New Beginnings

Dear Friends,
If you have followed the Gathering Blessings blog, thank you for your support. I am starting a new creative endeavor here. Hope to see you soon!
Mandy

Compassion on Mother's Day

What does it mean to be a mom?

We give our time, our energy, our very life blood for our children.

For my children, whom we are adopting, it means wrapping my arms around the baggage they have brought into our lives.

There are memories in this family which I did not help to create. There are shadows in this family that hang on to my little ones. Fears rise in their hearts in the middle of ordinary days that I can only hope to understand.

The other night I headed out for a quick walk while my husband made dinner (yes, I'm a lucky girl) and the kids jumped on the trampoline with friends. I let them know I would be back in time for dinner, but the sight of me walking up the road was too much for them. My son yelled "Bye mom!" at the top of his lungs for as long as I could hear him. And my daughter cried out to her friends as she jumped, "Guys, don't you SEE my mom is LEAVING?" Their voices were high pitched, full of stress and fear. The shadow of the mother who left them and never came back lingers still.

Mother's Day is a day of loss and grieving for children who are adopted. Their birth mother is psychologically present every single day, even when not consciously acknowledged. Mother's Day is also a day of loss for so many others, whether they mourn the loss of a mother, the loss of a child, or the loss of a dream of having children. 

This Mother's Day, may we be filled with compassion for all as we acknowledge that everyone's journey is unique. May we spend time embracing the dear family and friends who are near us, even as we cry for the ones we miss. It's a day to honor motherhood in all of its many dimensions, and the deep love we hold in our hearts for mothers and children everywhere. 

Trial by Fire

Five months? Wow. Hard to believe it's been that long since I wrote a blog entry. It's a pretty good indicator of what life has been like at our house as we go through the process of adopting older kids. I'd like to promise that I'll be posting more frequently, but for now we'll just take it one day at a time.

Our kids are in elementary school. They came to us nearly eight months ago with strongly established preferences, likes and dislikes. They had a strong bond with some members of their birth family (our preferred term for their biological family), which can make bonding with a new family difficult. They also came with a set of behaviors that were ingrained deep inside them during their formative years of life.

Adopting older children is more like a new marriage than welcoming a new baby. Our challenge as parents is to get to know these new family members and find the right balance of high expectations and healthy compromise to make our fledgling relationships work. It ain't easy.

The first six months or so since the kids joined our family, we were on lockdown. As we approach the eight month mark, I feel like we're emerging from a long, dark tunnel. I'm starting to see the light on the other side. We are figuring out what works and what doesn't work for our newly merged family. We're figuring out how attachment and bonding work at this age too.

I'm thankful for everything our kids have taught me about myself, like letting go of perfection. If I don't prioritize connection over perfection, the whole thing unravels. I have a tendency to worry about what people will think of our kids' behavior rather than focusing on the joys we can experience in the midst of the chaos.

So it's been a trial, one of the most stretching things I've undertaken. In my core, I believe it will be worth it. We are already seeing the results of our hard work, but it's not an easy road to walk. It takes more compassion for myself and others than I could have imagined. And I hope to be back on the air waves again soon to share more of our journey.

P.S. - If you know our kids, please don't use their names in this public forum. Thanks!

Compassion

Three months after our two foster-to-adopt children moved in with us full time, I am finally sitting down at my keyboard to contemplate the impact of this change.

I've always believed that at some level, a person's child is a reflection of them. This has become quite distressing to me in recent weeks as our two young ones, age five and six, have made some of their true selves known. For the past six years, they have been under the influence of other adults. When I am in public with them, they look enough like me that people assume they are biologically mine. On certain occasions, though, I have wanted to scream, "I am NOT responsible for this behavior!"

We are unwinding years of exposure to things that little children should never experience. This will take months and years. It requires my heart to stretch out in ways I didn't think possible. To love a child who doesn't always not love in return is hard. It requires a constant return to a state of compassion, to grace.

If I drop judgment toward others, I can move closer to these precious young ones. If I treat myself with compassion, I have more compassion to share with them.

Someday I will look back on this time through the mist of memory. I hope I will be able to say that I grew and stretched, and that the world is a better place, at least for two lives.

Whelmed

I heard it say once that you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but is it possible to be just plain whelmed?

Lately I feel like I'm living in a constant state of whelmed. Things keep flying at me, and for the most part I can take it as it comes. Helping two kids process the grief of leaving the lives they have known and adjusting to our new family takes the stuff out of you. Realizing that although they are wonderful  children, they still have a long road ahead to healing and healthy functioning, is a big chunk to swallow.

We have had major meltdowns by now. The honeymoon stage of this adoption is definitely over. I read in an adoption magazine that keys for adoptive moms to not burn out are first, to make sure you are getting enough rest. And second, to take time to continue bonding with the kids. Like many moms, I sometimes feel it is impossible to get enough rest. And the bonding thing can be challenging with a kid whose emotions are all over the place.

I'm grateful that the grief process has taught me what it feels like to be in the middle of heart wrenching sorrow. It has at least given me some perspective so I can sympathize with where the kids are at. It would certainly be challenging to adopt children without going through a loss like ours.

A Mother's Day Gift

This year my Mother's Day weekend was spent doing all the things I have dreamed of doing with my kids. Making crafts for the grandmothers in our world, drawing with chalk on the sidewalk, reading stories before bedtime.

It wasn't the most idyllic Mother's Day. My hubby, who is usually a very thoughtful guy, was so completely absorbed in the joy of having our children in our home over the weekend that he kind of forgot all about the day. And I don't mind, because I so love seeing him provoke them to shrieks of laughter that we forget about everything else.

I thought a little bit about my Liza Jane, the sweet girl who first made me a mommy. I still love her deeply, and she will be precious to me always. And I love each of the new children who are joining our family with their unique and special personalities.

After losing a child, the only gift I have wanted for Mother's Day was to be a mother. Actively, with children in my home. And I'm so thankful that I received that gift this year.

Mother's Day is a day for honoring mothers. Really, though, there is no gift that can possibly represent the sacrifice a mother makes for her children. Even so, I'm glad we have the day to pause, remember, and celebrate the mothers in our lives. Whether they are with us here on this earth, or lovingly treasured in our memory, mothers are the best gift of Mother's Day.

Life Changes

I'm officially on leave from work as we open our home to our future adoptive children. While I can't share online about them at this time, I have been reflecting on the changes life brings us.

Change is an adjustment, whether it is a positive or negative change. With change comes uncertainty. It's hard to live with uncertainty. I'm a planner, and I like to know what will happen next.

The Serenity Prayer has been a constant theme in my heart and mind as I walk through the waters of change.

God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The Courage to change the things I can,
And the Wisdom to know the difference.

The "Courage to change the things I can" piece of this comes easily for me. I know how to take action and make stuff happen. What's harder for me is the "Serenity to accept the things I cannot change." Often I get confused and think I need to be changing things, which are really not within my sphere of influence.

So I'm learning how to live in acceptance. It's freeing to accept the things I cannot change. And this makes it a little bit easier to let go.

Due to the life change we're walking through, I may not be blogging as much as usual for a short while. But I'll get online as often as possible to continue to mull over the blessings and challenges of this thing called life. Thanks for reading along with me.

Is it happy, or is it sad?

So I've noticed that when I blog about adoption, I get many more "views" than when I blog about grief. And I get that, because it's hard to read about sad things, and it's fun to read about happy things.

Today, though, I want to talk about where grief and adoption intersect. You might think, say what? Isn't adoption a wonderful, loving choice? Parents who adopt, rescuing babies and children from difficult circumstances, following a path that few dare to tread. Isn't it a wonderful, happy, heroic experience?

You guessed it -- adoption is not all walking on sunshine. There are many facets of grief associated with adoption.

First, let's look at the birth parents. They will at some point experience a deep grief and loss over losing their child. Maybe they gave them up voluntarily, or maybe their hand was forced (depending on the country and circumstances). But speaking as someone who knows what it is like to lose a child, my heart goes out to the birth parents of adoptees. I cannot imagine what they are going through, and I hope and pray they will find healing and peace.

Next, what about the adoptee? Shouldn't they be grateful they have been rescued from less than ideal circumstances? It isn't really as easy as that. They have lost the connection to their family, their roots. They have lost an essential part of their identity, which those of us raised by our biological families cannot comprehend. How often in our formative years have we thought, "I'm creative like my mom," or "I'm good at sports like my uncle," or "I like to eat sour foods like my grandmom...." The list goes on, and on, and on.

Adoptees have lost their moorings, and many have spent untold time and energy to track down their bio families and try to regain a sense of self. Most of their parents love them very, very much, even if they were unable to care for them for a time. (I do not speak from personal experience, only from hearing the stories of adoptees who are now adults, so please forgive me if I have misrepresented the perspective of an adoptee. I do not pretend to lump all together in one bucket, nor should we.)

Finally, adoptive parents experience loss as well. Many of us have not been able to have our own children, or if we have, some of us have lost those children due to cruel disease. There is a strong desire hard wired in our DNA to see our offspring, to observe as our own traits are carried on through the next generation. This is a grief on a primal level, as we let go of basic expectations that most of us held for the majority of our lives.

Right now, I am extremely excited about the possibility that we may be matched with our future children soon. At the same time, though, I am sad. Adoption is a wonderful gift, but it is also a symptom of an imperfect world. While we will be over the moon to welcome our future children into our home, we also have to keep in mind the journey of grief and loss that they and their bio family members will have to walk through.

It is a mix of both: happy and sad.

Feels Like Nesting

This is one of those weeks where blogging just isn't flowing naturally from my fingertips. I have started several posts, which are all still in draft mode, because I can't quite get at the essence of what I want to say.

There is a lot going on as we get ready for our adoption. We are rearranging things in the house, and I am preparing to give up the spare bedroom I've enjoyed using as an office for the past three years. It's a mix of feelings, sad and happy.

We don't have a timeline yet, but some promising prospects, and an office full of stuff that is being dis-assembled and dispatched to storage around the house, or the thrift store, or recycling as needed.

It feels a lot like nesting. Luke pointed it out to me tonight, and I think he was right. I've got the bug, and I'm making it happen, so we will be ready whenever the moment is right and there are kids that need our home.

So that's all for now, folks. Before I start second-guessing myself, I'm just going to hit the Publish button. If there are type-o's, the sun will still rise tomorrow.

A baked apple is waiting on the counter for our dessert... yummm... over and out.

For they shall be comforted

When someone dies, they are gone. Whatever our beliefs about the afterlife, nothing prepares us for the harsh reality that the person we knew and loved is not here on earth anymore, for the remainder of our natural lives. The finality of this is shocking and intense, at least it was for me when I experienced it.

Friends lost a loved one this week, and the familiar feelings are all haunting me again. The vacancy, the hole. The impossibility that a person can be here one day, gone the next. It is a reality altered, our world unhinged. It is a great mystery of the universe, how a life can profoundly impact others so greatly, yet be gone in the blink of an eye.

It's been over two years since Liza passed. And yes, I am still processing her death. In our society I could be blamed for wallowing, but friends, our society isn't so good at grief.

A book I'm reading featured this quote.

"Healthy are those who mourn. Only very recently have we begun to realize that to deny grief is to deny a natural human function and that such denial sometimes produces dire consequences.

"Any event, any awareness that contains a sense of loss for you can, and should, be mourned. This doesn't mean a life of incessant sadness. It means being willing to admit to an honest feeling rather than always having to laugh off the pain. It's not only permissible to admit the sadness that accompanies loss - it's the healthy option."

- Donald L. Anderson, Better than Blessed

Sometimes when I read the Sermon on the Mount, it brings feelings of anger. "Blessed are those who mourn," Jesus said. Mourning doesn't feel like a blessing. It brings about some of the most painful feelings I have ever experienced. It has been one of the darkest seasons of my life.

It seems to be an essential part of the human experience, though. It is necessary in a fallen world where things are far less than ideal. So I'm clinging to the second part of the verse, "for they shall be comforted." Whether in this life or the next, I believe there is comfort for all who mourn. And that is worth holding onto.

Compelled

About five years ago I was sitting on the deck with Luke on a sunny Sunday afternoon. We were talking about our future, our dreams and our goals. I shared with him that I felt a tug in my heart to do something to help orphans. I wasn't sure what it was, just that I felt compelled to do something in my lifetime that would have an impact on the plight of orphans in our world.

Since losing our Liza Jane, many of these dreams have come into sharper focus. The moments she lay in our arms slipping from this world into the next were a gift, because they caused our entire world view to shift. Things we once thought important no longer mattered. Other things became very high priorities.

I walked away from the hospital after she passed with a turmoil of emotions. At that moment, though, I knew two things for sure. I wanted to be a mother to more children. And, something must be done to help ease the suffering of the children of this world.

A verse of scripture has stood out to me ever since Liza's passing. "Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you." - James 1:27, NLT

Today I read an article in an adoption publication, LifeLines, that brought this journey into sharp focus for me. A pastor and adoptive father was sharing about his family's decision to adopt.

"Before adopting, I thought of adoption as something a Christian couple could do if they wanted to. The question was, 'Do we want to adopt?'

"However, through my study, I realized that God has a bigger, bolder, and more glorious view of orphans. God intends for his people to conform to his image and his heart. The more appropriate question is: What role does God call us to play in the care of orphans?"

Don't get me wrong, I don't personally believe that God is calling everyone to go out and adopt orphans. There are many other wonderful ways to support children and orphans in need.  Two of my favorites are Reece's Rainbow and Compassion. And adoptive families need support too!

I guess what I want to say is this: In the adoption matching process, I have often lost my focus. It's been an emotional whirlwind as we consider children's profiles and try to identify the ones our family can best serve. This article I read today brought my goals back into view.

There are children waiting for a forever home, children who are orphans, and we are going to adopt some of them. This may not be the end of what I will do in my lifetime to help orphans. In fact, I feel it may only be the beginning. And I feel humbled and energized to be part of something that is so close to God's heart.

Thankful for Liza Jane

The other day I told someone about our experience with Liza Jane for the first time. If you haven't read our story, you can learn more here.

Now that it has been a little two years since she passed away, my perspective on her life and the circumstances of her death is changing. I expect it will change even more in the future.

My little Liza taught me so much.
She taught me how to love without judging.
She taught me how to live every moment to the fullest. We don't know if it will be our last.
She showed me how important it is to love those close to us every minute of every day, because we don't know if that day will be their last.
She taught me the value of accepting without being critical. (Ok, maybe I'm still working on that one.)

Two years after her death, I do not regret the decision to give her a chance at life. I do not regret choosing not to have an abortion, which is what several doctors urged me to do.

There is much pain and suffering in this world, and what happened to us and our Liza is just a drop in the bucket.

Without her, though, my life would not be as rich and meaningful. I am forever greatful to her, and greatful to God for giving me such a gift. (Even though I am still a little mad at him for taking her away.)

Advocacy and Acceptance

Yesterday at church, I saw a woman put her arm around a young man in our congregation, and it made me tear up. It touches me every time I see someone welcome and accept a person with Down syndrome, because I feel they would have accepted my daughter.

I hope you will take a few minutes to watch this video. It just says it all. I love the way Kelle Hampton advocates for her daughter and all people with Down syndrome.

I am missing my Liza Jane these days. I wish I could have seen her grow up and find out what her interests would have been.

One message in this video is to "be the change" you want to see. I hope I will have the grace to extend love and acceptance to all those who cross my path.

Ready, Set, Go!

So, for a few months now I have been procrastinating. I need to morph this blog into something beyond my grief experience, and that is a hard thing to do. For a while I think some deep part of me felt like if I talk about other things than my daughter and how much I would always love and miss her, I would be acting as if she didn't really matter.

I overheard someone on the train to Philly a few days ago say that perfectionists are among the worst procrastinators. It is the drive to do it perfectly that makes us afraid to actually start, because it is so intimidating. I won't explain this further, because if you are a perfectionist like me, it will already be making some sense to you.

A wise person once told me that as Luke and I continue to grow our family, we will not stop grieving our daughter. We may be caring for more children in the future, but the grief process will not stop once they arrive. And her memory will not go away once they arrive.

So I'm taking the plunge right here, right now. I'm giving myself a big kick in the rear, and I'm shouting "ready, set, go!" Let's do this thing.

When I started this blog, I wanted it to be flexible. Gathering Blessings is about finding reasons for joy, meaning and thankfulness in any season of life. So future blog posts here will chronicle not only grieving our first daughter, but to muse about the process of adopting our future children.

It's a new year, and it's going to be filled with learning and challenges, laughter and tears. I wouldn't have it any other way.



Happy New Year 2013 - hopefully by next year, there will be more Martin family members in the picture!

Still Learning

I'm still learning about this thing called grief and what it means.

This week I had a goal to clean out our Liza Jane's closet. It's the last thing in her room that I haven't gone through. All of her clothes were in there, neatly organized by her Mimi more than two years ago when we arranged her room in anticipation of her birth.

She never made it out of the Newborn size sleepers and into the 0-3 month size, partly because her heart condition made it difficult to eat and gain weight.

All the baby clothes she never got to wear were just one more reminder that her precious life was ended far too soon. As I folded a sweet little pair of jammies with colorful hearts on it, I cried because she never made it into the three month size range.

I remembered the stages of grief when I was six months pregnant and we learned that she had Down syndrome. People with Down syndrome tend to be small for their age, even without a heart condition. So would she have gotten big enough to fit into that three month sleeper before the weather got too warm for her to wear it? I will never know.

This task of cleaning her closet is a very necessary one, because we are in the process of adopting a sibling group of children. We don't know yet who our future children will be, but we are actively going through a matching process. And the room that was Liza's needs to be ready for our children.

Last night we had a beautiful snowfall. I had a rough time last night after meeting a friend's newborn baby for the first time yesterday. All the feelings of anger, rage, and deep sorrow came rushing back.

The tree in our front yard, covered in snow.

Ordinarily, snow like this gives me a giddy, happy childhood feeling. I waltz around the house singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow," while making cups of hot tea. This time, though, I felt I was clinging onto a shred of my former self. I was sad, I was depressed, I could hardly function.

So, I'm still learning what it means to grieve the loss of a child. Tuesday will be two years since she died, and sometimes the loss is still fresh, as if it happened yesterday. She just didn't have enough time. I didn't have enough time to love her, to be Liza Jane's mommy. The pain is still there, churning in the core of my being. And it is still hard.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Some old Christmas carols have been giving me so much comfort this year. Thought I would take some excerpts and compile them together in a post. It's a meditative exercise for me, and I hope it brings you comfort and joy too.

Come to Bethlehem and see
Christ Whose birth the angels sing;
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

See Him in a manger laid,
Whom the choirs of angels praise;
Mary, Joseph, lend your aid,
While our hearts in love we raise.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy!

Merry Christmas, from our house to yours.

White Horse for Christmas

The other night while I made dinner, I heard a song called "White Horse for Christmas" by the group Over the Rhine. It's a wonderful lullaby that we played for Liza Jane while she was in the hospital. You can listen to it here.

The song took me back to the night in early December 2010 when we played it for our three-week-old baby girl. At the time she was doing fairly well, and although we knew she would need some difficult surgeries soon, we were still optimistic.

I held her in my arms that night in her hospital room, and later we gave her a bath. Those moments were and still are so precious to me. And I had no idea the horrible ordeal we were about to experience, culminating with having to remove her from life support several weeks later and say goodbye, as we sent her into the sky to meet Jesus on his white horse.

As the song played, I cried for missing her. I also cried for myself in that moment, because at the time I was still so innocent and unaware that I was about to lose her. And I cried because my baby is riding her white horse through the sky now, and I cannot be with her.

This past week there was a terrible tragedy in Connecticut. My heart is going out to the mothers there. When they packed their kids' lunch that morning, bundled them in winter coats and dropped them off for kindergarten, they had no idea they were about to lose them in a terrible massacre.

I pray for those mothers, that somehow their broken, shattered hearts will survive through this Christmas season. We never know if the moment we have with our loved ones will be the last one we will ever have on this earth. And this was a terrible, unfair way to learn.

I'll close with the words to the song, "I want to speak with the angel who said 'do not be afraid.'" It is a small comfort that we must not fear what comes after death. Those words, "do not be afraid," are what I cling to, now more than ever.

Sadness at Christmas

Sometimes, Christmas is sad. I notice the sadness comes in waves. Don't get me wrong, it's a holiday that I have loved since childhood, and I continue to really enjoy and embrace it today. Christmas helps me to get through the darkest season of the year. It is about warmth and love and family.

As much as I enjoy the holiday, though, I have found myself feeling sad over the past week. I've been thinking about the loss of my baby girl some. I've also been thinking of all the families who are having a less than ideal Christmas this year. Maybe there isn't enough money for gifts, or maybe there isn't even enough money for food, heat or shelter.

Other families are facing serious illness, or the recent death of a loved one, and they are wondering how they will get through this Christmas.

My experience with Liza taught me that I cannot take the blessedness of an ordinary day for granted. It also taught me to be very aware that many people are not having quiet, ordinary days. Too many people are dealing with loss, heartache and suffering.

I feel accountable to my daughter to keep this in mind, and to act upon it. She lives on in eternity, and I know she is watching to see the choices I make going forward. I hope and pray that my actions will honor her memory.

So I'm making small choices this Christmas to reach out beyond myself and begin to act. Baby steps seem to be working for me right now, so I am not trying to save an entire country or change the entire world. But I'm being intentional in giving to some causes that I believe matter.

I want to let the sadness that haunts my heart always, and even more at the holidays, propel me forward to do what I can to relieve the suffering in this world. And I know my daughter looks down from her place in the great cloud of witnesses, and she cheers me on.

Making It Meaningful

After losing Liza, one of the things I struggled with was the feeling that all the meaning had drained out of my life. This is a common feeling for parents who have lost a child, or so they tell me. But during the first year or so, I really struggled on many days to think of a good reason to keep going.

My stomach hurts a little bit just writing this, because I remember the intensity of the void that was left when she was gone. I physically felt the grief in my core as I groped blindly for a way to move ahead. Sometimes this feeling comes back even now, almost two years after her death, but it is less painful now. Time and working through the grief process does ease the sharp edges after a while.

Where was I going with this? Ahh yes... the struggle to find meaning. The experience with Liza taught both Luke and me to look very, very hard for meaning, at a time when meaning was less than a faint glimmer on the horizon. It taught us that we can carve meaning out of the darkness. We can create meaning in our lives, and when we do, it builds layers of richness and memories into this journey.

For me, meaning comes from the small things, many intentional acts that begin to weave a beautiful tapestry. Meaning for me comes from baking things from scratch, using recipes and techniques that have stood the test of time. Meaning comes from doing things to make holidays extra special. Every day we have is so fleeting, the time passes too quickly. I believe in living every day, every moment, to the fullest. My experience with Liza taught me this, as we tried to savor every second that she was breathing and alive.

It is my hope going into this holiday season that I will be able to weave more meaning into the path of my life, and that I will be able to savor the special moments that occur every day along the way. Now it's your turn: What adds meaning to your life? 

Two

Today, Liza Jane would have turned two years old. I woke up this morning almost exactly at the time she was born. We've had a weekend full of remembering her, crying for her, wishing we could will her back to this earth.

I'm so thankful to family members who spent time having a birthday rememberance with us on Friday night. Among other things, we made sweet heart-shaped ornaments in memory of her. My sister made a birthday cake. My almost-3-year-old niece offered to blow out the candles for Liza since she was in heaven and couldn't come to her party.

The whole night, I felt like I was seeing a shadow of a tiny two year old in the room. Since she had Down syndrome, she may or may not have been walking by this time. The low muscle tone that comes with the condition means everything takes a little bit longer. I would have been okay with her not walking yet. I love the soft, cuddly baby stage.

It's been a hard few days leading up to this. Today I think I'm just glad it's almost over. Anyone who has lost a child knows you spend a lot of time dreading the special milestones.

And now, I'm drained and ready to think about something else. So I'm signing off and saying happy birthday, dear Liza, happy birthday to you. I still love you, baby girl. And I'm glad that you are not struggling anymore.