Here are the rules:

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community.

This week’s word is…

Here

I look at you across the crowded table, the one with spilled milk and chattering children, and I wonder why you are still here.  You didn’t sign up for this and you certainly didn’t plan it out this way.

You know what I’m talking about.

The struggling years, the ones when we weren’t sure if we were going to make it.

Or the “now” that we’re in with hurting children and the enemy trying to tear our family apart. 

I’m battle weary, but that’s where you come rushing in with your knight in shining armor attitude and you are here. 

For me.

Again.

You slay the dragons of little boys who disrespect.  You pick me up when I’m crying in the hallway at church because it’s just all too much and everyone is looking.

But you are looking at me.

Only me.  It’s always been just me and I lose myself in your deep ocean-blue eyes, the ones that see me across the noisy dinner table becoming God’s woman.

Your woman.

And we are truly one like we’ve never been before. 

Here.   Now.

One broken child trying to salvage what she has left of her heart by breaking the heart of my three year old.  Ellianah handles it well, but this is not what she asked for.  We put this on her and the guilt raises up like an ugly monster and swallows my mother’s heart.  And I cry out to God again, asking if this is what He intended.  Taking broken children and making them part of a family, piecing what’s left of their hearts back together.

I know I can’t do it.

Only the Rescuer can sew them together.  So I walk each step that He has laid out and pray that He will come soon, into these lives, showing us His glory.  He’s on His way.  I only need to wait.

My heart beats fast and my hands curl in anger as the onslaught continues against my baby.  She has a whole new vocabulary, learning words she has never heard in the safe bubble she had before.  She sees her new siblings the same way as her other siblings, expecting them to love her in the same way.

But they aren’t the same.  They are hurting and she is too little to understand, but not too little to be hurt.  There is no understanding when a sister yells out that the entire family hates you.  All she knows is it must be true and she falls on the floor in a puddle of tears, wondering if this is why we’re doing this to her.

Because we hate her.

And I pick her up, hold her close and whisper truth back to her heart:  we don’t hate you, the Enemy is near, stay close to me and I’ll protect you.  There is no understanding when you are trying to love a child who is unable to love you back, but you’re only 3 and you didn’t know that hurt could go so deeply.

You just didn’t know.

Beautiful Abby, my 11 year old, is the target of our new son’s cruelty.  He is a bulldozer and he runs over people who get in his way, uncaring of the carnage he leaves behind.  Abby is a frequent victim.

She only knows what she’s been taught, the rules, the regulations of the family.  She is trying, trying to help him, trying to love him, telling him he can or cannot do something, letting him know when he’s getting close to the line.  He is unable to understand what living in a family means and instead of appreciating her concern, he runs his mouth and spews hatred all over her loving heart.  She is fragile anyway, and she doesn’t handle this well.  She bursts through the door one day, spewing her own version of hatred, even saying the words, I hate him.  Her body is trembling and her face is on fire.

She really means it.

She didn’t ask for this and the guilt rises up again, threatening to consume me right then and there.  I hug her, hold her close, tell her to stay out of the line of fire and speak truth into her heart:  I still love you.  You don’t have to hate, you can choose to love anyway.  Even though.  I’ve had a hard many years of learning this truth and I have walked where I’m asking her to walk.  Love anyway.

God is at hand?

Yes, yes, He is.  I saw Him in my daughter, not three days later when it snowed, leaving at least 8 inches of glorious powder to play in.  All the children are excited, even the broken ones, and they start talking about the tunnels they will build, the snowmen they will create, the memories they will make.

And I hear it, I hear my Abby look her new brother straight in the eyes, the one who has hurt her so many, many times and she says, “You can build a tunnel with me.  Let’s build one together.”  She means it,  I can sense it in her voice, see it in her eyes.  She wants him.  And they did.  And they were happy.  And she modeled grace and forgiveness to me.

I thought I was trying to teach her.

In the quiet of the dark, when I’m gently rocking Ellianah to sleep, reveling in this quiet, peaceful place we have created for ourselves (and not caring that I’m still rocking a 3 year old to sleep), His grace shows up again.

He leaves these little stepping stones of grace and encouragement for me now.  Like a father who is teaching his child to ride a bike and he stays in front of the bike, running backwards, saying look at me, focus on me, keep your eyes on me.  Don’t look down, look at me!  Stay right on this path, right here and you’ll get it. 

And I’m getting it.

Over the creaking of the rocking chair, after I sing to her of the love of her Savior, she speaks truth into the dark places of my heart, saying, “I can love them even when they’re naughty.”  I melt into a puddle of tears, wondering where this love is coming from, because honestly I wouldn’t blame her for not loving right now.  My sinful thought is brought to light by a 3 year old’s words.

I thought I was trying to teach her.

The Enemy is near, not wanting this family to succeed.  Not wanting this family to heal these broken children.  He hates families and we put ourselves right in his line of fire when we took these children in.  I knew there would be something, but this?  This is more than I thought I could handle, more than I thought my babies could take.

But God is here, too.  I see Him every day, leaving his stepping stones for me, letting me know He loves me and that this is where He wants me.  He will protect my babies, pouring love into them because the guilt is so fierce, that I can’t do it.

And when I question again and again if this is what we’re supposed to do, He answers again and again:  Yes!  Stay here, focus on me, don’t look down.

They dictate when and how I eat, sleep, breathe.  Everything I know about child-rearing has been exploded and redone and it’s all upside down as I try to make sense of my new world.  I am Alice as I explore this wonderland that’s not really quite so wonderful.

Nothing is as it seems anymore. 

And I lose my temper more times than I should and it scares me because this is not the mother I wanted to be, not the mother I’ve been striving to be.  How did loving a child become the hardest thing I’ve had to do?

I’m indulging my 3 year old in ways my Old Self never would, spoiling her almost.  Yes, there’s still discipline, but it’s fuzzy around the edges as I see the brunt she takes and my heart goes out to her because I did this to her.  I turned her life upside down.  The guilt eats at my soul and I give her an extra brownie to soothe it away.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

I was telling this to a friend who adopts children from Ethiopia and she has the same worries about her bio children.  She told me they are learning to love in ways that they would never learn otherwise.  But as I watch my baby get pushed down once again by an angry, sad, broken girl, the deep places in me wonders… Are they? 

So I come here to make sense of it all.  There is no sense, there is none when you’re doing God’s work.  He asks things of you that are impossible, he sends you to places that, when the world looks at you, they think you’ve lost your mind.  Maybe I have.  I know that I don’t know anything anymore and that God holds my future.

He holds us all.  That has to be enough right now.  It is enough.

As I walk each step on the path that has been laid out for me, I know the One guiding me, holding my hands, holding my tears.  And I trust Him.

I TRUST HIM.  

I have to because I’m going deeper than I ever have, I’m giving more than I’ve ever been asked, I’m loving harder than I’ve ever loved.  But the pain hurts more because my babies are hurting and I can’t do anything for them but remind them of these truths.

That love wins.  Always. 

That God can be trusted even when it’s hard. 

That doing something hard doesn’t mean we’re doing something wrong. 

Faith is our flashlight on this dark path we’re walking, holding our Father’s hands and holding on to each other.  It’s all we can do.

It’s all.

Because it’s not us that’s doing, it’s God that’s working and we just.have.to.trust. 

So when I’m on my knees.  Again.

Asking, wondering, checking.  Again.  I can hold fast to this, to these truth’s laid out before me.  It’s all I have right now.  My strength is frail, but I can cling.

And hope.

Adoption.

I don’t know why that word gives me chills up my spine.

Maybe because I was a broken child, too and God reached down and adopted me anyway.  I don’t know.  It’s all so cliche right now.  My heart is breaking for all of my children, for my family as we have been turned upside down.

Sisters fighting sisters, once-trained 3 year olds acting out, everyone clamoring, wanting, reaching for momma and she’s sitting in the bathroom crying once again over this job God has placed in front of her.  I cry over my children’s broken hearts, I cry over my adopted kids and their brokenness that didn’t need to be.  If only their momma knew how to love, could feel God’s arms wrapped around her tight, she could have opened her heart to her babies and given them what all infants need–love, attention.

It’s so simple, but so hard as I take these broken ones and try to make them whole.  My exhaustion is noticeable now as an entire month in these tear-stained trenches start to turn to mud and suck me in to a black, sluggish muck of sin.

Just sin–the kind that comes from living in a broken world, the kind that gets flung all over babies and they walk around with ruptured hearts that can’t heal, can’t let people in, even a momma who just wants to love them.

Don’t they see my love, that I just want to hug them and hold them close and promise them that nobody will hurt them ever again?  Why can’t they see?  Oh, God, heal their hearts, take their hands and lead them for me because I am so weary and torn.  My feet cannot lift to put one in front of the other anymore.  I need You, they need You, our family needs You.

We have seen hell and I can sense Satan crouching at my door.  He wants in, is wringing his hands in anticipation and I fight him off at every turn, but I am not strong enough for all the fighting.

Jesus.

Jesus.

I need You and only You can I turn to.  Just the sound of your name makes my heart start thumping as it beats in time to Yours.  It finds its rhythm inside of your love.

Completely dependent.

Jesus.

Jesus.

And my soul hears yours and I know You are here.  In the quiet of this moment, this one single moment, right now, You are here, holding my tears in your hand as you hold onto my family inside the palm of your other one.  I can praise you in this storm because I know your love is real and I see your mercies every.single.day.

Even in this cloudy, muddy mess that makes up our home now.  I cling to the words of a song on the radio, I hold tight to the nice conversations I can have with my children, I can bask in the happiness of putting my precious 3 year old to bed at night, rocking and praying, rocking and praying.  A once dreaded task has now become my sanctuary as I get to snuggle my baby and let her fall asleep in my arms, at peace.  My heart is at peace in those moments.  I hang on tight to that stillness, that pure joy, because as soon as the door is shut behind me, I am entering the battle zone.  The one with hurting children who know nothing of their brokenness, only their extreme need to be loved and parented and treated as a human being, a child, a baby.  They have missed out on this and know nothing of the love of a family.

It’s not their fault, they don’t know they are lost. They don’t even know they are hurting.

They just need.

Me.

All of me.

Every single inch of my heart, my mind, my resources, my physical body.

Only God can sustain me.

Here are the rules:

1. Write for 5 minutes flat for pure unedited love of the written word.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Go leave some comment props for the five minute artist who linked up before you.

The word today is Afraid…

I am not afraid of going deeper for Jesus because I know he will meet me there, lift me up and be right where I need him to be.

I am not afraid of obedience, sacrifice or falling, because I will fall into his faithful arms and he will catch me.

When he asked me to obey and love my husband anyway, he walked that path with me, holding my hand, encouraging me and letting me cry on his shoulder when I needed to.

So rubber-meets-the-road kind of radical doesn’t scare me anymore.  It used to. I didn’t know if I could trust him, if I could trust myself.  But I found that only if I let go, it was in that letting go he would find me.

Being afraid of Jesus?  Not anymore.

The rock was raised, the raging man holding it ready for the launch, ready for the kill.  His righteous eyes piercing into his victim.  He must teach her, teach his people and set an example for the town–the entire countryside–that this sin was not to be tolerated.  It could not happen while he was leading, while he was trying so hard to always do right and to teach his people to follow God.

And she was the perfect victim to use to finally get this Man, this one who claimed to be God, thinking He was better than himself.  How dare He!  How could He walk around teaching and leading?  That was his job.

This was a great plan of entrapment.

Kill a whore and catch a liar all at the same time.

It mattered little that they were people.  He was trying to prove a point here.  And if God really wanted to show him favor, they would be able to take this man to the Romans for violating the Law.

He could see it playing out so well, so perfectly.

Yes!  This was a great plan!

The rock he selected was a model one:  it had severe jagged edges and its weight felt perfect in his hand.  If the rock was too light or too heavy, it wouldn’t fly, wouldn’t hit the target.  He had much practice at picking out stoning rocks.  He knew that once it was wielded just so, it would hit its mark.

Dead on.

Practice makes perfect and he was thankful for the rocks, so he didn’t have to kill with his own hands, he could just throw a stone and walk away.

There would be no blood on his innocent hands.

She looked out at the men standing around her, an angry mob of seemingly blood-thirsty people.  The crowd was starting to gather, adding to her humiliation.  She wished they would have at least let her grab her robe before they took her, as the scorching sun beat down on her already browned skin, making her feel as if their eyes were penetrating her.  There was no relief.

If only she would have been more careful, if only there was another way, she would have taken it.  This was not the life she dreamed of as a little girl, but it was the one she found herself in now.

She could see the hot sun glinting off the heavy rocks in the hands of the men, groping and fondling them as they jeered at her.  These were leaders and teachers in her community and this was a side of them she had never seen.  They were usually teaching and guiding, setting an example, but this was no example she wanted to follow.

Yes, she knew the law, she had been taught it from a young girl, but was there no room for forgiveness in that law?  No mistakes?

Her blood turned cold as she realized she was going to die for this mistake.

Was there no turning back time?  Was there no way out?  Her eyes were wild with fear and her heart was pounding in her chest, fluttering so hard she felt dizzy and nauseous.  The rocks of anger and hatred were ready to be launched in her direction.  She shut her eyes tight, longing for those rocks to be put down, wishing there were no stones to wield.  She wished with everything in her that they would all disappear.

Maybe, just maybe, she would be saved if there were no rocks.

I am joining with Amber on her series on writing, as a craft, as a way of seeing.  Find us at her place to join in or to read others writings on The Rock.

Photo Credit: David Hayward

The word is Again…

I look around me and see what I don’t have.  I feel the pulsing rush of envy as I walk around my life.  It stings and I wince, but it doesn’t stop me from looking.

And wishing.

And thinking I need that thing that I don’t have.

Again.

I want to find encouragement in the homes others have made in this online place, but lately my mind is waging war against me.  Instead of wrapping myself up in the love of Jesus as seen through their eyes, I pull the blanket of jealousy over my head and can see nothing else but all of their work and nothing of mine.

And then the questions come, but the one aching question that burns in my soul:

Am I not good enough?

And the ache is too much and the discouragement is more.  Again and again and again I find myself here.  My eyes look to me as I try to earn the praise of others, and my heart stops beating in time with One who created this.

I gasp for air as, one more time, I am defeated by my own heart.

Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed;

life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”

Luke 12:15

Blurry but beautiful!

They only know they like each other.  A lot.  They squeal with delight and run into each others arms when we show up.  There is no hesitation, no wondering, no judging.  It’s like they’ve been sisters their whole lives.  God has joined them, but I suspect they already knew each other somehow, in some mysterious way that only little children know.

Sisters.

Finally together.

The two girls run and play, sharing dress-up clothes, trying to make the other look her most beautiful for the ball of their imagination.  Holding hands, holding on to the other.  They throw themselves into this relationship. It’s all or nothing and it’s mostly all.  Their hearts are not guarded, there is no doubt.  They are sisters, friends.

Sit by me!  Play with me!  Love me!

There’s always a good night hug and kiss, the kind where you hold on an extra long minute.

And they’ve been arguing, trying to see who rules this roost.  But after they’ve come to me, and I’ve encouraged their friendship and sent them off, they happily go right back to what they were doing like the skirmish never happened.  They’ve forgiven.  Completely and wholly.

How can it be that a 3 and 5-year-old would be my examples?  I thought that when we said yes to adoption, I would be the teacher, I would be the one showing and guiding.  No, of course in God’s upside down world, He is using babies to show me.

Sisters.

That one word is loaded with so much meaning, so much feeling.  When I look around and consider my own sisters, my friends, the women who share my lineage in Christ, there is so much to consider.

We are bought with the same blood, we are all slaves to the same King, all loved with the same heart that beats out His rhythm that only we can understand.  And we criticize and judge and turn away.  We don’t forgive.  We usually don’t give her the benefit of the doubt.  Our sinful mind goes right to their weakness and latches on in our weakness and our relationship hurts.

Why do we do this to each other?  Why do we let our minds go to the worst, the mess, the ugly?

We are all beautiful!  Why can’t we see that?

And forgiveness?  Why do I hold those grudges and hang onto that bitterness towards a sister when I should be forgiving and going right back to where we left off? Forgiveness should be the scent that wafts from our pores, especially toward our sisters, because she was forgiven with the same love that forgave me.

The same love.

That’s what we need to hang onto, that forgiving, all-consuming love of Jesus.  It has to exude from us so we can splash it onto our sisters.  We are all in this together, all struggling, all just trying to figure it out and we have to turn to each other instead of our pride.

Why don’t we squeal with delight when we see each other?  I see my teenager and her friends still do this, so when does this get lost in the prim-and-properness of being an adult?  The joy that is caught up in that kind of greeting is infectious.  My heart should be so happy to see a friend, a sister, that it should shout with delight!

Instead we look away and don’t smile when we pass each other in the halls.

Instead we kill each other with ugly words and looks instead of kindness.

My sisters, we need to love each other.  We need to take a lesson from these babies and let them show us acceptance, love, grace and forgiveness.  I love to watch them play because they just hold on so tight to each others hearts.

And when they have to separate for more days and weeks while we wait, my 3-year-old cries and cries and then asks for her sister every day.  She can’t stand to be away from her.  She is consumed in this relationship, she gives it all she has.  They both do.

And I feel the gentle nudge from God as I watch this being played out.  We are all home when we fall into the hands of our Savior, holding onto each other until we get there.  And we have to hold on to someone, because this world is not easy to navigate alone.

The love between sisters is strong, no matter how they come together.

Hold on to her.

Linking with Jen today.  She’s celebrating Sisterhood.  Here’s what she’s doing:

I would like us to link up a post that shows what the concept of “sisterhood” means to us.  It can be a photo, an art piece, a poem, a standard blog post, a vlog– however you want to communicate your idea of sisterhood. It can be a holistic view of what sisterhood is and/or does OR it can characterize one or two particular aspects of sisterhood that are especially important to you.

that I may dwell in the house of the Lord

all the days of my life,

to gaze upon the beauty of the Lord

and to seek him in his temple.

Psalm 27:4

This.  I just want this.

To see Him, to be in His presence.  Always.  Oh, that I could stay in His house all the time, all day long.  Coming out of it to tend to the children, pay the bills and mop the floors–that is not my desire.  How can I remain in His presence yet go about my days?  How can I see His glory while I’m scrubbing marker off the walls?

I long to be with Him, to spend my valuable time in His Word, drenching my soul, guiding me and teaching me with His love and compassion.  To gaze upon His beauty.  To see His face and bask in His glory and love.

When His heart resonates in my heart, I am with Him. 

When I’m wiping up spills and runny noses, He is still here.  He is inside of me, through me, always around me.  All I have to do is look up, look away from the mess that is me and around me, and look into His ever-present face.

He is here.  He is always here.

When I’m rocking babies to sleep, I am spending my valuable time showing the love that I am so caught up in.  When I show grace to my husband, I am reflecting the beauty that I so want to see myself.  Showing Him off to those around me, showing Him to my precious family.  That is the desire of my heart, the way I look to, the way I want to be.

So many times I fail, so many times I listen to the lies, so many times I look away and step out of the Light.  So many times…

And I rise up the next day.  I go on with the next day.  I wipe up more spills and more runny noses.  And I thank God for grace.

So I gathered them up and showed them how writing can help them see God’s face.  I provided a very structured way to do this, because sometimes the structure can lead us to freedom.

And we bowed over the precious manna of the Word, reading and writing and trying to see God.  Together.  They asked questions, I asked questions.  They didn’t want to share what they wrote and I said that was OK, because maybe they really saw something.

Maybe God will use this to show them Him.

There’s something about the pen that hears God, like Ann says.  It has ears of its own and the Holy Spirit can say things through the pen that cannot be said any other way.  And you hear it because you own a little piece of it and it’s your effort and your tears that helped bring it to life, but it’s the pen that ignites the words. 

I felt connected to my girls.  All of us writing, a bunch of rag-tag girls fighting to figure out this Christian walk, all sinners needing something bigger than ourselves.  We were all equal as we struggled with the passage, all trying to see it and bring it into our lives.  I loved watching their golden flecked hair fall into their faces as they bent low over the Word, developing a relationship with it.

Their own.  Not mine.

And I love that because I want them to own their faith, to see it as theirs, to break away from riding on the wings of my faith and see Jesus as their husband, God as their father.  I want them to recognize when He’s working in their lives and to be able to praise Him all by themselves.

It’s this disconnect I find myself in at this stage of motherhood.  I love hovering my wings over them like a mother hen and having them run under it for protection.  I bask in the motherliness of saying, “Isn’t God great because He did this?”   But they have to find their faith.  THEIR faith.  I don’t want to see them break away, but it’s necessary to grow strong able women in the Lord.  I will only hinder them if I keep them under my wings.  The Son can’t shine on them if I’m covering them up.  They need to peek out and see Him for themselves, instead of always getting a retelling from me.

So I showed them. I held their hands and walked them along for a while.  They jumped onto each stepping stone I provided, learning and discovering along the way.  Love was there, guiding us and we all gave a little of ourselves to each other.  They shared the prayer requests and then we went to the cross together, holding hands and trying to search out this new way.  And my mother-heart overflowed with love as I listened to their small voices lift up their sister to the One who loves them infinitely more than I ever could.  They found some refuge there, asking Him to help her sister, thanking Him for His lovingkindness and finding something bigger than themselves.

They were vulnerable to each other and to me.

They laid open their hearts to each other, admitting they don’t have it all together.  It was difficult for them, but they courageously walked forward in faith, trusting me, trusting their sister.  These are the precious moments where they will find out who Jesus is, who their family is.  Opening up and finding love anyway–that’s amazing grace.