Someone Saved my Life Tonight...

With all due respect to Sir Elton John, this song has been playing in my mind since this idea took root in my head... hence the title of this post.

When people learn about the boys' adoption stories, I'm often told, "You saved their lives." People mean well, and I realize the statement seems true...but do they really understand it when I say, "No, these children saved mine?"
~~~
Growing up, I dreamed of being a Mom. Not a lawyer, or doctor, or fireman. I wanted to be a Mom! As strong as that desire was, I also had a stirring in my spirit as I got older. I felt this overwhelming conviction I would never get pregnant, that my journey to Motherhood would not be easy.

The years rolled by ... high school, work, college classes, eventually marriage. A very painful period of my life began. It was a decade of infertility. A decade of feeling unworthy, of confusion, of bitterness, of pain. A decade of hating my body, and it's apparent betrayal. A decade of avoidance - of the problems in my marriage, and in my body. A decade of inadequacy, angst, and pleas to God. But through it all, my heart's desire did not change or waiver. I still longed to be a Mom.

Twice during those years, once in Boston, once in Northern California, I contacted social services  and inquired about adoption. Both times, I was greeted warmly until they learned I was married to a man in the military. The answer was the same: "We're sorry, but military families are never in one place long enough to complete the foster adopt process." Slam, another door shut in my face. Another hurt. Another rejection.

Looking back, I can see God's plan and purpose. But during that dark time, loss and despair were all I saw, all I felt. I grieved. I built walls. I tried to hide it, but the dark cloud in my spirit grew stronger. I was trapped, in several ways. The call to motherhood was stronger than ever, yet the way was unclear.

The year was 1998. I opened the newspaper and saw an ad for a class entitled, "How to Adopt." It had to be the Spirit which made me want to go to the class and try again. I'll never know what made my ex-husband agree to attend the class, but he went also. At the class I learned about hundreds of thousands of children living in orphanages in Russia, Romania, and the eastern bloc countries who were in need of homes.

And all of the sudden... Doors opened! Suddenly, there was possibility, encouragement, and support. Papers were signed, home inspections completed, applications submitted, all with hope in my heart. I was going to be a Mom!

All the while, events were unfolding on the other side of the globe. A teen mom, with no source of support and an ill child, made what must have been a very difficult decision. Records show she visited her son 3 times (after he spent a year in the maternity hospital) before signing papers that would allow him to be adopted. She signed those papers in September of 1999, and in October of that same year, I held a picture of the child that would become my oldest son. The caseworker asked me, "Do you want to adopt him? Do you realize how sick he's been?" Without hesitation, my answer was "Yes!" I held him for the first time in May 2000. A decade of infertility. 14 months of an intense adoption process. I was a Mom! Thank you, God!

Our adoption visa was set to expire ... and I had always hoped to mother more than one child. So we moved forward quickly with a second adoption and August of 2000 found me holding another child's picture in my hands. A child who'd been removed from a reportedly unfit home. My only answer was, "Yes! Yes, I want to be his Mom!" I held him for the first time in December of that year.

Several salvation stories started blending together. My sons gave me focus, helped me develop a back-bone, and helped my dream become reality. Both boys were developmentally delayed, but as therapy, love, and prayer surrounded them, their lives became stories of restoration. While I centered my efforts on them, I saw our home life more clearly, and when my oldest was in danger, God orchestrated events (some rather painful) that eventually led to stepping away from the marriage, despite every instinct that said stay and cower. Over time, God used the trials and despair of single motherhood to strengthen my faith and bring me to His gift of salvation.

So let's look at the statement again: "You saved their lives." I'm sure several people have seen me hesitate, then respond, "No, they saved mine." Ultimately, God used each of the three of us, to save each other. My hope is that our story of rescue, redemption, and restoration will be an encouragement to you. Whatever you're going through, keep the faith, have hope. And however you build your family, I pray your story is one of salvation and deliverance, for all involved.

Seeing Past the Tears

Twice in the last month, I've found myself crying - actually crying - in public.

I didn't hide my tears, either. That's something a bit new for me. I've always been taught to be strong. Hide the emotion. Hide the bad. Carry forward. Failure is not an option.

Besides, I didn't have time to address my feelings. I had children to house and feed. I had bills to pay and had two children on the Autism spectrum who needed every bit of parenting energy I could give them. So I stuffed those emotions down deep. And I moved forward.

So what brought it on these recent bouts of tears?
Was it the follow-up report from the doctors after my youngest's emergency surgery in December?
Was it my oldest's beautifully insane prom experience?
Was it the excellent IEP meeting last week?
Was it healing, as I reduce some of the toxic demands on my life, and focus on my health and my children?

I think it was all of the above -- and then some.

Am I ready to be hauled away to an asylum? Is it time for the pretty white jacket that reaches around back?

I suppose those answers are debatable. But more likely it's my response to the trauma of years as a special needs parent.

What? That sounds negative? Dramatic?

According to Dr. Astrid Herard, a pediatric psychiatrist at the University of Chicago, "it's not just single traumatic events that can trigger post-traumatic stress disorder. For parents of children with chronic diseases, the years ... can take a collective toll and produce similar symptoms."

Friends, parenting special needs children IS traumatic. The diagnoses may vary, but the reality remains.

A diagnosis is given. Behaviors are documented. Physical limitations are noted. Therapies are started. Prayers are said. Your world tilts. And...

Every time someone stares at your child in pity, or judgement,
Every time a stranger offers unsolicited parenting advice,
Every time a teacher questions your parenting ability,
Every time someone else's child does the age-appropriate thing,

Every time you look at the pile of hospital bills,
Every time you have to leave the playground early,
Every time you have to pack a bag (or wheelchair or stroller) of adaptive equipment,
Every time you have to refuse an invitation because your child won't be able to adapt to new surroundings,
Every time your child isn't invited,
Every time you hold them back for their safety,
Every time you have to explain a chew toy, or a weighted vest, or start buying refrigerator tubing in bulk at the hardware store,
Every time you celebrate a success at Therapy,
Every time someone says "Well he's so smart" or "He looks normal,"
Every time you sit down and prepare to negotiate through an IEP meeting,
Every time you look at the Bible open on your table,
Every time the babysitter quits,
Every time you write a letter of appeal for insurance benefits,
Every time someone says "I know how you feel" when they haven't got a clue,
Every time you see "The Art of War" beside your editions of Special Ed Law on the bookcase...
.... You're tucking away hurt and trauma.
 
And eventually, those pent-up feelings have to be released. A few triumphs in the face of long struggle can cause everything that's stuffed down deep to rise to the surface. Once the tears start falling, sometimes it's hard to stop them... even harder to sort through the emotions that accompany the tears. But it can be done. With honesty, rest, reflection, and prayer the old hurts and worries can finally be processed. And healing begins.

Does this mean the traumas go away? Unfortunately, no.

My tears are signaling a surge of hope, as I see milestones crossed, triumphs made, and goals expanded. My tears are also in thanksgiving, for a community that has rallied around my sons in a way that humbles and down-right amazes me. God has been so good to send us here.

But this is not the case for all special needs parents. Some children will always be in a wheelchair. Some will depart this earth much sooner than expected. Some will never utter a word, hear a sound, or take a step. Some parents will never have a community rally around them.

Raising children isn't easy, and all good parents work hard within their families. But, parents of special needs children have greater demands in their daily existence. It's that simple.
 
I beg of you, if you know a family with a special needs child, please pray for them. If you feel led: cook dinner for them,  mow their lawn. Give them a couple hours out of the house. Send them a card. Be gentle. Encourage them in good health. Listen, but do not preach. Theirs is an exhausting path to walk.

And should you be there when they cry, simply hand them a tissue, give them a hug. You don't have to say much. Your acceptance and love will help them heal.

Reference: http://www.chicagoparent.com/magazines/web-only/2010-january/parents-and-post-traumatic-stress-disorder

Influences

When my sons and I are out in public and someone asks, "Are they twins?" We usually glance at each other, smile slightly, and I'll answer, "No." Sometimes, the person proceeds to say, "They sure do look alike." Another glance at each other, and depending on our collective mood, I may say, "Actually, they aren't my biological sons, nor are they biological brothers, but they are my sons, and they are brothers." This usually causes the person to pause and look carefully at me, then at my sons. Generally, the next comment is a thoughtful, "They sure do look like you." This causes smiles all around and the short conversation that follows is often my way to promote adoption awareness.

Certainly, at a quick glance, we seem to be a fairly matched set, yet my sons' DNA is from their birth parents, not me. But make no mistake, they are my sons... Robert has a vocabulary years beyond his age, and Ryann seeks justice with a servant's heart. Robert has a northern accent from our time in New Hampshire, Ryann has a southern accent honed in Virginia and Mississippi, yet both have mid-Atlantic inflections much like mine. They are both inquisitive, like a good story, and enjoy history, hockey, and music... just like their Mom.

Like most parents, I've taught them right from wrong, how to tie their shoes, and to turn off the lights when leaving a room... but what other things have I imprinted on their consciousness?

Listening to Ryann read his book about the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, I realized I've given my boys a love of the ocean. Because of my gravitation to the sea, we read books about historic storms, shipwrecks, and floods. They know the impact of the Hurricane of 1938, the adventures of Misty of Chincoteague, and know there are treasures and stories off the shores of the Graveyard of the Atlantic (the Outer Banks) and the Pacific Graveyard (Cape Disappointment, Washington). 

A few years ago, they were playing football in the backyard when I heard Robert say to Ryann, "You be the Pittsburgh Steelers, I'll be Virginia Tech." They were little, and didn't understand the difference between pro and college ball. The memory still makes me smile, but it illustrates again how our interests influence our children.

Growing up in what-was-then rural, eastern Virginia, I knew a world of farmland, marshes, and the sea. But through stories, my own father imparted a love for the mountains of his beloved Montana. He would tell stories of growing up in Big Sky country, bringing the mountains to life in my imagination. He shared his love of horses, the outdoors, and gardening. 

When people come to visit, I'm not content until I fix them some coffee, some cookies, or a meal... This is because my Mom, and her Mom, did the same thing. They always opened their humble homes to friends... and made them feel welcome. My Mom would not let anyone leave without feeding their bodies, and dare I say, their spirit. My mom made sure I knew the joy of a good book, the great music of the 1950's, and she taught me manners and etiquette.

Who I am today is a result of God's unconditional love and my family's influence. I think it is that way for all people, whether the family influence is good or bad.

I'm a single parent. There is only one of me. I can only do so much. I'm getting older. Sometimes I get tired, and I lose patience, and I feel disheartened. I pray my sons do not take these negatives to heart. 
 
Sometimes the thoughts overwhelm me:
Am I doing enough? 
Is my influence a good one? 
What am I teaching them? 
Are they ready for this world?
Am I planting strong family roots?
Do they know I love them?


I pray my sons see the positives, feel the positives, know the positives. I am not ashamed to let them see me on my knees in prayer. I admit my mistakes as I realize them. I challenge them to search for justice, encourage them to be positive, advise them to turn to God in all things, and I always tell them to Give Thanks. 


I humbly whisper to the Heavens, "Help me be a good mom. Let them come to know You deeply. Let them be safe and know they are loved. Thank you for letting me be their mother. Let my influence be a good one."

Cape Henry (Virginia Beach), Virginia. 2006

A Picture of Us

Ignored. Taken for granted. Unappreciated.... 
Sounds the way most of us feel. But I'm talking about my refrigerator.
During this month where it's fashionable to give thanks each day for our blessings, I want to go beyond family, friends... look for the unexpected and overlooked. (Something I should do everyday, not just during a month of Thanksgiving). 
Like the black appliance taking up wall space in my kitchen. Day in and day out, we take it for granted. It keeps our milk cool and eggs fresh, it's freezer stores our dinners. But in reality, it's truly a centerpiece in our lives' existence.
It's a photo album and family chronology; 
It's memories and mementos of places traveled and family outings; 
It's a reason to practice music "See that pile of bills from the music store? You better practice!"; It's a homework reminder with science project rules, music scores to review, and a reading log to sign; 
It's a message center with hand-written notes left for each other - sometimes practical, sometimes hilarious, sometimes both;
It's an art gallery of my youngest's creative talents and a repository of my oldest's needs: his creed and his social skills reminders;
It's a printed prayer card and snippets of favorite devotionals;
It is our social life: band calendar, work calendar, reminders. 
It's a statement of human kindness, and God's provision, as a friend gave us this beautiful appliance to use.  
It is a collage of Family. And it is a picture of... Love

Reflections on a Band Parent's Rookie Year

The only mementos of my high school band years are an old letterman's jacket, a baton, and some yearbook pictures. Somewhere along the way, I got rid of my rifles and flag pole, but the memories -- they remain. I loved it all: the sweat, the tears, the losses, and the triumphs. But time marches on, and in this chapter of my life, I'm a high school band Parent. If life unfolds as expected, I'll be one for four more years.

I really thought I had a good handle on things, certainly knew why I wanted my sons to be in marching band, but I didn't realize how much I would learn in my Rookie Year as a band parent.

* I can never say "Thank You" enough to my own parents. They were there to drop me off and pick me up, at all hours. They encouraged me, they sent in money they didn't have, let me go to band camps to refine my skills, made me practice for hours, sat in cold bleachers and under a hot sun... simply and profoundly, just because they loved me. I took this for granted as a child, now it humbles me.

* This isn't your Mama's band. Gone are the days when students packed a sack lunch, loaded equipment on school buses and went off to competitions. Bands roll with 18-wheelers hauling equipment, and parents hauling trailers. Shows are now full-fledged productions with giant backdrops and assorted props. Parents are setting up tents, generators, and grills at competitions to feed children. They haul countless coolers of bottled water and gatorade. They set up satellite tv so the band dads (eh, everyone watches) can watch football scores between performances. We're a mini hard-ware store: hammers and wrenches, duct tape, bungee cords, and velcro. "Do we have more zip ties?" 

* Don't be afraid of the rookie mistake. Understand it, embrace it -- You're a rookie and there's a lot to learn. When you have to work the concession stand the first time, volunteer to be a runner, don't go straight to grilling. Ladies, forget fashion, dress comfortable at the competitions. Pack an extra jacket. If you're wondering "How can I help?"  don't be shy. Pitch in, and keep pitching in. Pick up trash, run errands, and learn. Let the other parents know you care and are going to be around a while... they will really appreciate your help because we need more parents involved. Bands can not function without a good band boosters program! This year - rookie, next year - grilling.

* I never realized how much my band director did for me. I didn't realize it when I was in school, but band directors are truly a very special breed of teacher. Who among us but the most devoted would take a couple hundred teenagers and teach them how to achieve a goal greater than themselves? Who would give up their weekends, summer evenings, and family time so they can teach our children how to bring out their best efforts? Who does not give up, even when students want to give up on themselves? Who helps us teach responsibility and hard work ethic to our children? Who is self-less enough to put up with the assorted concerns of the parents of a couple hundred teenagers? Go tell your band director "thank you"... then do it again.

* You're not the only one. You're not the only strict parent. You're not the only parent who still teaches values and morals. You're not the only parent who cares about your children. You're not the only parent who worries about their children. You're not the only parent who is proud of your child. You're not the only parent who wonders how they're going to pay for things. You're not the only one worried about sending them far away for camp. You're not the only parent who wants something better for their child. And for some of us: You're not the only single parent... It takes a little time, but as you meet other band parents, you find out: You're not the only one, and you're not alone.

* God is alive and at work in all of our children. They might not even realize it, but every day our children demonstrate His love in their actions. They demonstrate His love when they help a younger band student learn how to fold their jacket, when they give pep-talks and encouragement. His grace is apparent when they defend one another, speaking up for those who can not speak up for themselves. They demonstrate His care when they give of themselves. When their band-mate is thirsty, they give them drink. ("Did you get some water?") When they're hungry, they make sure they eat. ("My mom sent pop-tarts, who wants some?") God's unity is alive when students gather to pray before performance, and when they give thanks afterwards. 

In these band students, and their families, I see displays of God's love everyday. Unexpectedly, but powerfully, my rookie year has been a lesson in hope!

This Side of Heaven

Growing up in her Pittsburgh neighborhood, she attended Catholic grade school and enjoyed the love of a large family. She married later in life and moved with her new husband to Florida, so very far away from everything she held dear. She and her husband owned a small grocery and in a few short years, she had a daughter... the apple of her eye.

In time, she grew weary of her husband's drinking, of his womanizing, and ultimately of his physical expressions of anger. She knew she had to get away and build a new life for her daughter and herself.

She was ashamed to tell her family of the true circumstances regarding her marriage. They'd warned her he drank too much, but she had been stubborn and in love. And she certainly didn't want to tell her Catholic family that she needed a divorce. It was 1950, and women just didn't leave their husbands and strike out on their own.

But she was going to ... so she secretly saved up money, then packed up clothes for herself and her daughter into two suitcases. She boarded a train in Florida and traveled to Norfolk, VA. Besides the clothes on their back and in their suitcases, they had no other belongings. She knew no one in Norfolk. But she was determined to make a life for her daughter that was safer and peaceful.

She took a civil service job at the Navy Base and eventually bought a little house in a peaceful neighborhood. She watched her daughter grow, finish school, get married, and start her own family nearby.

She was an incredible woman who smoked more cigarettes that some would think humanly possible. She always had a cup of tea steaming on the table. When family would travel in from Pittsburgh there would be big dinners and a house full of laughter. She grew pretty flowers in her back yard and spoiled her grandchildren. She was independent and smart and never slowed down till a stroke took her from this earth, on October 4, 1984 just 2 days before her birthday... our birthday.

I always loved the idea of having the same birthday as my Grandmother. We would have two cakes, and she always had so many more candles on her cake than I did! It was just one of the many things that bonded the two of us together.

It's been 28 years since she left this Earth, but her spirit lives on! Whenever I begin to question how I will manage this raising of two children, so far from my family (but where I was led), I think of her. I know if she can do it, so can I, in God's grace. I can't wait to sit down and have a cup of tea with her when I get to the other side. 




(I originally wrote this in 2008, and it's been languishing in an archive of notes... today seemed a good day to pull it out again). 

How Do I Look?

When you hear the word "Single Mom" what image comes to mind? C'mon, confess: an image came to mind.Was the woman young or old? White, black, hispanic? Was she dressed conservatively or immodest? Did you picture a hoard of children or perhaps just one or two?

How about we change the negative stereotyping of Single Moms? Many of us work, more than one job, to provide for our children. We pray, we tithe, we volunteer in our community. We are the sole decision makers for our family and often the sole financial resource for our families. We are law-abiding persons striving to raise beautiful children.

Yet, we endure condescending comments like "I know what you go through, my husband travels a lot." Really? That makes you understand the demands of a single parent? Boy, you're not seeing the real picture!

Single Moms are patronized and demeaned. We lay awake worrying about paying for doctor's visits, band fees, babysitters. We are tired. We wait on an antiquated child support enforcement system to help us meet our children's needs. We put our social lives on hold, and we lift up our children! We are seen as weak, undeducated, and somehow "less" because circumstances have led us to this place in life. The sermons we hear in church are often (wonderful yet) geared to the two-parent family. We feel embarrassed about our divorce or our choices in life so we feel as if we are less. We don't need you to help us feel any less or to see us as any less.

We are tired. We are working hard and doing the best we can. We put ourselves last. We are broken. But we are striving and we seek peace!

Instead of pitying us, instead of saying "Glad it's not me" ... How about stepping up and pitching in. Offer a night of babysitting for free, fix a meal, mow the lawn. Put your faith into action!

And instead of patronizing us, put us on your prayer list. Make us your daily prayer... so that we may fully come to find peace in God, that we come to understand we are never alone, that we feel rejuvenated in spirit and strong enough to fight off the world's negative messages. Prayer changes, Prayer empowers, Prayer helps. (Thank God, it has changed me!) ... And prayer will also help you see us as we truly are.