed and I went to Target in the blissful cold, he said, for what was likely the zillionth time in these 103 days, how hard it is to have three children. And I agreed. It is hard.

But oh is it love. A kind of love that I fought so hard because I simply wasn’t cut out to be a mother. The kind of love that I never really understood until all of a sudden it was just there. The kind of love that never quite goes away (not for any of the children we’ve ever cared for).

I don’t know how we are doing this. I don’t. I couldn’t tell you. And I couldn’t really tell you what we need right now because it changes daily and sometimes hourly. I couldn’t even tell you what I need right now because I simply do not know anymore.

What I can tell you is that it’s worth it. I can tell you that God has worked on me even during the times when I refused to talk to Him. I can tell you that I have been reminded of how loved these children are, and I can tell you that I will never, ever regret fostering – not these three and not the two we had before.

I can tell you that it’s a calling. And even when it’s a calling, there are days when it doesn’t quite feel like a calling. There are days when both Justin and I wonder if we can even do this for one second more – days when we lock ourselves in our bedroom and allow ourselves to ignore the sounds of a 4-year-old who refuses to sleep or even just simply stay upstairs in her bedroom.

There are days when the guilt outweighs the love. Days when I feel like I need to explain to every single person that I am a working parent – that we both work full-time jobs – and that I just need someone to tell me that it’s okay. Days when I feel like I am less than. Days when I feel like I just can’t give any more and wonder if I should even give anything.

But then there are days like today. Days when the almost two-year-old is sick and simply wants to be held. Days when I hold him for hours, his arm tucked under my shirt and kiss his forehead numerous times just to see if he has a fever and just to remind him that he is safe. Days when I’m glad to be at home for the time he needs me for. Days that I know I’m doing the best I can and really that’s what matters.

This is life. And it’s messy. Foster care makes it’s a bit messier. And it makes my house a lot messier. But it’s worth all the mess (especially since I plan on paying someone to help me pick it up).