Grief hits in the unexpected.

We got an email from our adoption agency yesterday letting us know we are getting close to the time when we need to complete our two year post-placement report.

My brain just stared at the words on the screen.

How could this be true?

How on EARTH are we at this point?

It doesn’t feel like we should be here…


Two years!  I’m thankful that a little over two years ago I was blissfully unaware of how challenging life would be as we neared the two year mark.

I sighed.  I moved on. Because that’s what life does.  There’s no pause button.

Last night, the kids were all tucked into bed asleep and I was reading before bedtime.  I reached into my bedside table drawer to find something to use as a bookmark.  I happened to grab a picture of our oldest daughter sitting with Cinderella at Disney World.  She was five and a half at the time… the exact same age Julianne is now.  I completely lost it.  The grief of all of the lost time, lost attachment, lost everything just crashed on me.  The realization that two years is NOTHING when it comes to healing her hurts made me feel like I was gasping for air. I know that we haven’t even scratched the surface on all of the pain associated with abandonment and loss and that knowledge is suffocating. The magnitude of the differences between a five-and-a-half year old who was brought up in a stable, safe home versus a five-and-a-half year old who was not is breathtaking.

Many days we just plug along, doing what we do every day, and the past seems to fade a little.  And then there are days like yesterday when grief whips itself up into a tsunami and seems bent on destruction.

I’ve grown accustomed to walking with Julianne through her grieving processes, but I realized yesterday I rarely allow myself the necessary time to grieve for myself.  It’s important.  I cannot hide or change the fact that adoption has rocked my world, nor the fact that I don’t always appreciate the rocking.

I mourned. I am mourning.

There are days when it’s just too much.

Sometimes, the post ends well.  There’s encouragement.  There’s a silver lining.

It’s okay to be surrounded by the flames. It’s okay for the waves to crash.  I know this. Something good is happening, I just can’t see that right now.

And so… the post just ends.




I’m sitting on my closet floor typing this.

Because sometimes a mama just needs to do that, you know?

The door needs to shut.  The voices need to fade so that all I can hear is myself think for a moment.  And when the silence continues to press down on my eardrums, the voice of the One who sees all of this insanity swirling around me and somehow calls it “good” can be heard a little louder.

Gosh.  I wish I had a candy bar right about now. 

The door isn’t thick enough… the walls continue to seep as if they too have reached their saturation point of noise.  Even in silence, noise echoes.

Someone shared a thought about adoption recently that has been rattling around in my head and like the crashing of cymbals, the sound of this thought has left my head ringing.  It was in relation to our cups not being automatically filled with love when we meet our newly adopted child.  If you read that and you’re horrified, I’d encourage you to read no further.

Yes.  It’s true.  Though we know this child is ours when we meet them, they don’t necessarily feel like ours automatically.  That’s not the case with the birth of the children from our bodies.  As women, we are flooded with hormones created by the One who calls all of this good so that we can automatically and completely love this squalling, red-faced, wrinkled tiny human we hold.  And it’s bliss.  Nobody’s baby is cuter that a freshly minted mama’s baby.  Truth.

Those hormones aren’t there when we meet our new children via adoption.  There are emotions, sure, but the hormone rush is conspicuously absent.  We love our child, but it feels like more work than it should at times.

We press on.

The cup of love that is filled to the brim and overflowing when we first lay eyes on our children-by-birth is handed to us empty when we meet our children-by-adoption.  We hold the cup, feeling a little silly to be holding an empty cup.  There’s a deep part of us that knows this cup isn’t made to be empty.  It’s made for a holding of something holy and precious and yet it’s utterly failing to meet its purpose.

Drip. Drip. Drop.

Slowly.  EVER so slowly, the drops start to plink into the cup.

Our child looks at us and makes eye contact.


Our child lets us hold them without stiffening their back and arching away.

Drip, drop.

Our child lets us snuggle them, fix their hair, feed them food.

Drop after drop after drop.

The drops require real work from us.  We have to fight for those smiles.  Fight for the safety our child feels.  We fight for their hearts and their hugs.  And it takes so much out of us. The cup that is slowly being filled is constantly requiring to be emptied into the lives of our child, and there are times when it feels like it will never be enough.

On my own?  It’s not enough. It will NEVER be enough for me to fight for the filling on my own.  I AM NOT ENOUGH.  But Him?  The One who breathes stars into existence?

He is always more than enough.

The One who sees this crazy mama sitting on the floor of her closet about to completely lose her ever-loving mind whispers, and the whisper darts quick and sure straight to my heart…

I got this. 

Let me…

And, He does.

He fills.

To overflowing.

And the cup is able to be poured out. It’s purpose, MY purpose is found not just in the filling but in the pouring.

From the floor of my closet, I’m hear to tell you this…

I may not know much and I may mess up mightily on a daily basis, but it doesn’t matter.  According to the One who knows exactly how badly I’d like to curl up under the covers and hide from the world sometimes… I’m worth fighting for, too.  He walked me into this crazy and has never left my side.

So for tonight, I let him do the filling.  He’ll have to use me when it comes time to pour out, and I’m okay with that.  Humbled, even.  I’m far from worth the goodness being spilled over into my heart right now.

And when it comes time to whisper the words of truth my mouth is weary of repeating, I find new strength; a strength not my own.

“Mom?  Why you love me?”

“Because God put enough love in my heart to love all of my babies, including you.  Forever.”

Drip. Drip. Drop.

The cup begins refilling all over again.

It’s tedious to watch the drops slowly fill the cup anew, but it is a filling worth fighting for.




Twenty months ago the dance began.  We saw things happening that no child should have experienced.  Even with all of the training we did, we saw behaviors we were surprised by. We felt fear.  We felt panic.

When will this end?

Will it ever end?

Forever is a long time, you know…

We slowly learned to dance with her, learning her quirks and habits and allowing her the space and time to draw closer to us as she slowly felt safer.

Time.  So much time, and often, too little patience.

I want results, people!  I want to see fruits of our efforts!  


And while there have been tremendous changes in both us and her… the dance continues.

Hidden trauma resurfaces.  New stories are shared.  Buried pain is unearthed…

prompted by change, new events, new schedules.

The desperation to belong is strong,  old behaviors suddenly seem to be what feel safe again… trust has to be relearned.

Frustration bubbles and rises inside me.

When will this end?

Will it ever end?

The dance continues.

Turns out, the dance never ended.  It’s continuous, this one-two-three step with her… learning to lean in when we want to back away, learning to open up when we want to shut down, learning to recognize and call out the fears that threaten to swamp us again.

Not just her.

Me, too.

And so we start again.  A new round to a dance we already know, but this time twirling is accented by hope bubbling up over the frustration.

Lean in.  Breath deeply.

We can do this.





Many people who haven’t adopted and admire those who have think that we have rescued our child.

Truth is, we’re the rescued ones.

Rescued from selfishness.

Rescued from anger.

Rescued from a worldview that says doing “fun things” is more important than adding more kids to the family.

Rescued from believing it’s all about us.

Rescued from blindness as it concerned the orphan crisis worldwide.

Rescued from the easy life.

Rescued from fear as we completely let go of everything that seems “practical” to answer a call we know is purely divine.

Rescued from thinking we have to do it all, or have it all, or be it all.

Us?  The rescuers?


Not even close.

We are the least worthy, the least able, the least capable.

We lack patience many days, we lack freedom to drop everything and travel, we lack personal space pretty much all the time.

We are tired, unqualified, and overwhelmed.

According to society, we’re a tiny bit crazy; there is no good, practical, reasonable way to explain why WE should be walking this path… it’s not easy.  It never will be.  And yet…

When she looks at us and joyfully recounts how God told us to go to China to get her… when she repeats the well-worn tale of the day we got her… when she giggles as we tell stories about our time in her birth country…

When she sits through agonizing medical procedures and sings a song… when she pats my hand and tells me I can do hard things… when she wraps her arms as tightly as she can around my neck when I kiss her goodnight…

Knowing that a simple three letter word resulted in this daughter being placed in our family…

We are the rescued ones.






messy joy

Sometimes the mess of life makes my order-loving heart beat an uneven rhythm as I dwell on the clean-up to come. 
Not today. Messy is good. Messy is what every day is. Family is messy. Loving each other well when we’re tired is messy. Being kind to each other when our instinct is self-preservation is messy. 

But there is great joy to be found if we choose to look for it. 

There is dying to self in the mess. There’s awareness of who we were, who we are, and who God is calling us to be. 

There is awareness that complacency is death, and desperation can be life-giving if we allow the questions we ask to be answered by our perfect Father.

So… bring on the messy things. The end result is always worth it. 

“The lavender is more rare,” he told me in the crowded marketplace teeming with voices and noises completely different from those I was accustomed to at home.  I glanced down at the little face, the rare butterfly who flitted into my life and knew the circle of lavender is what I needed. One day, I would be able to tell her the story about why I chose the palest purple rather than the tradition green.  She will know why I hold the cold circle to my mouth to feel it gradually warm against my lips.  It’s a reminder to love the rare things in life; a reminder of those days when our family was first being forged into something new and beautiful.  A lavender jade kind of beauty.

lavender jade 3 blog copy

Earlier in the summer, we had a precious vial of Julianne’s blood drawn in order to undergo genetic testing.  Specifically, we wanted to learn more about the type and sub-type of EB she has.  Epidermolysis Bullosa is rare.  Lavender jade rare.  There are several types and a plethora of sub-types within each type.  Because the physical symptoms vary so much between people even within the same type or sub-type, we felt that knowing more information might help us take a glance into her future; we knew it was information she would one day want to know.

After eight weeks of waiting, we got her results back, and though I had secretly hoped for clear-cut “this is what she has” print on our paper copy, it wasn’t quite conclusive.  The type is conclusive, and exactly what I’ve thought she had since Day One.  The sub-type is the mystery.  A lavender jade mystery.

There are cases where what’s on the inside (genotype) doesn’t match what’s on the outside (phenotype).  These cases are unique, and no one really knows why it happens.  There are guesses, assumptions, and suppositions, but no concrete knowledge.  It looks like she’s one of these unique cases; surprisingly, she’s more unique than even I imagined. Lavender jade unique.

lavender jade 4 blog copy

Why do I mention any of this at all?

Because knowing these details about the way her DNA is bound together has changed me.

I realized a few days after perusing through some medical journals that with the slightest twist, her life, our lives… they would have been vastly different.  With the slightest twist, she may not have exhibited physical signs of EB at all, and chances are strong that she would still be living half a world away from us.  With the slightest twist, she may have exhibited more severe physical signs of EB, and, not knowing anything about it at the start of our adoption process, we may have felt we could not care for her the way she would have needed to be cared for.

My stomach clenched tight at these realizations.  I was not okay with it.  Not okay with her not being here for any reason.  Not okay with remaining unaware of the beauty of the butterfly we call our daughter.

She has caused me to grow and stretch in ways I could have never imagined.  She has taught me what strength in the face of sheer terror looks like.  She has demonstrated bravery in situations that would have caused me to crumble had I not had her steady brown eyes to look into.  Having her has taught me that what’s on the outside 110% doesn’t matter even an inch compared to what’s on the inside.  Her outside screams pain and suffering.  Her inside shines with joy forged in the fire.  It’s a lavender jade kind of joy.

lavender jade 2

The lavender circle is heavy around my neck.  Rare things are to be protected, and our daughter is one of them.  The weight of protecting her hums through my brain, through my blood. Protection as a mandate, as a gift to another mama halfway around the world who wore the same weight years ago.

She is a gift.  I know that now more than ever before.  A lavender jade kind of gift.

Rare.  Precious.  Beautiful.



You look at me and tell me I’m awesome.

I look at you and tell you “awesome” means nothing in the face of the kind of tired I feel many days.


You see me dealing with medical care, appointments, and therapies and wonder how I maintain composure in the face of a life-long diagnosis.

I see me barely holding it all together some days.


You see our large family craziness and say, “That kind of ‘normal’ is not for me!”

I know “normal” is a myth and we all just have to take each day as it comes.


You see my child doing well in her new environment.

I see the battles she had to fight to make it to this place.


You see us and tell us how well adjusted we all are.

I see us and know this current dynamic has been hard won.


You see the dimple creasing her cheek as she giggles and twirls in her favorite dress.

I see her grieving losses she doesn’t completely understand.


You wonder how we manage to do the activities we do.

I often see the things we can’t do.


You applaud my parenting.

I feel despair in the face of my failures.


You say I’m strong.

I know I’m weak.


You say we’ve come so far.

I see how far we have left to go.


But you know what?

I also see the things you see.

Her beauty, resilience, bravery.  My growing patience, wisdom, compassion.

A year ago, I could only see my side of the story, the things you saw were shrouded in gray.   I could only see how far we had to go.  I could only focus on the ways in which life was upside down.  I could only talk about the fears I had for the future.

I’m glad God calls us to do hard things, because that’s when we see a little more of His heart.

I’m thankful for today and the slow shifting of my eyes; more upward.  Less inward.

I’m thankful that HE sees her.  Broken.

I’m thankful that HE sees me.  Broken.

And he heals.

The journey continues.


It’s official.

Summer of 2016 is in the books, and School Year 2016-1017 is off to a great start!

Oh Happy Day


Were you expecting super cute pictures of my kids?


Okay, okay. I did take some pics of them, and, as per the norm, they are adorable.  And one day, I might post a few. But today is a big day not just because it’s their first day of school… it’s MY first day of school, too!   For the past ten years, we have had a child at home in some form or fashion.  Babies, toddlers, homeschoolers, a newly adopted dumpling, and I’ve loved it.  I never ever take for granted that I am able to stay home with my children. Even on the rough days, I know it’s a gift.

I also know I’m going to enjoy this next phase of life.  All four in school right now.  All at the SAME location (!!!), and all excited about their new year.  I can’t wait to be the one who can say “yes” to things I’ve never been able to say yes to before, like helping out with our school’s new dyslexia program.   I am pumped to know that I can make it to every field trip without having to find childcare for the kids still at home.  I can run lunches to them just for fun some days, and *gasp* perhaps even have a lunch or two with the Hubs sans children.  I will be able to hang out and reconnect with friends I haven’t been able to see much of over the past two years, and stroll leisurely-like through a grocery store while pushing a cart.

It’s gonna be good.  A different kind of good.

Oh happy day!

PS – If you love this Oh Happy Day shirt as much as I do (it’s super comfy!) click here to get yourself one!  The proceeds will be used by The Sparrow Fund to help fund orphan care initiatives, among other cool projects.  Check them out!

I remember distinctly when my first three babies hit the eighteen-month mark in age.  The one-year mark was huge, but for whatever reason, making it to the halfway point on Year Two was just significant for me.

Maybe I realized that I was, indeed, actually DOING THIS THING.

By the time my firstborn reached 18 months old, I already had another baby, aged 3 months.  By the time my second born was 18 months old, we were close to discovering there would be baby #3 headed our way in the next year.  When my third born was 18 months old, I felt settled.


At peace with the number our family had (quickly) grown to.

*God chuckled*

Now, Julianne is past the 18 months mark being home.  A year and a half.  Though the one-year mark felt huge, this milestone feels big, too.

Maybe I’m realizing that I am, indeed, actually DOING THIS THING.

blog 18 months 1

Eighteen months comes right at the start of a new stage in life; going to the same school with big brothers and big sister.

Eighteen months comes with some uncertainty.  What will this new school be like?

Eighteen months is full of knowing that the norms are about to change, and needing to draw closer to family things to cope.

Eighteen months looks real.  It’s continually processing fears and grief and anxiety.

Eighteen months is fun.

It’s learning-how-to-swim,


and wearing-favorite-costumes-to-the-grocery-store.

Eighteen months is loving speech therapy and growing in leaps and bounds.

Eighteen months is singing favorite songs, asking to be called “Princess”, and having a definite preference for Chinese-style noodles.

Eighteen months isn’t by any stretch of the imagination perfect.  

But it’s more familiar.  It’s safer feeling.  It’s more connected. 

blog 18 months 2

A year and a half.

My, oh my.  Time flies.

**photography by Laura James photography**

It’s single digits until the kids go back to school (not that I’m counting).

It warms my heart to hear them talking about how they can’t wait to go back because, let’s be honest, I can’t wait for them to go back either.

I’m introverted.

Deeply, deeply introverted.

I need s-p-a-c-e… and *shhhhhh* quiet time.

I LOVE my people.  Love them so much.  But their combined rambunctiousness drains me faster than the maps app drains the battery on my phone.

School.  I can’t even say the word without grinning like a crazy lady these days.

At the start of the summer, there were lofty ambitions.  And you know?  June was amazing.  And about half of July.

But then?



June = {I love being around all my babies all day long every day!} face.

August = {Why the heck is summer so stinking long?} face.


I know I’m not alone.

We start out the summer with gold medal ambition, and then there is stuff that makes us just lose it.

Good news, mamas.  There is a gold medal for us on the other side of Summer 2016.  We can do this.  The last few days, we can (swim?) the race we were called to, and we can do it in a way we can be proud of.  We’re not just beginners jumping into this Pool of Summertime Motherhood, we are champions.  We will not falter.  We may feel like we are barely treading water, and truth be told, there are times when we feel like we’re doing good to be treading water, but let’s finish with a bang, shall we?  Power through, mamas, and know that I am 110% there with you.

We’re in the last 50 meters and we are GOING FOR GOLD.

going for gold blog

We are going to find things to be thankful for.  We will write them down and say them out loud when the hard moments try to shatter us.

We are not going to waste the precious days we have remaining with our kiddos at home.

We will not care if the bathrooms continue to grow that funky stuff in the shower.

We will not cringe if they take not even one bath between now and the weekend.

We will label all the school supplies happily.

We will say “yes” to at least some of the crazy stuff the kids want to do before heading back into school year routines.

We can do this.

*fist bump*

And, amen.