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!

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.

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.

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.)

Time to slow down... and give thanks.

Winter is the time of year to slow down. I'm more acutely aware of this as we were without power for almost a week due to the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Without electric lighting, our house was much darker than usual, and it reminded me that we are built to take a break during the winter months. We take more time to rest and stay warm. Summer is full of busy activities, but winter is the time to step back, take inventory, and assess where our lives are going.

Thanksgiving will be a different holiday for so many this year. In the mid-Atlantic states, we are mindful of the simple blessings of modern life. Running water, a warm house, access to roads, food preserved in our refrigerators... all of these will be on my list. And more importantly, I'm thankful that friends and family have weathered the storm without injury, and that we are starting to get back into our routines.

This is a perfect parallel for all the thoughts that fill my mind this time of year. Just a week from today is the anniversary of my daughter's birth. I remember how thankful I was that she (and her fragile heart) survived the labor and delivery process. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I held her in my arms for the first time. I thought -- no, I knew -- that she would be okay in those first few moments, that she would survive the difficult path of surgery and hospitilization. Those memories of unquenchable hope still haunt me today, as that hope proceeded to be shattered repeatedly by bad news, and my heart still has not recovered from the damage.

But I am thankful for her still. Thankful that she taught me how we have live each day to the fullest, as we never know which one will be our last. Thankful that she taught me to appreciate my loved ones, for they will not be with us forever.

She taught me to refuse to take the little things for granted. This time of year is the perfect for that - a time to reflect, to remember, to be mindful and be present. That's my aspiration for the holidays this year. I want to take this time to slow down and truly give thanks.

Every Day Love

I heard a country song on the radio this week. It was a guy crooning about his girl, and he was wondering if she didn't wake up from her sleep the next morning, would she know how much he loved her?

It was really poignant because my heart and prayers have been with a family who lost a young wife and mother very suddenly in her sleep recently. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the reality overwhelmed me.

It was stirring also as I have been remembering another family whose young son recently died in a very tragic way. Their pain and all the questions are riding on my mind.

We assume our loved ones will live to a ripe old age. Modern medicine and the eradication of many deadly diseases through vaccines and other advancements have led us to expect these things in the Western world.

It is so easy for me to forget that it wasn't this way until recently. And that for parts of the world, it still isn't this way.

But the message in the song rings oh so true to me. I'm convinced the best way we can respond is to do everything in our power to make sure our loved ones know they are loved.

Every. Single. Day.

I haven't been the greatest at this lately as the cares of this life have overwhelmed me. But I needed to hear this message. So I'm going to stop blogging now so I can give my hubby a big hug when he walks in the door.

We don't know if today will be our last.

Living Intentionally, Grieving Intentionally

It's summertime, and the living is... busy. This post is long overdue because we have had lots of summer activities going on - picnics with friends, family gatherings, and warm-weather-inspired fun.

I'm a firm believer in living intentionally, so while the weather is warm and the sun is shining, I've made a conscious choice to get out there and enjoy it. And I've taken my time getting back to the introspective (often indoor) activity of blogging. So here it goes...

Sometimes as grieving parents, I think we need to make a choice to let ourselves remember our children. The other day I did this by taking Liza's scrapbook, the chronicle of her life, and sitting in a room by myself. I looked at the whole book, remembering the good times and the bad times. And I cried.

A page out of Liza's book, and a page out of our lives.

This, to me, is what it means to be intentional about grief. Sometimes memories and emotions come spontaneously. Other times, I think we have to make time to let ourselves process our feelings.

The same is true about life in general. We can be intentional about the way we choose to live, where we focus our energy, where we pour out our love.

One of my choices is to remember my daughter, to spend time recalling her life. I think it honors her memory. It is also a way that I can be kind to myself by acknowledging that I need time to grieve her, I need time to love her, I still need time to be her mommy.

I'd love to hear from you... what do you like to do to "be intentional" about living?

Choosing a Happy Ending

I have heard it said that "life is what happens when you're trying to get from Point A to Point B." This is so true. A strength of mine is being very goal oriented. I break life down into segments and projects that help me to achieve goals. In the process, though, I often lose the moments. I forget to look around me and appreciate the beauty of this day, this hour.

This is even more challenging sometimes in the realm of grief. A critical part of the grief process is remembering, looking back, thinking about that person and feeling the pain of his or her absence. For me, though, if I get stuck in that place for too long, I can miss hours or days of my life that is happening right here and now.

So it seems like another important part of the grief process is the way in which we move on. It's about striking a balance between reliving precious memories, and being able to enjoy the here and now.

How do we write the narrative of what happens in the "after" state, after the tragedy has passed? I think maybe this narrative happens in the small things, the every day moments that are built brick by brick into the structure that is our life story.

Looking forward, and looking back.

Being intentional about making these moments meaningful, being intentional about finding meaning in the every day. Slowly over time, new and positive memories are built that begin to construct a path into the future. I can feel that walkway growing over time, and it is helping me to look forward.

It is also helping me to appreciate every stepping stone, every moment, as it is selected and laid into the path of life with care and appreciation.

Being Okay with Nothing

Coping strategies abound after the loss of a child. I have found ways to keep my mind busy, keep myself moving, averting the imminent feeling of falling apart.

Over the last week, though, I've been practicing the art of stripping away the crutches and working hard at being okay with nothing.

Luke was away on a trip for the better part of the week. A year ago, when our loss was fresher, I booked myself solid in the evenings after work while he was away on a similar trip. I made sure I was not alone on a single evening.

This year, though, I had some important work to do for a special baby shower for my sister and brother-in-law.

And while I wanted to lean on my crutches to get through the lonely evenings (TV, friends, computer, mind-numbing distractions), I powered through each lonely, solitary evening with only the company of the radio and my mixing bowl.

Each night when I rolled into bed, I was exhausted from the effort of keeping myself focused. I started reading this book which I someone gave to me a long time ago, but I only felt brave enough to crack open this past week.

I wasn't ready until now to think about what it means to "live fully right where you are." It didn't seem right to be concerned about living fully when my precious daughter cannot live at all.

But it was time, and on several evenings it brought a flood of new tears. And that is okay. Tears are healing, and there is no way to go through the pain except to keep going.

Luke came home from his trip safely this weekend. Another time I will write about the fear that grips my heart every time he leaves on a trip. The fear that was not there before we lost our daughter, but now that we have been so close to death, brings into sharp focus the reality that when a loved one walks out the door, it literally may be the last time I see that person... ever.

Today, Luke and I were thinking about planning something special to do together, maybe a trip to the art museum to see the Van Gogh exhibit. We realized, though, that we both just need to chill and allow ourselves some time to recover from all the excitement.

I am working on being okay with doing nothing again today. Being okay with rattling around in this large, too-quiet house all by ourselves. This house that we specifically designed for our growing family during the months that I was pregnant, the same house that is now too-large, too-empty for just the two of us.

So here I am, facing the pain, facing the emptiness, and working on being more than okay with it. Working on being thankful for the quiet blessing of this moment, this day.

Life Is Fragile

After losing my daughter, I felt like all the meaning was sucked out of my life. Even now, I sometimes question the meaning of life.

Seeing your own offspring suffer and die makes everything else seem pointless. What exactly is the point of living if she cannot be here with me?

Liza Jane, one day old, held in my arms at the ICU.

Part of the healing process is learning to live among the living again. As time goes by, the pain is not as deep, but the loss of her will always be in my heart.

Talking about her, blogging about her, helps to keep her alive. This in turn keeps me alive and in a more stable place emotionally. Not talking about her can make me feel as if she never existed or is no longer a part of my life. And that is enough to make me feel like I’m going completely insane. She changed my life so drastically, being a mother changed my life so drastically, that to deny her existence is madness.

Liza Jane at about 3 weeks old

The book of Hebrews in the New Testament says we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses that is cheering us on. These are people of faith who have gone before us. It helps me to imagine my Liza Jane as part of that cloud, separated from me only by the thin curtain between now and eternity.

That curtain is really so very thin. Someone I used to work with had a quote on his desk that said, “Only your heartbeat separates you from your ancestors.” (unknown)  I didn’t understand this quote just a few short years ago. It seemed overly morbid and a bit pointless to me.

What it means to me now, though, is that life is fragile. We cannot tell how many days we will have on this earth until we too pass beyond that curtain into the next life. 

This is something that my daughter’s brief life brought sharply into focus for me: to live in the moment, appreciate and savor the little things about today, because we don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

If you have lost someone special, I hope you will have precious moments to remember that person. It's your turn: use the comments section below to share something special you remember about your loved one.

Love

We need love to survive. It's a basic human need. I've read some stories recently of human beings who are not getting the love they need to survive, and it is tragic.

This year at Valentine's Day I'm appreciating our capacity to love a little bit more. Sometimes that means loving the ones who are closest to us, going out of our way to let them know we appreciate them. Other times it means reaching out and loving those who are further away, or those who are not as easy to love.

Someone said that in our houses many of us have two sets of dishes. There is a set of every day dishes that are chipped, worn, and mismatched. We knock them around, we use them hard. Then, there is a set of good dishes that we get out when company comes over. This set we give special treatment. We handle it with care, we make sure it doesn't get chipped. Sometimes we don't even allow it to go through the dishwasher, instead cleaning every piece lovingly by hand.

So I ask myself, how do I treat the people I'm closest to? Do I treat them like the every day dishes, or do I treat them like the fine china? It's too easy to treat the members of our families like the every day dishes. We don't tell them we appreciate them. We don't show them extra special love and care. Instead, we save our best treatment for the people we work with, go to school with, or go to church with.

I want to treat the people close to me like fine china. I want them to know how special and loved they are. Even though it's hard at the end of a long day, these people are the ones who mean the most to me, so I need to take extra special care of them.

This is one thing that Liza tought me as well. We didn't know how many days we had with her, so each day was a precious gift, a miracle. She helped us to cherish her, to cherish each other. She helped us to stay in the moment and appreciate the beauty of what was right in front of us.

That can be a little intimidating, at least to me, when I'm really honest with myself. One song I love talks about "the scary, scary beauty of what's right here." It can be hard to stay in the moment, to be present, to look around at the imperfection that surrounds us and say: this is beautiful. This day, this moment, is beautiful.

At Valentine's day this year, I want my loved ones to know that they are loved. Now is as good a time as any to give that fine china the loving care that it is due.