Behind the Picket Fence

She stood there, cautiously baring her heart to me. Her words said to me that she thought I had it together. She thinks I know what the heck I’m doing every day when I wake up and all the things from near and far are calling my name. 

Instantly my mind went back to a few days ago when I found myself weeping uncontrollably under the covers and pillows on my bed, my bedroom door locked to the demands of my kids, and my heart physically aching in my chest because I miss my jungle family so much and the loneliness is sometimes too much for me to stand under, so I cave. 

Turns out, I’m human like the rest of ‘em.

My house has a white picket fence. It’s quintessential irony calls to me every day when I check the mail or take out the trash or mow the lawn in the monotonous day to day. 

I gave this all up once, you know. Willingly. Joyfully. I turned it all in for a life overseas. All that I had been called to became my reality. 

And then Jesus said, suddenly and unexpectedly, it was time to sacrifice a different way. 

It was the harder to say yes that time. 

Now I find myself at Walmart and still, two years back on this side of the border, I fight another anxiety attack because the aisles seem so long and toilet paper options seem like a task of decision making prowess that I’m just not equipped for. 

But those are not the photos we put on social media are they? Of our struggle to reconcile broken dreams with the beautiful life given. Of not being able to relate or not being understood because suddenly you are thousands of miles from everyone who knows you best. 

I never post an instastory of me losing it with my daughter because the lies seem insurmountable and never ending and five years into this confusing and refining role of adoptive mom to a child with a hurtful past, I still feel as lost as ever many (most?) days. And there are harsh words and apologies and lies followed by truth revealed and lessons learned for both of us. Tears and hugs and another step forward after two steps back. 

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do to face myself in this mirror of adoption. And it’s a lonely road when others just don’t get it. 

And I have never snapped a selfie when I’m crying on the bathroom floor, shoulders slumped because I feel so inadequate and useless under the weight of raising awareness for the many tangible needs of our jungle family. I struggle to find the balance of here-meets-there, where kids are being abused on every corner and we need funds to reach them but also laundry is piling up and my own kids need me to teach them math and reading and how to tie their shoes.

These just scratch the surface of the social-media “non-worthy” items. 

All the while Jesus whispers to me every day, “Cease from striving.” I can almost hear it as though it were an audible voice calling to me. 

And I don’t know yet what it looks like to live that out. 

So I wake up early and lean in hard. I physically open my hands, achy heart and shaky knees, and ask Jesus to show me He is real here, too, in what feels like lonely loss. He wasn’t only real back when I thought I knew His plans for my life. My preconceived and naive ideas of who He is and what He has called me to isn’t enough. He is bigger and better and His ways are true and good. 

My calling is not to know all the things. It is to trust Him. To look to Him alone.

Even when I feel lost and inadequate. Even when I see another Facebook post that reminds me I’m here and not there or this way and not that. 

I shut out the voices that can't see my heart and I trust the One who can.

It still leaves me breathless in tears many days. It’s ok to grieve what was lost (or perhaps just reassigned). 

Most days, I choose to run back into hope and gratefulness. And you see it. 

Other days, I collapse in sadness, fear, doubt. And you don’t. 

So when I post a photo on Instagram and it appears that I’m living a perfect life, remember it’s my highlight reel. There is a behind the scenes, too.

But instead of focusing on all that feels taken, I focus on what is given. 

Rather than honing in on what makes my heart ache inside my chest, I hone in on what makes my soul glad. 

In place of what appears to have been lost, I look for what I know to be found. 

Because wouldn’t you know it, that adorable white picket fence doesn’t close properly. You have to lift it up and pull it ever so particularly for it to shut all the way. Life’s like that, too. No matter what it may look like on the outside, it’s always harder and more finicky than you think it should be. 

Don’t believe the lie that says anyone has it all together. They don’t. You don’t. I don’t. We are all just humans with struggles. 

And really, if you think about it, that’s good news... because it is precisely why we all need Jesus.

These Demons are Pretty

“Go watch Elliott,” Richard said to me very seriously.

I stepped into the kitchen in our tiny wooden jungle home and looked out onto the back patio where Elliott liked to play in the big water basin. He was three and a half and full of imagination and wonder at all the things the world had to offer. I watched as he played contently, then glanced up into the virgin jungle behind our home. Then a smiled spread across his face as he waved enthusiastically. That’s when my own smile faded.

The Ugly Side of Adoption

If you find yourself encouraged, follow my new blog at www.streamsandthorns.com for more posts like this one.

I found this entry the other day while randomly flipping through an old journal:

“January 2, 2013

Today, sort of in passing and sort of without even realizing it, I prayed a prayer.

‘Do something great through me… No matter what it takes.’

I meant it when I prayed it, but my next thought was: ‘Uh-oh.’”

Dear Ashley from almost two years ago: that next thought was very appropriate.

You see we used to have the “ideal” family. I'll never forget when I was pregnant the second time and we found out we were having a girl and how perfect that was for us. We had our boy and now our girl to complete the balance. Two little picture-perfect blonde haired, blue-eyed beauties.

We always talked about bringing another child into the family down the road. Maybe adopt from Africa or Asia, a newborn who needed a home. We could do that in a few years, no problem.

I did not anticipate that later that same year we would move to a little town called Benjamin Constant and that shortly thereafter, when Raegan was just 4 months old, we would meet a little brown-eyed girl that would rewrite everything we knew about parenthood and ourselves. I will never forget the night I laid there in bed and told Richard I felt like we should pray about adopting her.

I had no idea--not the slightest clue--what I was praying for.

I remember discussing the challenges we knew we would face. The language barrier, the physical and mental delays, the criticism from the locals; we knew it would be difficult.

Those things now seem like child's play.

When you hear people talk about adoption, you hear about how beautiful it is, this Gospel picture. I say it myself. The idea of redeeming a child from pain and suffering and hopelessness is undeniably inviting. To be a part of bringing hope and life to a child is one of our callings as followers of Christ. Beautiful indeed.

What we do not hear a whole lot about, however, is the ugly side.

Without tragedy, there is no need for adoption. If something were not broken, there would be no need to fix it.

If it were not for the fact that something went terribly wrong, adoption would not be necessary. Be it death or abuse or abandonment, intentional or otherwise, there is a tragic reason this child is in need of a different family from the one that shares the same bloodline and facial features. There is a broken past with every single adopted child out there and it leaves a mark. Sometimes that mark is a faded scar that is barely noticeable to the untrained eye.

Other times, it is a gaping flesh wound that needs constant attention and care.

God chose to give us the latter.

And it has been ugly.

Because nothing prepares you for having to hold down that sought after child as she kicks and screams, “I want to go back to the street!!” And all because you are doing what no one else in her life ever has: you are loving her.

I will never forget googling “What if I don’t like my adopted daughter” and the relief I felt when articles actually popped up, announcing that these feeling of mine are actually common.

In August, she completed one year in our home—and the single hardest year of our life. I look back at the child who stepped into our home that Friday night. Her scalp was so full of infection that the doctors prescribed four different medications to heal it. Her teeth were little pieces of black and brown bone jutting from her infected gums. Her hair was brittle and orange in color from lack of nutrition. Her eyes were wild, pupils enlarged as she tried to understand what was happening, her body conditioned to remain in a constant state of fight or flight. She carried her small backpack full of dirty, hole-ridden clothing that a person would not even consider donating to Goodwill.

This isn’t what it should look like, a family bringing in another. It should be that her biological mother tucks her in at night, along with her 7 biological siblings, assuring them of love and care. They should laugh together and go on outings together and she should know the love of a family with siblings and parents that look like her, speak like her. She should know the value of discipline and should be taught consequence.

But we live in a fallen world where parents leave their own to roam the streets because they never knew any different themselves.

So our life as we knew it was destroyed that day. It was destroyed for the sake of redeeming this one. But we never knew what that would entail.

It has been painful.

No adoption is pain free. I am not referring to the hours spent at the courthouse or the paperwork that seems insurmountable. I do not mean the waiting game of home visits and Psychologist appointments.

Those are the easy parts, my friends.

The hard part is loving. And that is the part I never anticipated.

Shortly after our daughter moved in, the giddiness of having a new child wore off. It was like having a newborn to care for except that this newborn had been in survival mode for six and half years and thought she had a better idea than you of what she needed. The lies began and the manipulation commenced and suddenly, after just three months of having what now felt like a stranger in our home, we began to recoil.

“What have we done?” I would ask myself, remembering our “perfect” family of four.

I would scroll through my Facebook newsfeed and the pictures of perfect families would dance across my screen, almost taunting me. I would close the app feeling guilt, regret, confusion. Pain.

I often say if we had known what we were getting into before we got into it, we wouldn’t have gotten into it. And I know that is exactly why God does not often reveal His plans for us, because we would run away in fear of the trials that lie before us, not valuing the refining process that makes us a just a little more like Him.

Yesterday I looked at her as she sat across the table from me, unaware of my thoughts. Her hair is dark brown now and shines in the light. Her teeth, bright white and clean. We have had to buy her new shoes three times this year as her body catches up to the size it should be for her age. She is able to read now, something we had all but given up hope on as she didn’t know the difference between a letter and a number this time last year.

She is beautiful on the outside—a whitewashed wall.

Because you don’t raise yourself on the street for six and a half years with no consequence. So the lies and manipulation and disobedience flow so naturally to her that at times she doesn’t even perceive it. She resists our love. She has yet to grasp the fact that she no longer has to protect herself; she is safe here. So she hides behind the walls she built so long ago of self-preservation and self-focus and replaces each brick as we attempt to take them down.

There is a common perception out there that implies that adoption, because it is a concept based on the Gospel and because it is redeeming a child from their orphan status, is simple. Of course, we may be quick to admit that the process is complicated. The attorney and the judge and the biological parents or the orphanage and the paperwork and the waiting and the waiting and the waiting… that part is hard, but then—THEN—it’s smooth sailing.

“All we need is love.” Right?

Adoption is far from simple.

I see heart-warming adoption quotes on social media all the time, especially in this month of November that is National Adoption Awareness Month. In fact, not long ago I stumbled across my own “Adoption” board on my Pinterest that coincidentally I created about the same time that journal entry was written and couldn’t help but laugh out loud and what my picture of adoption looked like back then. Back before the long nights and tears and confusion and calling out to God.

Because once the Facebook pictures are posted and the excitement dies down over this new addition, you find yourself face to face alone with a reality that you did not stop to consider before:

Yes, the Gospel is a picture of adoption into the family of Christ. And the Gospel includes immense amounts of suffering. Without death, there is no redemption. Without pain, there is no joy in victory.

Over a year has passed now and mostly we are thankful that we have survived. In the beginning, all day, every day was consumed with teaching truth and consequence, faith and repentance, and trying to discern the truth from the lies. And now most days are still that way but they have become graciously spaced out to where sometimes we actually feel like a functioning family of five on some level or another.

Grace from Heaven.

Why do I say all this? Not for a pity party, I assure you. We are taught to rejoice in our sufferings because it is through them that we are formed more into the image of our Savior.

I say it, believe it or not, as an encouragement. I have read several blog posts and books this past year and the ones that encouraged me most were the ones that said something to this effect, ‘This adoption thing? It’s hard. You are going to fail at times. You are going to cry and ask ‘why?’, possibly often. You are going to feel overwhelmed. And guess what: sometimes you are going to struggle to love. But it is ok because you, on your own, can’t love anyway. It is impossible. But the good news is that through Christ, you can love unconditionally and without reciprocation. Hang in there. His mercy is new every day. And His grace is sufficient.’

So to my fellow adoptive parents, who find themselves overwhelmed and overcome and cringe when they see the idealized photos of adoption: do not give up. God has a purpose for this child and part of it is to refine you and teach you what unconditional love really looks like—messy. Another part—maybe the biggest—is to give you the slightest glimpse of the pain that Christ went through and the miracle it is that He can love us as He does. Oh, the miracle.

To those in the adoption process, do not let this discourage you, but also don’t write me off. There is a certain naivety in every new adoption. I know, I have been there and I believe that is also God’s grace measured out to us. Often God keeps us blinded to the realities of the trials we will face in order to grow our faith. It is necessary. “Oh, but you adopted an older child/out of birth order/foreign speaker. I’m adopting a newborn/young child/English speaker,” you may say. Irrelevant my friends. I know personal stories of children adopted from birth that have immense struggles. So listen to those who have gone before and prepare your hearts. Pray for God to prepare you in ways that you do not even realize that you need to be prepared. Pray for faith and endurance. Pray for peace and hope. You will need all of these as you embark on this journey.

For those who are reading this and have had a “smooth” attachment to your adopted child, hold your judgment. Instead of casting stones, throw up some prayers for those who adopted the more severely injured, those struggling to love, and those who dread another day. Be careful not to become self-righteous because your experience looks different. Rejoice that God chose to give you a child with less baggage in tow.

This adoption thing is ugly. It takes time for broken things to mend. It takes time for wounds to heal.

But you know what’s amazing about it all?

He gives beauty for ashes. And that, my friends, is beautiful indeed.

{UPDATE: You can read my follow up blog The Ugly Side of Me}

One Year Later

In some ways it seems like yesterday and in others it seems like decades, but it was in fact one year ago today that we left behind what we knew as “home” to begin a new journey, four years in the making.

Looking back, I feel like we were just babies, taking our first steps.

We are different people now. In a lot of ways.

I sit here on the couch in a wooden house, listening to the sounds of the Jungle outside, realizing that this very place that we now call home wasn’t even on our radar back then.

There is a young family of Jagua Indians living in our guest room with their baby girl who almost died in that same room just a couple months back. We didn’t know that she, along with her Mama and Daddy, would fill our hearts and home when Richard first met her back in January. They are now the focus of our discipleship as we pour into them so they can pour into their people one day.

There’s a six year old girl sleeping in a bed right next to Elliott’s who, Lord willing, will one day carry our last name. We didn’t know that when God closed the door for us to move into the village that he would plant us right down the road from our future daughter. Her little eyes haveseen things no child should see and she asks the same questions over and over every day, just longing for reassurance and security. And we begin to walk this journey of adoption together, realizing this picture of the Gospel.

There’s a three-year-old boy, our first born, who is sleeping in that same room. His neck is swollen with Mumps right now and over the last year he’s had his fair share of illness, but boy is he a trooper, bringing life and laughter everywhere he goes. When we started this journey his was a pacifier addict, strutting around in Pampers. Now he sports batman undies and Daddy taught him how to use a machete. He speaks two languages and is learning his third, often correcting me along the way. The kid’s a beast.

There’s a squishy little 9.5 month old Brazilian who might just be the happiest child that God every created sleeping in our bedroom. She came to this country in my belly and, though she has no idea, played a huge role in our ministry here just in her birth. She wakes up with a smile and, on those almost-to-much-to-handle kinda days, her sweet smile offers a mini-vacation from the stress.

There’s a man asleep in our bed that he built with his own hands who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders every day, yet still finds time to play with his kids, read them bedtime stories, brush their teeth, and pray with them. So many times I watch in awe as he works in so many roles, all with the one goal of glorifying Christ.

And then there’s me. I look back at the person I was when we got on that airplane and I think, “I don’t even know that person any more!”

We are changed.

And we are changing.

The days are hard sometimes. You don’t anticipate the loneliness of the mission field. The sun is hot and the needs are many.  Sickness is prevalent and sleep can be hard to come by. Some people will criticize and others will be ungrateful.

Some days you want to give up.

I find, though, that when I stop looking around and start looking up, I begin to see a little more clearly that we aren’t the ones writing this story anyway. It’s a story that started way back before creation. We were born into a story already in progress and one that will continue to be written long after we are gone.

We are just the hands and feet at the end of a dead end street in a tiny town in a small region of a big country on a big planet doing the day to day of what God has called us to in order to make His name famous to the ends of the earth.

This past year has been full of tears, laughter, heartache, joy, sickness, health, loneliness, new friends, opportunities, and redirection. There has been frustration and anger, laughter and relief.

And it’s through all of this that we learn, as Paul says, to be content in whatsoever state we are in… and to become more like our Savior.

Thanks to all of you who have joined us in the journey. Through prayer, encouragement, visiting, and giving, you have been an intricate part of this story, too.

Thanks for walking this journey with us.

It truly is a beautiful one. 

We Are Those People

It's 5:30am on Christmas Eve and I'm wide awake. Not because of the excitement of Christmas less than 24 hours away, but because of a quirky little girl who refuses to fall back asleep unless I'm actively bouncing her rocking chair with my foot. In fact, if it weren't for the calendar telling me today's date, I probably would have forgotten what tomorrow is. It just hasn't felt like Christmas this year.

It occurred to me yesterday, in fact, that we are "those people" this year. The ones everyone says, "Let's remember the people who don't have anyone to spend the holidays with this year."

We have no family here. And the two friends we do have here left today to go on vacation.

And to top it off, it's day five of Elliott being sick. So sick he and Richard spent all day at the hospital on Saturday.

And I started to throw another pity party like I did when Richard and Elliott went to the States without me.

Poor me. Poor us.

*sigh*

And God said, "Really?"

"Yes, really," I said. "We are all alone here. No friends, no family. Elliott's sick. We're all tired from lack of sleep. It doesn't even feel like Christmas.... half of the Christmas lights on our tiny tree went out, for goodness sake!!"

*crickets*

*sigh*

"I thought I was all you wanted for Christmas," He said after a pause long enough to make me realize how ridiculous I am.

Well, yeah. There's that.

The past several Christmases, God has worked in our hearts about the overindulgence that Christmas has become materially. We've done a great job as a society to turn it into a self-centered, retail crazed fiasco rather than a time to remember the God who became Man to rescue a fallen world.

We've forgotten the beautiful, life-giving story behind the season.

This year He's breaking it down even further for me. Not because it's bad to be surrounded by family and friends on Christmas. No, that is in fact good. 

But because He knew my heart needed further refining. 

Because in all my efforts to eradicate the materialism from the holiday, somehow I still didn't get it.

I'm still pouting over the external when God says He wants the purify the internal. My motives, my desires, my goals, my dreams. And He loves me enough to make it hard.

So this Christmas is different. Hard even. We miss family and we long for friends. But our hearts find contentment in the one who is our all in all. The one who became flesh and dwelt among us so that we could live a life of hope and joy, glorifying Him as Creator, Sustainer, All-Sufficient One.

So, yes. We are "those people". The ones Christ died for, redeemed, and now uses every means necessary to make us more like Him. And if it takes a little home-sickness to bring me closer to Him, well, I guess I'll take it. 

"You rejoice in this, though now for a short time you have had to struggle in various trials so that the genuineness of your faith--more valuable than gold, which perishes though refined by fire--may result in praise, glory, and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ."

1 Peter 1.6-7

Merry Christmas, everyone!! I hope this Christmas brings you closer to the One it's all about!

They Want a New Heart, Not a New Culture

The big tank out back filled with rain water that we used to "bathe" was a nice change of pace from the filthy river water we had been using for the last week. Something about rinsing off with water that I could actually see through just made me feel a little bit cleaner, even if the clothes I put on afterward were nowhere near clean. The mud caked on the bottom of my shoes was a pleasant reminder of the slippery trek uphill we had made earlier that day and as I fumbled around in the dark trying to find my towel, I quickly realized it had fallen onto the wet and muddy wooden planks I was standing on.

I smiled because I knew this was soon to be a normal part of my life, and dispite the inconvenience, I loved it.

We settled into the small home of Lolo, a missionary Indian we had met just a few days prior. His entire house was lit by one light bulb and the thin, wooden walls did very little to muffle the sounds of babies crying and dogs barking throughout the village and did absolutely nothing to keep out the resilient mosquitoes who seemed more than pleased with the fresh feast they had found on any exposed area of our bodies.

Lolo's wife and children were out of town so he had asked a little Indian girl to come and cook us dinner: rice, plantains, and fried spam. An interesting combination, but my stomach was telling me loud and clear that it would take ants and slugs if it's all I had to offer. As I watched the sweet Indian chopping garlic cloves and slicing the ripe plantains with a skill that came as natural as breathing, I felt very incompetent. I'm supposed to live up to that? I can barely make spaghetti with canned tomato sauce!

After some light-hearted chit-chat, our new friend Lolo began to share his heart with us. Though he was an Indian himself, he was a foreigner among this particular tribe and he gave us insight on what it truly takes to reach this people group. He told of the first few years of trying to become like them, only to have threats from the locals and problems with theft.

As he shared with us stories of trial and set-backs and frustrations, the overwhelming theme of his conversation was this: Be faithful. Be a servant.

As most Indians, he made little eye contact with us as he shared. He spoke in a quiet voice and nervously squished with his fingers little ants that had scurried onto the table to carry away any leftover rice that had fallen from our plates.

He was humble, teachable. And he was a faithful servant.

For more than eight years he had been faithfully forsaking his own culture, his own habits for the sake of becoming like this tribe he was living in. He didn't do this because he had to or even because he wanted to. As a matter of fact he shared with us his youthful desires of moving to the city and pursuing a career that was much more promising than being a missionary to this people group. His birth tribe has an ancient history of conflict with this tribe that he now considers family. It was no easy transition, but he was happy because he knew God was in it.

As I sat there, smacking mosquitoes on my legs and trying to hear his whispered voice above the sounds of the village settling in for the night, I felt both overwhelmed and excited.

I was overwhelmed because I saw in a new light what it was going to mean to forsake everything for the sake of the Gospel. I've never struggled with selling all of our possessions here in the States. As a matter of fact, the closer we get to our big move, the more ready I am to get rid of it all! The idea of leaving our families is painful at times, but I console myself knowing that we will likely see them at least one a year and, with the way technology is advancing, it's likely we'll have easy communication within the next couple of years.

But as I sat there listening to what Lolo was really saying, below the surface of his stories, I was realizing something completely new to me. I am going to have to sacrifice my culture, my very nature. I am going to have to unlearn 25 years of habit and thought process. I am going to have to surrender everything about myself.

It's that serious.

He explained that we must look like them, act like them, and think like them if we ever hope to reach them. And while I guess I've thought of that before, as I sat there in this dimly lit house I realized for the first time that it really did mean everything.

He told us stories of other missionaries who had come in and tried to live like they always had in their home country, just in a different place and how the tribe always rejected them. He told of well-meaning people coming in and trying to tell them to dress different and cut their hair to please God.

"It never works," he said. "They want to know God. They want to hear the truth and have hope. But they also want to be Indians. They don't want to change their culture. They want to change their hearts."

And then I had this overwhelming feeling of excitement. It had to be the Holy Spirit inside of me, because my flesh was saying, "It's impossible, honey. Have you seen how white your skin is? One thing you won't be doing is fitting in!"

But the Holy Spirit was saying, "I've created you for this. This is just the beginning. This is the excitement in the journey. This is what it's all about: sacrificing it all of the sake of the Cross. Not just possessions, but person."

And that's when my fears began to melt and I realized that I can't do it.

No way could I ever do this. I can't forget who I am. What am I supposed to do with the years of American culture built into my mind and heart? What am I supposed to do with my manners and instincts that are in conflict with so many of the Indian traditions?

And the Holy Spirit said, "Good, you finally get it."

I can't do it, but that's the point. God can and He will. My only job is to die to myself daily.

Lolo says that they will expect our doors to always be open. So they will.
Lolo says that they will expect to be able to come to dinner without notice. So they will.
Lolo says that they will burp after the meal if they think it was good. So I pray they burp!
Lolo says that they will expect our home to look just like theirs. So it will.
Lolo says that they will expect us to have a canoe like them. So we will.
Lolo says that they will expect us to wash our clothes in the river and bathe with rainwater. So we will.

Lolo says that they won't even begin to listen to us about our God until we act like them, talk like them, and think like them.

It'll be hard to adapt to a culture so very different from my own. But if that's what it takes to break down the barriers and to reach them with the Truth for the glory of God, then by the grace of God that's what we'll do.

It's going to be hard. Really hard. But isn't God's glory worth that?

I mean, that's sort of the whole point, right?