A Birth Story for Mother's Day

 This is a story that is in one way four and a half years in the making, and in another, a lifetime, because for as far back in my childhood as I can remember I dreamed of and looked forward to being a mom; nearly every night of my childhood as I drifted to sleep, I imagined what it would be like, but I never imagined just how hard, long, and rewarding the process would be. 

The last four and a half years of this journey are well documented here. The loss of our first three children, our struggle with infertility, our decision and calling to become foster parents, the 5 children who we had the privilege of parenting and seeing safely leave to be with their families. When I was pregnant with Simeon I never knew quite what to say when I was asked if this was my first child; in one way, I suppose so, but in some ways he is my 3rd if you count children in my home for any length of time, my 4th if you count my biological children, my 6th if you count the number of children who I have had in my home, my 9th if you count them all, but yes, in the end, he is my first forever baby. 

For a baby who was so prayed for and desired for so long, he sure was quite the surprise. After 3 miscarriages, a clotting disorder diagnosis, and 18 months of failed infertility treatment, we had reached the point of either choosing to stop treatments, or pursuing a route that would require serious financial investment with no guarantees. We decided to take a step back before deciding, we decided to pursue contentment in our current situation and discern where our priorities ought to lie before making an emotional decision. And I came to be at peace with continuing to be foster parents, and knowing that at some point we would adopt through foster care, and knowing that having become pregnant 3 times before, it was likely to happen again, eventually, and that next time, hopefully, we would be able to protect that child from the blood clots that claimed the lives of Brighton, Keelan and Addison. Just two months later we found ourselves listening to a heartbeat of our living child for the first time in nearly four years, it was one of the most incredible experiences of my life, but not quite as incredible as what I actually came here to write about; Simeon’s birth! (Longest intro ever...)

I wanted a natural birth, this is important to know. After four and a half years of pain and heartache, and learning to live through the pain, I wanted to experience every last second of this journey to my forever baby, and I desperately wanted my body to do something right when it came to childbearing. Towards the end of pregnancy I found out that because of the risks associated with covid during pregnancy and their striking similarities to the risks of antiphospholipid syndrome, an induction seemed to be the safest option.

 Day 1: Despite my best efforts to go into labor naturally (I did acupuncture y’all, I was determined!), I arrived at the hospital on March 30th at 3:30pm (having stopped and renewed my expired drivers license on the way) to begin the induction process, which meant having a Foley bulb inserted. I’ll let you google that if you want the details, but basically it forces to body to dilate to 4cm overnight and it is not comfortable. Also not comfortable: beds in labor and delivery rooms. In addition to the Foley bulb, I started low dose Pitocin overnight (the drug used to cause contractions).

Day 2: After sleeping poorly, I was roused at 5am by a very strict seeming nurse to shower and get ready to finally have a baby. My amazing doula, Erika arrived, followed by my doctor, and we started the actual induction, thinking that surely I would have my baby in my arms by 5 that evening. The Foley bulb hadn’t done what we needed it to by that point and I started the day at only 2-3cm dilated, an hour later I was able to have the Foley bulb removed and felt a lot better for a bit. At the same time my doctor broke my water, increased my Pitocin levels, and labor really picked up. We managed okay for a long time by walking around, sitting on a birth ball and using the TENS unit Erika brought, and things seemed to be going okay. After a few hours though I started to feel really tired, but kept pushing on, knowing the pain was necessary and was bringing me closer to meeting my baby. 

By about 3pm I was absolutely exhausted. I was falling asleep between contractions which were coming every one to two minutes at this point and each one brought excruciating pain, but still, I knew we were getting closer. At some point during the afternoon a nurse checked and told me I was about 5 cm dilated, so we were making progress, even if it was slow. At 3:45 I tried to lay in bed, and continued to fall asleep between contractions which actually started to taper off at this point; my body was so utterly exhausted by this point that it actually started to override the Pitocin and shut down labor to some extent. When my doctor came in to check me at 4:15, we found out that after being in hard active labor for 8 hours, I was actually still only 4cm dilated, the same as I was at 11am. I’m fairly confident I broke down in tears around this point feeling that all of my pain and exhaustion over the last 5 hours had been worthless. We asked the doctor to go over our options at that point, because continuing for hours more wasn’t feasible or at this point physically possible since the Pitocin was as high as it could go and my body was no longer responding to it. After hearing the options from the doctor, I asked for a few minutes to discuss it with Matt and Erika alone, and we were all in agreement about which one seemed to be the right choice, so at 4:30, we stopped the induction, and decided to start again the next morning. Unfortunately I had to maintain my clear liquid diet, so the most substantial thing was able to consume after a long day of labor was broth and popsicles. I think I ate something like that at that point and requested stadol through my IV to help take the edge off the pain as well as help me sleep, and by 6pm I was asleep. 

I rested as well as one could expect for still having contractions and sleeping on what was essentially a 3 inch mattress on top of a table. I had the sweetest night nurse who was really compassionate and took wonderful care of me. I was awake for about two hours at one point and honestly had a really sweet time bonding with Simeon, praying for him, praying for me, and trying to mentally prepare to “re-enter the arena” the next morning. At some point during the night Simeon’s heart rate started dropping slightly during contractions, and I had to stay on my right side the rest of the night to prevent it happening.

 Day 3: I started off the day by trying to walk and bounce myself into active labor before starting Pitocin again, quite unsuccessfully. I then begged to be allowed to eat something, but that was equally unsuccessful due to the anesthesiologist  being very strict about his guidelines; this did not set me up well for success. At 7:30am we restarted the Pitocin and labor took off again very quickly and very strong. My doctor came up to check me when she got into the office around 8, and I was still at 4cm, and I was getting really discouraged and a bit scared. I started to become really concerned that I was going to end up having a failed induction and need a C-section. It was around this point that the word “epidural” entered my mind, and it was all I could think about with each contraction. I was crying and moaning “nooooo” with each one, and the idea of continuing to labor and be in that much pain again all day was overwhelming. I decided to try stadol to see if that might take enough of an edge off the pain to let me bear it, knowing the risk was that I was already tired, and stadol was likely to make me more so, but it was my last ditch effort. The nurse accurately described it as “margaritaville” and I soon found myself half asleep dreaming I was in a field of lavender, watching contractions happen to someone else who was standing against a brick wall. It may have taken the edge off the pain, but the disorientation was just as miserable, at one point I asked Matt to tell me with each contraction that I was NOT in a field of purple flowers, that I WAS having a contraction and that “there was only one room” which, I have no idea what that one was about nor any recollection of saying it, Matt told me later. 

The stadol wore off quickly, thankfully, and I overheard Matt and Erika discussing how to bring up the option of an epidural to me. I heard Matt telling Erika that he just didn’t want me to regret it later. I was so relieved to hear them talking about it, I felt like I had the permission I needed to finally voice what I had been thinking all morning; this was more than I bargained for, I wasn’t wimping out if I needed it. I walked out of the bathroom and said “I won’t regret it.” Erika suggested that a we try to make it to noon before deciding on it for sure, I think this was about 11:00. We requested anesthesiology come talk to us since they hadn’t the day before like they were meant to, and I was able to pull myself together long enough to get my questions answered between contractions and feel more at ease with the process. We continued to discuss, and it came down to two things for me; first, I had been in the induction process over 40 hours, and my water had been broken for over 24 of them, and Simeon’s heart rate was continuing to dip with most contractions; the risk of infection or a failed induction or Simeon destabilizing was increasing, if something went wrong and I needed an emergency C-section, I was going to find myself under general anesthesia and miss my son’s birth entirely; the very thing I was trying to fully experience. Secondly, I found myself in the position of actually hating every moment of labor by this point. I was exhausted, I was hungry, I was cranky, I was in so much unceasing pain, I was scared; this was not how I wanted to experience the birth of my baby. And so the decision was made, and I felt confident in it. I chose not to get checked before hand, my mind was made up, and the checks were more painful to me than the contractions, I wasn’t able to make a decision that was going to cause even more pain at that point. Every contraction I had while waiting for the anesthesiologist to come somehow felt even more painful; the purpose of the pain had been removed with the decision to get the epidural. At 11:40 I got the epidural, and it was bliss. I texted my family to update them and said I was hoping to get a nap. I did not get a nap.

It took about an hour for the epidural to be placed and take full effect, at 12:40 the nurse checked me and I was at 8cm, 20 minutes later my doctor came and and decided to check me again while she was there, I was caught on baby’s head and she was able to manually fix it and she pronounced me fully dilated! That process alone made me grateful for the epidural, I can only imagine how unbearable that little procedure would have been without it, we would have had to wait for it to resolve on it’s own because I would have been throwing punches by that point (I had screamed at my doctor during a check the night before, we were all a little afraid of me after that I think, ha!). And so, the pushing began! 

It was such a surreal experience, it was nothing like I had imagined it would be like when I planned my natural birth. We chatted with the nurse between contractions, pushed for 30 seconds when one came, and picked back up where we left off. Simeon’s heart rate was dropping significantly with each contraction by this point, but it picked back up as soon as it passed. There was concern, but not panic as long as he kept popping back up. Eventually it started taking a bit longer, and we pushed a ton of fluids through my IV to try to perk him back up and he went back to stabilizing quickly after each contraction again. The nurse was concerned enough about it that when it came time for him to actually be born my Dr. was called out of a C-section to come deliver him, she came in, gloved up, and two pushes later, at 2:18pm, Simeon Azariah Pinckard was born with his cord wrapped around his neck, and was placed on my chest as we cried tears of joy and relief and thankfulness. I turned to Matt and all I said was ‘Four and a half years” and then I just sobbed for a minute while taking in the reality that the child I had dreamed of since childhood, the child I thought may never come, the child we had pleaded with the Lord for was lying safely in my arms. He was mine forever. It was a moment like none other.

A couple days after coming home I happened to place my hand on Simeon’s chest and it was the first time I had felt his heartbeat. Immediately in my mind I was back in the ultrasound room at the fertility specialist hearing his heartbeat filling the room when I was only 7 weeks pregnant. And then I was back in my first OB’s office the day we heard Brighton’s heartbeat for the first and only time. Then I was in the ER as doctors after doctor tried to find Brighton’s heartbeat, and again two days later when our worst fear had been confirmed. Then I was at Keelan’s ultrasound when our excitement had become shocking grief all over again when there was no heartbeat to be found. And I was on the phone with the nurse as she confirmed what I already knew; my levels had dropped and we had lost Addison too. And I felt the heartbeat of my living, breathing, healthy son, and I cried more than ever before, praising the Lord for the life of this Child, and for the certain hope that we have in Jesus Christ’s life, death and resurrection for the covenant children we never held and whose hearts no longer beat, but who we will one day meet face to face in the presence of our savior.

Simeon: God has heard. 
Azariah: God has helped. 
Pinckard: This child is ours forevermore.

May he also place his trust in the Lord’s help and provision and belong to him for all eternity. 

Matt was so incredible the whole time!

So. Many. Wires.

I borrowed my friend's gown for day 2!

After the epidural, right after I started pushing, the nurse is keeping a close eye on his heartrate

The moment I've dreamed of my entire life

We were all 3 crying

So tiny in daddy's arms!

Recovering from his "procedure"

They let my mom in to see him the first night!

Grandma K. brought us dinner and swaddles!

The boys managed to get some sleep!

I was SO ready to go home after 4 nights in the Hospital!

From Last Year to Today

I took a picture of my calendar a few weeks ago and I wondered what would happen if my pictures app on my phone showed me pictures from a year in the future, instead of a year in the past. What if I’d seen a year ago, what life would be today? I would have been blown away, would have broken down in tears of joy.

A year ago, I didn’t know if I’d ever have a biological child.

Today, my calendar says I am 3 weeks away from holding my son in my arms, and we talk and plan as though more will follow with hardly a second thought. It’s more than I dared to dream most days.

A year ago, we were just finding out about Jellybean’s daddy; we’d been told he wasn’t in the picture, but there he was, and we were scared about what kind of man he might be and what would happen with this precious child.

Today, JB is written on my calendar at least once a week. Jellybean is loved by so much of her family; parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins; some biological, some step, and of course, some former foster. She comes to visit often, and at the end of the day, she goes home to her wonderful daddy, exactly where she belongs. It’s everything we’d hoped for.

A year ago, the monotony, exhaustion, and torn feelings of the working mom schedule were getting to me on top of everything else. I decided I didn’t want to work full time after Matt graduated, which meant leaving entirely, because part time wouldn’t work for my office on a long term basis.

Today, my calendar is marked two days a week with “work”. When I was going to leave again after filling in for a maternity leave in Fall, I was offered the exact amount of work I wanted each week. When it didn’t seem like it would work out for the clinic for me to keep this schedule, my bosses made an effort to find a place for me to stay when I asked. From the very start almost 4 years ago, this job has been everything we needed, exactly when we needed it.

A year ago, Matt was moving to virtual classes for his last semester of seminary. We didn’t know what he would do after because we couldn’t move out of state until Jellybean’s case was closed.

Today, he works for the seminary that we both love so much as he looks and waits for the Pastoral role God has planned for him. It’s the perfect job as we wait.

A year ago, we were trusting that though things were so uncertain, the Lord would provide and lead and care for us and our family. 

Today, I look at my calendar and see that every. single. day. is marked with a reminder of God’s faithfulness, love, and goodness. It takes my breath away.

Last year, today, in every season of life, in every sorrow and every joy, morning by morning and year by year, “great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me.” 

Update

This is a much more practical post than I usually write, but I wanted to give a picture of how things are going with baby #4! Our last ultrasound was a week ago and I was able to see our healthy baby moving around during the ultrasound, it was an amazing experience! Sadly Matt wasn't able to be there, so we are looking forward to the next ultrasound even more because of that!

As expected from my past experience, I've felt pretty horrible for most of this pregnancy so far. It's hard not to throw myself a pity party most days when I think about just how hard everything about pregnancy has been for me so far. I get so frustrated that I couldn't get pregnant, couldn't stay pregnant, and now that I am pregnant I can't even enjoy it because of how sick I am. My body just hates pregnancy. On top of that, every twinge sets me on edge wondering if something is wrong with the baby, and it just becomes physically and mentally exhausting. I've gone back to work temporarily to fill in for a maternity leave, and thankfully I tend to feel okay at work, but once I get home in the evenings and on days that I'm home my body just crashes and I spend most of my time in bed. Going back to work also means that Jellybean has gone back to daycare where she, and by extension I, catch every bug that goes around the classroom. On top of all of this we have been dealing with some difficult things in Jellybean's case that have taken up time, energy and emotion beyond what caring for her normally requires. It's just been a really hard couple of weeks, I'm hoping and praying the second trimester will bring better things and allow me to fully appreciate and enjoy growing this baby that we've longed for for so long!

On a brighter note, I was able to stop two of my medications this week, bringing my total down to four instead of six daily, which is really exciting to me! The progesterone was a precaution we took for the first 9 weeks, and was by far the most expensive of my medications (a month's worth was more than our rent!) so we are looking forward to not having to pay for it anymore, but I am also hoping that some of my fatigue and nausea will ease up now that I've stopped it. I also had a thyroid check-up this week, and found that the smallest dose of the medication for my hypothyroidism was too much and was causing me to swing in the other direction. I'm hopeful that this is what was causing some of my rapid weight loss and that correcting it will help!

Stopping those two medications leaves me with just my heparin injections twice a day along with baby aspirin to counteract my blood clotting disorder that was responsible for the miscarriages, zofran to try to ease the nausea and vomiting, and my vitamins to make sure baby gets everything he/she needs even though I haven't been able to eat well.

Something we are extremely grateful for right now is that I was able to qualify for medicaid, and even though my OBGYN doesn't normally take medicaid patients, she agreed to make an exception in my case. Initially we were concerned because she was no longer in network with our health sharing group, and we thought we may have to choose between paying out of pocket to continue seeing the doctor I trust, or going to a new doctor who didn't know me or my history and who I hadn't already established trust with, so we are thrilled with these developments and grateful that we won't have to be concerned with medical costs along with everything else, and that I can continue seeing the doctor whom I adore and trust completely with my life and my child's life!

Of course above all we are just thankful that baby is doing well and appears perfectly healthy, and as miserable as the day-to-day is, it really will be worth it to hold this child in my arms! Please continue to pray for all of us; that baby stays healthy, that I start feeling better, that everyone will make the right decisions for jellybean and that those decisions will be made quickly, and for Matt as he has taken on so much to care for all 3 of us during this time and does it so well!

What We’ve Been Waiting For

Stubbornly empty. The results window on the tests, my body. No matter what we try, these have remained stubbornly empty again for the past year. To be honest, we had given up. And then, a sliver of pink, a sliver of hope, and a wave of fear and managing expectations.

3 weeks later I held my breath, waiting. Always expecting the worst, when all of the sudden, we were surrounded by the sound of life. The sound of our child's heart beating strong, the sound of our child living. And suddenly for the first time in years, the tears that spilled out in the ultrasound room were those of joy and not grief. I cannot begin to describe the feeling of seeing and hearing a living child of ours again after so long, and after so much death, and after so much prayer. We're in absolute awe. Our faint pink sliver of hope had grown into an unmistakable person. Where a week before there was a tiny blip on a screen, there was now clearly a baby, our baby, his or her head and arms clearly distinguishable, and we peered into that sacred space, and saw the Lord knitting him or her together with care. I've never seen any of my children grow before, what a strange thing to realize, what a beautiful, miraculous thing to see.

Though we've told many of our friends and family, I've hesitated to share our fourth child with the world in this format. Part of me still feel presumptuous, as if believing that this child will continue living is somehow too much to expect. Part of me desired for this news to come in the form of a triumphant announcement, with certainty and confidence, fanfare, and balloons. And of course I still know what it's like to see woman after woman receive their happy news, while I was left waiting, wondering if mine would ever come, I have no desire to add to anyone's grief, I sincerely hope that I will not do so by going about it in this way. We’ve just spent so many years now being honest and open about our journey, we've spent years asking others to come alongside us on our most tender days, and I want to continue to do that. For, though this is a joyful time, this is also a tender and precious time for me; it feels so fragile. Though we rejoice in this life today, we know that tomorrow, it could be gone. I struggle as I remember the seemingly unceasing heartbreak of the last three and a half years, of my last three children, that I have come to expect. I so badly want this to be the child that I hold in my arms. The one who I continue to see grow, and who I have the privilege of raising in the knowledge and love of the Lord, and yet, I can't shake the feeling that to believe that this could truly happen is presumptuous of me; some days tomorrow seems like a lot to ask, let alone a lifetime. But we know that this child's life, days, and soul are in the Lord's hands. Though I have placed us in the hands of the best doctors we know, their care and prescriptions only go as far as the Lord wills, and, though at times his will has brought inexpressible heartbreak, we continue to know that his will is good, because he is good, and he has never failed us. In the tenderness and the triumph, and the uncertain days, and as we get used to this feeling called hope, he is here; loving us, loving this child, holding my tender heart and my fragile child in his sovereign, infinite, all-powerful hands. There is no better place than here, and I am grateful to my core for the peace and hope that I find here day by day.

So friends, we ask that you would rejoice with us, that you would pray with us and for us as we celebrate and as we plead for this child's continuing life and health. Pray that the medications meant to save this child from my own body will work day by day and hour by hour, and pray that we would continue to place our hope and trust in Jesus Christ as we face uncertain days, pray that we would be able to experience joy and excitement rather than anxiety, and of course, pray and praise the Lord for this precious child for whom we have waited and prayed for so, so long!

A Year After Goodbye

I woke up thinking about her this morning. I woke up thinking that when I woke up 1 year ago, I didn’t know I’d tucked her in to bed for the last time. When I left for work that day, I had no idea I’d be getting the call a few hours later: “she’s leaving. You have 2 hours.” I didn’t know I’d break down in the daycare in the arms of the director when I went to bring her to our home for the last time. I didn’t know that the princess who taught me what it was like to be a mom; the indescribable, overwhelming love I never knew I could feel, was going home to her rightful and wonderful new mommy. But Mostly, I woke up today thanking God for her family who loved her and showed up for her and fought for what was right for her every day for two and a half months while we cared for her. I woke up today thinking about what I wish I’d know then that I know now that could have made it easier for all of us, regretting that I didn’t know I could offer FaceTime and open communication. I woke up today remembering that the hardest thing I’ve ever done, was also one of the best; I handed a happy, healthy, loved child off to her people; we did what we’d signed up to do: we said goodbye. And it was hard, and it was right, and it was good, and I thank God every day that I know without a doubt that the precious girl who I rocked to sleep, and nursed back to health, and snuggled, and sang to is just as deeply and wonderfully loved today as she was a year ago. That’s not something every foster parent can say. It’s not something we can always say about each of our foster-loves, and we don’t take it for granted when we can. I didn’t expect this day to be so full of memories and emotion for me a year later, but we loved her so much more than we could have ever imagined, she made us parents, and she made us fall in love with fostering; she played a part in our story. And more than anything, I’m privileged to have played a small part in hers; a story that continues on without us, but which continues on full of love and care and happiness with her own people, right where she belongs. 

Because He Lives

"Most people only do this once." Most people only become a parent once, and become childless once. Most people have a few kids, raise them to adulthood, and then those children become adults, leave their childhood home and go out on their own. Us? We become parents on a few hours notice, and we might become childless again just as fast, and come back to empty cribs and empty schedules. We are foster parents without biological or adopted children, and that puts us in a very unique position.

I worry about most of the same things other foster parents do when our kids leave us, because for however long they've been with us, I've been responsible for making sure they are safe and healthy and loved. Being asked to suddenly just stop feeling those things and let someone else whom I've hardly met take that over is honestly like asking the impossible. But there's more to a child leaving than that when that child was your only child. When a child leaves my house, my motherhood leaves with them. When I hand over my foster-child, I hand over a part of who I have been for the last however long I've fed, and changed, and played with and sang to and cuddled, and comforted that child and tucked them in at night. Suddenly I have no-one who I am responsible for keeping happy and healthy and safe anymore, and suddenly all this love and protectiveness that I have for my kids has nowhere to go again. We make that transition that most people only make once, over and over and over again and to a much more permanent end than most parents ever experience. Over and over and over again it's worth it. And over and over and over again it hurts like crazy. And over and over and over again, it leaves me longing for the day when I have a child who I will never have to say goodbye to. One I can look in the eye and say "I will be here for you every. single. day. until the Lord calls me home." We never intend for a foster-child to fill that void in our lives, but the taste of parenthood it gives us leaves us longing for parenthood the way the Lord intended: permanent and uninterrupted.

I did one of those "ask your spouse" things on facebook the other day. One of the questions was "what am I afraid of?" Matt's answer to what I am afraid of? Childlessness. My husband knows me well. When faced with the idea of a foster-child leaving, half of my fear is for the child, and half of it is for myself. I love being a momma. It's literally all I've ever wanted to do with my life. Every night when I was a little girl I would go to bed imagining I was grown and married and raising my children, and I couldn't wait to grow up and do just that. I always thought I knew exactly what my purpose was. I knew it from the time I was 4 years old. I even jokingly refer to my Children and Family Ministries BA as my "Homeschool-Mom Degree." Yet, here I am: 26 years old, married for four and a half years, and three and a half years into unsuccessfully attempting to conceive and carry a biological child, and I've realized I have an identity crisis. If I wasn't made to be a mom, then I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing instead.

Being a foster-mom has allowed me to fulfill that purpose when I have a child under my roof. I am grateful for the opportunity to work out this calling in this way, and in some ways, yes, It has been a salve; it has been a privilege to see God bring healing and love to hurting hearts (ours and theirs). However, if I'm not careful, it can leave me more discontent and afraid than ever before. I allow a good and godly calling to become my identity, and the thought of losing that identity on top of a hard goodbye to a child I love becomes terrifying and crippling to me some days. As a foster-mom with no forever kids, I have to constantly be checking my heart and my motives for what I'm doing, because the temptation to desire for a foster-child to fix the sadness in my life caused by infertility and miscarriage is always there. If I give in to that temptation, I am no longer here for the right reasons. If I cease to pray for their birth parents and biological family, then I am failing in this calling. If I am crippled with anxiety over the thought of an empty crib, I have ceased fulfilling a godly calling, and have bowed down to the idol of motherhood.

I was talking with a counselor recently about the line between godly desire and idolatry, and he explained that an idol is made when a good-desire becomes a demand of God or someone else. I've had to reflect on exactly what this means for a couple of weeks, and have realized that if I demand motherhood in order to fulfill God's command to be joyful and content in all circumstances, if I believe that I cannot follow God's law without being a mother, I have made an idol of it and have implied in my heart that Christ's death and resurrection were not enough for me to be set free from sin, but that I must also have something else in addition to it. But the reality is that "by his divine power, God has given us everything we need for living a godly life." (2 Peter 1:3).

This doesn't mean that a foster-child leaving is easy. It doesn't mean that making the transition between not-parent to parent and back again is to be done without grief. It is, however, to be done with our trust and identity placed firmly in Jesus Christ and his all-sufficiency. After my first miscarriage, I spent a long time processing what had happened and what my response had been, and I found myself asking these questions of myself: "if I have to go through that again, will I be able to glorify God more tomorrow than I did before? Will I be able to see the difference between my selfish desires, and righteous grief and anger at the fallen nature of our world and lives better next time? What am I doing now to prepare myself to glorify God more and see truth more clearly when the next hard thing comes my way?" Through nothing other than God's grace and mercy and work in my hard heart, I really was able to do so when I faced the death of two more of my children. My post "When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll" remains to this day my favorite thing I've ever written, not because of me, but because through writing it, I was able to see just how radically I had been changed and sanctified by God's goodness and love over the hardest two years of my life. I pray that he will continue doing that work in my heart as we continually place ourselves in the back-and-forth nature of being foster-parents without forever children, so that I may love God, our foster-children, and our children's families better each day.

Being foster-mom is wonderful and it's hard, and it's scary, and I'm not doing this perfectly. I need grace and mercy and forgiveness and sanctification every single day, so that tomorrow I can glorify God more than I did today. Then when goodbye comes, and I say goodbye to another child and I set aside motherhood one more time, I am not lost and aimless in this life; my hope, my purpose, my identity, and everything that I need for life and godliness are perfectly supplied in Jesus Christ, because he lives.

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow
Because He lives, all fear is gone
Because I know He holds the future
And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

To the People we Forced into Fostering

I was talking with another foster-mom last week about some hard things we have to face and do as those with the privileged position of foster-parent, and we were talking about our families reactions to those hard things. And I realized, we, the foster-parents, signed up for every bit of joy and heartbreaking grief that comes our way in this journey, and we force a lot of people along for the ride, willingly or not.

The most common objection I hear from those who don't foster, is "I I'd get too attached." As foster parents we're okay with that. I honestly don't believe I'll love my biological children more than the little love sleeping 6 feet to my left right now, and I know that it's likely this child will leave me one day, and I may never see her again. It terrifies me to think about, but I keep going, keep loving, keep hoping and praying the best for her and her family even as it rips my heart out to think about the personal pain I will experience as an answer to those prayers. And I'm okay with that. I decided to be okay with that a long time ago. My parents, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, my in-laws, my closest friends, our church family, were never given the choice to be okay with it. We drop these precious child in their lives, who you can't help but ADORE, and they love them so, so well. And then our kids leave, and though as foster parents we bear the brunt of that grief, our family and friends bear it too, with no choice, and no training. They stand alongside us as we try to explain that it's okay and it's good, and it's freaking hard, as we all wrestle with the profound and uncomfortable dissonance of foster care and the unnaturalness of the relationships formed and torn apart by it. 

Many foster-parents have little support from their friends and family when they tell them they are going to welcome foster children into their homes. Many people lose friends over it, and strain family relationships. Because foster care IS scary. Loss is scary. Trauma behaviors and poor mental health are scary. The unknown is scary. Staring deep, dark brokenness in the face is terrifying. 

So I want to say thank you. To the foster-grandparents and foster-extended-family, for including and spoiling our children just like any other grandchild, for reading them bedtime stories over video chat, and sending clothes and books and toys, and snuggling every chance you get. To the foster-neighbors and foster-friends, who show up big every time we have a need, who are excited to meet our little ones regardless of how long they may stay, and for trying to understand the intricacies and commitments of foster care. To every single one of you who loves our babies, and fosters them alongside us knowing that doing so means you, too, will experience the heartache of goodbye, and who prays hard for their families anyway. To everyone who had no say in our decision to foster, but jumped in alongside us instead of turning away, we're blown away by you, we're grateful for you, and we couldn't do this without you. We love you and thank God for the blessing you are to us and to the children who we all have the privilege of caring for in our lives for a time, and treasuring in our hearts forever. We love y'all, thank you for loving us.