God-sized Dreams: On Letting Go of My Timing

I would do it all over again.

If it meant we would be where we are now, sitting in the glow of the miracles of the past week, I wouldn't want it any other way.

The stressful and strained parts of hosting our first host daughter.

The heartbreak of losing our first host daughter I in a "failed" adoption.

The overwhelming feeling of choosing to adopt two girls from another country so shortly after our "failed" adoption.

The constant challenge of growth and dealing with our own past hurts and hang-ups as we have step-by-step walked this journey.

The waiting, the tears, the 16 weeks of wondering and waiting if a referral for our girls adoption would come, the mornings it was hard to even get out of bed, the nights I spent more time praying than sleeping.

I would do it all over again to be standing where we are now.

This morning, we received word that the ministry of the welfare would have the information for our adoption for us soon.

We received it just in time to make the decision not host again this summer.

In perfect fashion, though, too, we received this information, an answer to our long-standing prayers, as a pre-curser to other joyful news.

I have sobbed happy, thankful tears three separate times during the past eight hours.

As I've processed through everything, I've realized that if we wouldn't have waited this long that I wouldn't have had a breakthrough, beautiful conversation with our soon-to-be daughter this morning.

And we wouldn't have had that conversation were it not for her attending a camp this past weekend where God really spoke to her heart.

I realized this morning, too, that if this timing hadn't played out exactly I wouldn't have had the chance to spend time writing some advocacy blog posts for New Horizons for Children's Orphan Hosting Program ...

and that two families shared with me, one just this morning, that they decided to host because God used those words to speak to their hearts ...

and that one of those families, our neighbors and friends, is hosting our soon-to-be-daughter's friend this summer ... just down the street from our home.

I am awed and overwhelmed and GRATEFUL to have even played a small role in this, and I am overwhelmed with the beauty, the wonder and the fruit that has been born of the struggle, that has been born of the waiting.

And you, my friends. I am overwhelmed by God's goodness in bringing you alongside of us.

You have been part of this story.

You have encouraged us when I thought I couldn't do this one more day.

You have supported us when what stood before us to do alone would have been nearly impossible.

You have prayed for us when it was hard to pray ourselves.

You have lavished love on us when it was difficult for us to feel anything at all.

You have been part of more stories than just the one I have the honor of sharing.

I cannot thank you enough for being part of this story God is writing in our family and in the lives of others.

What a story that is unfolding, and how this unfolding in this way and time and space is teaching me that God's plans are so much more vast and unimaginable and better than my own!

There is, indeed, deep purpose in the pain and deep purpose in the wait, and beauty really can and really is often born from the broken.

All in His time.

Why does hosting make a different? Former host children share their stories. 
The Joy of Uncomfortable Love

If you'd like to continue to be a part of these stories, please pray for our family as we await our referral and travel dates. If you would like to support families in the midst of orphan care financially, you can do so at our site A Just Love or the Crothers' family's site Piecing Together Our Hosting Journey. 

On Building Boats and Going Great Places (and why our boats often never set sail)

"If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery 

I'm guilty of it.

In my mothering, in my teaching, in my writing, in my work, even in my marriage, I'm constantly trying to drum up other people to come together, collect wood all while handing out instructions on how to build whatever boat I'm trying to set sail.

Some days the only boat I'm trying to set sail is the one that leaves on time with book bags, tea and laptops in hand ready to weather the rough waters of traffic so we arrive promptly at school/co-op/work meetings

and other days the boat I'm try to build and launch looks more like the one where my husband and I are simply on the same deck sailing into the endless waters of molding our hooligan boys into loving, strong and passionate men

and other days I'm trying to construct a crew big enough to build a ship of some sorts that can charter the mysterious and beautiful and hard waters of orphan care.

Whatever it is, you know, daily we're all building boats that we intend to get us somewhere.

In each of our respective boat buildings, one thing is certain: none of us can do it alone, and we find we really need others to get on board, throw in their hammers, build steadily and then jump onto the boat and set sail.

Here's what I have realized about building ships, though: if you pay or reward someone enough, they'll do the hard work of building the ship. They'll put in the sweat, tears and long hours of laboring over its detailed construction.

But oftentimes, when it comes to building these boats to really big, really wonderful, really vast and unknown places, I've found I can't offer enough of a reason to start building because I cannot explain the reward adequately enough to get the crew started or keep the workers motivated.

So the problem of building a boat really isn't about the actual building of the boat; the problem with building a boat to somewhere great and unknown is a problem of adequately building a vision of where we're going so that anyone wants to invest time and effort into the boat building.

I run into this while trying to construct all of these various boats I'm building.

Have you ever tried to explain the beauty of the ocean to someone who's never experienced it with his or her own eyes?

It's really hard.

Photo by Hyacynth Worth. All rights reserved.

We try our best to explain the way sand softly gives beneath the weight of toes, the lulling sound of ocean waves careening into the beach, the clean scent of soft ocean breezes, the brilliant blue hues of of water sparkling beneath sun.

When all is said, when all has been explained as best as humanly possible, there's just no way to help someone understand the vastness of the sea. The only way to teach someone to long for the sea is to cast a vision of its vastness, it's beauty, its greatness or, if you possibly can, show them the sea.

It's then, and only then, that we can start giving building instructions and impressing upon our builders' hearts and minds the need for following the rules of construction. The passion, the desire, the vision almost always proceeds the building.

I'm learning to apply this in all of my various boat-building efforts.

I'm learning to cast a vision of what could be in store for my children in their futures should they walk with the Lord, trusting Him and committing their ways to Him.

I'm learning to help my children dream of the beauty of marriages founded on love, respect, trust and compassion.

I'm learning to share the dreams and visions in my heart with my husband for how our lives could look in 15 years in we follow steadily the passions God's laid on our hearts.

And I'm learning to share as authentically as I can what happens in the aftermath of taking leaps of faith in the direction God is moving us.

While building the boat is entirely important and carefully constructing it is paramount to success, we never even get off the shore if we don't first cast the vision.

We never even have a chance of setting sail, if first, we don't show them the beauty and vastness of the sea and teach the ones we love to long for it.

On Getting Comfortable With Being Uncomfortable

If I'm being completely honest, I wasn't completely comfortable with the thought of hosting an orphan in our home for a month.

And if I'm continuing in honesty, I'm still not completely comfortable.

 Hosting asks a lot of us. It asks us to trust in God's tug on our hearts and in his leading. It asks us to set aside our fears. It asks us to rely heavily on God for all kinds of provision -- financial, emotional, spiritual and physical.

 Essentially hosting asks us to love someone else, someone we don't know and who might not be able to love us in return in the way we desire, more than we love ourselves. And all of that? Well, all of that's uncomfortable.

 Hosting aside for a moment, let's get comfortable with the idea that the deep kind of love Jesus lavishes and asks us to lavish on others rarely makes us comfortable.

"You love as well as you are willing to be inconvenienced." Ann Voskamp 

Think about it. Jesus' love for us, the kind of love that went to death and back, the kind of healing and sustaining and life-giving love he offers, was not easy coming for him. It required great inconvenience, great humility and great discomfort. BUT ... Finish reading ...

Hosting: It Never Gets Easier

It never gets easier. 

Even after three times, the weight of putting a child you love, a child who will return to her home country, on an airplane at the end of a hosting period is so heavy on my heart that it feels like that very heart might fall clear out of my chest. 

I spent the morning tending to our second host daughter's heart after spending a month coming to know and love her, all while knowing that I would need God to tend to mine after her plane departed. I spent the morning softly stroking her hair as she leaned against during the car ride to the airport. I spent it silently praying to be reunited ... someday. Sooner? Later? Never? It's not in my hands. Governments and courts and also she will make decisions now for the rest of her life, and I quietly entrusted this child, this daughter of my heart but not my womb, to the only Father who will never let her go. 

It's not easy, this whole hosting thing. 

But I love her. 

She stops before she boards the plane and turns to look at us again. I can't not go to her; tears in my eyes, I hug her again before she disappears from my sight. 

She boards, and my heart breaks under the heavy. 

I cry long and hard into my scarf, shoulder shaking just a few feet away from the boarding walk.

Still, even amidst the heartache, I wouldn't change anything. 

I would do it all again, time after time after time. I would cry all of the tears, feel the heavy ache of departure time and again because I know one thing is true: we never lose deposits of love. 

No matter how hard the separation, the trials, the pain of goodbye, the hardship of living with distance in between, the love remains. 

It remains when it isn't readily accepted.

It remains when arms cannot hold. 

It remains when hearts hurt 

and when hearts turn away

and when miles spread out thick in between.

Before I held our girls in our arms, they were only those whom I'd read about in articles regarding the orphan crisis. Before I held our girls in our arms, I was certain that I could never host a child or foster a child because how would I ever go on after these children left my home? 

I now wonder at how much richer my life is, how much deeper our family runs for having known and having loved these girls. I now wonder at how much bigger God is and how terribly small my own little understanding of what loving the least of these actually meant ... and there's nothing easy about it. 

There's nothing easy about entering into the distress of the fatherless and coming alongside people who have suffered great brokenness. To be clear, many of the kids are so lovable, our girls both have are so lovable, but their stories are heartbreaking. And there's nothing easy about being even a small part of binding up bits of brokenness ... but love prevails. 

Love, the hard, messy, kind of I-choose-to-love-you love, remains. 

It stands strong in all of the pain, and each deposit made in love is secure. 

So, no ... this never gets easier.

But I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that I don't want to live an easy life; I want to live a rich one, deposits of love securely made and stored safely in our hearts. 

Bigger Picture Moments: On Your Birthday, A Gift

Dear Selah,

This morning when the wise woman talked about finding each moment of grace, each moment of gift through the easy moments and even the hard, I thought of you.

I thought of how your short life here on Earth, buried in my ever-expanding womb, was marked with moments of grace and blessing.

And how even your soul passing from body to body anew into the glory of forever, still while inside my very own, was surrounded by very good gifts, from a very good God.

I think of you today because this day, last year, was the first and last time I ever held your small body, all 10 perfect fingers and toes, in my shaking hands.

And I wept over you, a miracle, and gave thanks, my hands cradling you with palms stretched up toward the giver of good gifts, giving you back to Him.

You helped me understand how it is possible to both hold and give, to both receive and let go. You were my pregnant pause, Selah, and your life continues to give me just that. Your life was a series of moments of grace and your death, even, was a gift of pause to understand what it really means to live.

God works all things together for the good of those who are called according to His purposes, and I have heard Him call my heart, inviting me out into deeper waters still.

After you went soul from body to body renewed, I prayed a desperate prayer for God to make clear what He wanted for our family, and I really just wanted you to come back. In the midst of being heartbroken at losing you soon fast and quickly, God answered my plea in a way I didn't understand when He began to break my heart for the children who don't have parents.

I thought of the heartache of losing you, entrenched in my mother's heart, and I fell face first into grieving the reverse loss, a baby losing her mother and father.

We prayed hard, and when your due date rolled around, we knew God was inviting us to host a girl who found herself in those shoes of loss reversed. And she came, and we learned, and we loved, and we cried together because when you know loss as deep as what she knows and what my mother's heart knows, you know what empty looks like.

But I'm not empty any more. I miss you, yes, and I long for you, yes, but another mercy moment, another gift of grace from your life and from your death was understanding that empty is a space that is yet to be filled only by Fullness Himself.

It's a gift you gave me to know that, and one that I'd like to whisper to other hearts that are empty and aching with voids they just can't seem to fill.

And the girl we hosted because our hearts were broken for the children without parents after we knew the broken of being parents without the child we loved, she'll come, God willing, into the fullness of a family that was born of empty and the fullness of a Family that was born of broken. And she'll have the parents, the brothers that were first yours, but that you all now share, and I pray that she'll have the Father we all share.

We know, because of your life, that one child never replaces another, and so we also know that one mother and father never replace another mother and father that were before. She'll know your name, and we'll know the names of the ones who came before us.

So this morning.

When the wise woman spoke about recognizing moments of grace and moments of gift through the good times and the hard times

and when she told us to make dots to mark those sightings and then string them together

and when she asked what I saw in the stringing together of those moments from this past year, I breathed in awe and exhaled reverence at what was before me.

I saw the Giver of Good giving me more gifts to unfold and savor, abundant gifts gleaned from your life.

A most perfect birthday present to celebrate your life, my beautiful baby girl, on the day you were born.

My love and my heart,
Mommy

God-Sized Dream: What They Don't Tell You About Hosting

They told us this would be exhausting.

They said that blending a family with a child from half a world away who doesn't speak the same language and doesn't have a family to call keeps forever would be challenging and rewarding

and that our hearts would be full.

They cautioned us to set boundaries, guidelines and stick to the many, many rules put in place to protect the children and the families.

The shared statistics, helped us understand what happens to these children, many of whom have found themselves in situations that bad dreams are made of and helped us see what the love of a family does to turn around a life -- what being chosen and Chosen does for a hurting heart.

They said to keep it simple, show love and limit sweets.

They promised our sentences would become broken fragments of two different languages and that laughter would become our universal language.

They warned time would swoosh by too fast, that our hearts would be forever changed, that we'd suffer the kind of whiplash that only occurs when you've been swept off your feet by God's amazing goodness on display.

And all of that has been true.

They even told us we couldn't possibly fit everything we wanted to send back with her into a suitcase and adhere to the 50-pound weight limit … and they were right about that, too; there was no way our family would fit in it even if we tried.

I helped her pack yesterday, the afternoon before she was set to return home to Eastern Europe. I've never wanted to crawl inside a suitcase the way I did then, 50-pound weight limit be darned.

As she placed item after item into her suitcase, I thought about how much stuff accumulates in one month … and I thought about how it doesn't even compare to the amount of love; I found myself grateful that love doesn't pack into a suitcase, or we'd surely have blown through that limit like you wouldn't believe and like I could never explain.

No one told us that.

But how could they? How could anyone have put that kind of love to words? How could anyone have said we'd feel like a piece of our heart had stepped out from our chests and boarded a plane to Europe, still tethered to us?

People kept telling us how we were blessing her with this gift of a month in our home … and I know there's truth in that as I recall some of the last words, hugs we shared this morning before she stepped through security.

But that's not the whole of it, and I'd be sorely amiss to end there.

That beautiful girl came bundled with many gifts -- she added to the love, laughter, fun and spirit of our Christmas and New Year Celebrations and our home. She lavished attention on the boys and brought us all lots of smiles and giggles. She was a patient language teacher for me, and she reminded us to slow down and savor life.

Those are all really big, wonderful gifts.

But the real gift? The real gift was simply knowing and loving her, a beautiful blessing from our extraordinarily good God.

There's a lot no one told us about hosting. And there's a lot I never would have understood.

No one told us that we'd be left feeling like the gift we'd given

would feel like it was given 10-fold back to us.

Whatever is good and perfect comes down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. James 1:17