Why not?

I've honestly never given anything less thought.

One minute, I was dropping my youngest off to play with his grandparents, the next moment I was sipping coffee and knowing that something absolutely had to change.

In December, I wrote about being at the edge of myself. That years of extremely challenging parenting paired with a diagnosis of PMDD had left me a shell of myself. Sad. Exhausted. Purposeless. Isolated.

This morning was during that period of feeling lost. And as I sipped my coffee, I stared at a wall. I didn't read, I didn't pray or write. I didn't scroll mindlessly on social media pretending it fulfills a deep ache. I just stared...and then asked God "what next?"

I wish I could put the next few minutes into words...but I don't really know what happened. One minute I was on the verge of tears, of giving up and the next minute, I had pressed "submit" on an application to a college course to become an EMT.

Before I had really thought about it. Before I had called my husband. Before I had looked carefully at our life to see if it was possible.

I pressed submit.

Because, friends, it was SO clear that I needed to press submit.

A lot of people have asked me what led to me becoming an EMT at the age of 40.

And to be honest? I don't really know.

Something made me search EMT programs in that moment after I asked God that question. Something made me keep reading.
Something sparked a deep interest, the tiniest flicker of a brand new dream.

I knew literally nothing about emergency medicine.

But, I pressed submit.

I didn't call anyone, ask if I should go for it.

I pressed submit.

I am not generally rash or impulsive.

I pressed submit.

And when I did, something lifted. Some horrible, heavy weight of sadness shifted just the slightest bit.

And because I have arguably the most genuine and generous husband on the earth, he greeted my impulsive decision with nothing less than clear delight and determined support. We would make it work no matter what.

Seriously, he is the best one out there. No contest.

Within a day, I had been accepted to the college. Within another few days, I had been accepted to the actual program. I was transferring transcripts and signing up for a medical physical and scouring amazon for textbook deals and ordering a stethoscope and cargo pants. (Which I have to admit, I truly love and wish were still fashionable like they were when I was in high school.)

I was diving into hope.

Friends, that was just six months ago. Six months that ended up being filled with hard work and new friendships and a new, budding dream of loving people well on what could be the scariest day of their lives.

I truly loved it. Loved using my brain again. Loved learning something totally new and different. Loved it. Something I literally didn't think through for more than a few minutes.

So here I am, certified in-state and nationally, a smile on my face, with two interviews lined up next week for local ambulance corps.

Why did I become an EMT?

Well, all I can honestly say is "why not?"

Blank Canvas

You know that moment when you are walking through a museum and something grabs you? Maybe a glorious sculpture or the colors in a vivid impressionist painting? Something just touches you, your soul, and you stop. You breathe. You delight.

I always ask myself how someone went from a block or clay or a piece of paper to such a masterpiece. What went on in his head? Did she feel the need to create? Did it just pour out of this person? 

When I look at clay or paper or canvas, that's all I see. Maybe I want to write something on it, but there is nothing else. No picture, no image, that comes to mind. No creational force. I am grateful that so many other people in the world DO see what needs to be painted or drawn or sculpted. So grateful.

I used to believe that I didn't have creativity because of this particular lack in giftedness. 

But as I've gotten to know my God, my God who sees beauty in ashes, who creates out of nothing, I've seen that there is a piece of that image in all of us.

All of us have some area in which we see the potential of something. Not just what's in front of us, but what COULD be. Creational optimism. Vision.

This is our current backyard.

Used to be a playset, now a big bald patch with rubber mulch pieces embedded

Gate leading to more backyard that wasn't fenced...why?

All swampy weeds and overgrown landscaping

Old looking lattice covered in green and mud underneath the deck.

Deck (which is great!) leads to weeds and moss and, yes, more mud.

Right now, I type this painfully as I have poison oak rash between all my fingers and up and down my arms and legs. I am covered in mosquito bites from mowing what is not really a yard but a swampy, weedy, insect-infested forest.

That is the reality of what it is. 

For me, though, every time I look outside, every time I step on another weed or trip over an exposed tree root or look at the algae growing on the fence that has clearly never been power-washed, I see potential. I see beauty. I see God's creation in trees and shrubs and flowers and grasses just waiting to be tended and coaxed and given what it needs to flourish. I see a great storage space and a fort underneath that deck. I see little kids laughing in a sensory corner developed just for them. I see big kids playing on a jungle gym or jumping on a trampoline or climbing trees or maybe even riding a zip line from one tree to another. I see (if I look REALLY hard) a hammock hanging and my husband and I reading books together on a lazy Sunday when the kids are older. 

I see potential. I see a beautiful blank canvas.

I am SO glad that God sees us in similar light. Sees not just what is (and loves us there), but what is created to be. What can be. What should be reality and is already reality in his perfected grace even though we don't look that way on the outside quite yet. And that he's gifted us with that same ability to see the goodness around us in varied and beautiful ways. 

My backyard is not going to happen overnight- flowers take time to grow, we'll need a tree company's help and I'm not so sure my husband is looking forward to building another playset. It's too dad-blamed hot to plant anything right now. Really, it's too hot to even be outside looking at the yard. I can barely mow it without losing my entire weight in sweat during July in Virginia. 

So right now, I dream. I collect ideas. I draw them out in my head and on paper. I cross things out and start over. I scour the internet for creative and budget-friendly ideas, things I can create with my kids' help and on my own. I peer creepily into neighboring backyards to see what others have done.

And I go outside with the little ones anyway., when the heat index is below 105. We traipse through the weeds, we climb the trees, we water what little grass does exist.

Because even though it's nice to dream, you gotta dream while life still happens. 

Deep Breaths

Part of me made myself believe the paternity test would be positive. That this whole thing would stop in its tracks. Part of me prepared for the worst.

But not all of me. God has been doing a long, good work of hope in me. Even as we waited in those final hours willing the phone to ring, my heart alternated between pounding and peace. It was not all panic, it was not all worry.

And then the phone rang. My heart leaped into my throat. Here we go. I will know by the tone of voice, before my case worker even says a word. I will know.

Me: Hello?
CW: Carolyn? (brightness and cheer in her voice, hope warms!)
Me: So? (who needs the formalities of small talk when you are waiting on a call like this)
CW: I have good news. Really good news.
Me: (Tears. Again. Seriously, who knew the fruition of this wait would involve so many?)

We spoke for a few more minutes. And these minutes had the air of the definitive. The birth mother is holding strong on her decision and this possible birth father is out of the picture now. We will see you Thursday at this time and this place. Bring your diaper bag. You'll have to sign forms. Then it's time. Time for him to go home.

I hang up the phone and take a deep breath. This blip, this complication was nothing more than that. It's over. And it's time to unpress "pause" and finish getting ready. Here we go.

Daring to hope, daring to dream that the wait is almost over.

Missing the Milestones, But...

It's Christmas Day. We woke up here, read the Christmas story, put our final ornament on the Jesse Tree. We went downstairs and exclaimed over presents and tried things on and and played and laughed. We ate our traditional monkey bread and put together legos and spent an hour sledding in the snow. It was a good Christmas.

But.

You weren't here yet. You are at your foster parents home. You were a part of their traditions. You won't remember today, of course. It won't matter in the long run to you that your big brother dressed up like Darth Vader and stomped around the house while Dad played his theme song on the piano. Or the fact that the guinea girls got a new fun cage to play in with all sorts of toys and have been hopping around happily for hours. You probably couldn't have smiled about it yet.

The thing is, though, it's your first Christmas and you aren't home. You learned to smile this week and we haven't seen it yet. You are in someone else's arms on this most important of days.

But you know what? It's ok.

Yes, I am missing some milestones. I am. But, I can be thankful that your foster mom sends me updates and is good at keeping a camera on hand. I can take comfort in the fact that she loves Jesus, too, and that your Christmas felt like the right kind of Christmas. I can keep counting down the days (15!) until this uncertainty is over and you will be home with us and I won't miss the big moments like rolling over and sitting up and first steps and teeth. (Actually, I wouldn't mind missing the whole teething thing, to be honest. If you want to go ahead and get that over with now, feel free.)

The grand scheme of it is this. The wait is really almost over. These final weeks are nothing compared to the long road we've already traveled. If I miss a smile or two, I know there are thousands in my future. If I miss a feeding or a pediatrician's appointment, I can rest assured that this side of home you will experience so many more than you have up until now. If I am not the one to comfort you now or the one with whom you've bonded, some day I will be that person to you. I WILL be mama. And so, I can do this. I can wait two more weeks. I can look at your pictures as often as I like. I can pray for you and for your birth parents and for me and Dad and Josh as we ready ourselves for this new stage of family.

And next year, on this day, I can celebrate your second Christmas with you, my son. What a good and beautiful day that will be.

Praying for Her

I woke up early this morning with a feeling of urgency. A need to pray for her, for the woman who is giving us this most precious of gifts, who is grieving and sad and hurting. And like the letter I wrote her a few short days ago, the words are hard because the ones I want to say are also wrapped up in fear. Fear that she will change her mind or decide, after all, that she'd rather a different family do this. Fear that this whole thing will come crashing down, even after we've spent two amazing afternoons with a precious little boy. Fear that 17 more days will be too long to wait.

But this morning, I choose obedience over fear. I'm not big on getting up before the sunrise, but here I am. It was physically impossible to continue to sleep or even just to lay in the warm, dark bedroom. Here I am. A prayer for her.

Father of lights, Giver of good gifts, Lover of humanity, Comforter of the suffering, be with this woman. Envelope her in the lonely places. Touch the places of heartbreak and begin to work your healing. Work trust and hope into her soul even as she processes this loss, this hardest of decisions she has made. Put people in her life who support and love her, who don't pressure her to move on too quickly, but wait with her through the phases of grief.

Help her to understand that you understand the loss of a child. Help her to dive into that reality, to gain comfort from your empathy, to be filled with your love for her. Help her to continue to heal from surgery and strengthen her body.

On those mornings when it's too hard, give her peace. Enter into that struggle and help her know she is not forsaken. Honor the brave choice she has made and remind her of your presence in it.

Give us love and care for her. Help us to understand how to best share with her this son. Let us not be selfish in our prayers or overcome by fear or anxiety. Help us know you are in this and bigger than all the legal stuff.

You are our Heavenly Father, you do want good. Help us to live into that, to know that you love that little boy more than any of the rest of us possibly can. And help us to trust that you are even in the legal details and uncertainties. Most of all, be a deep and powerful presence in her life today, every minute and second as we inch closer to Christmas, a time of year that focuses on the gift of a baby.  

As each day passes may she know you more and more. Amen.

The Call

After awhile you stop expecting the call. An unknown phone number pops up and you assume the mundane- a telemarketer, a dental appointment or someone reminding you that your dog needs a haircut. You stop expecting the unexpected. You stop holding your breath when you pick up the phone in that moment after you say hello. You expect the ordinary.

And then one day, you pick up the phone. You might be in the middle of something else, possibly you don't even glance at the caller I.D. You're cooking dinner or talking to your child or telling the dog to stop barking. So you pick it up and forget to hold your breath.

You should've held your breath.

Because what comes next is anything but ordinary. The opposite of mundane. You have been matched with a child. Your child. This someone for whom you've prayed about, cried over, filled out mountains of paperwork, hoped, dreamed, imagined. Suddenly, he exists. Suddenly he is a person. A boy. With dark hair and eyes, 9 pounds, 6 ounces, 21 inches. And with a name that his birth mother has chosen for him. And you have been invited into the amazing journey of being his mother. It's the call. That call you stopped waiting for at some point along the way.

When you burst into tears, your social worker laughs. She's never heard you cry before but she knows the wait has been long and emotional. You can tell she loves getting to make this kind of phone call. This, this is why she does this. It's still not final, you hear her say, though it's very likely. Things could happen, be cautious, and you know she's right. You know you must guard your heart against more disappointment but you can't help it. The tears keep falling and you find yourself laughing and stumbling over words. What questions do you have, she asks? Oh, just a thousand, you know. None of which you can put into words yet.

So you take a moment. You call your husband, share the news and burst into tears all over again. You tell him about your son. You take in his dumbfounded silence. Your lives have changed in less time than it takes to shower and get ready in the morning. You got the call.

Who do we call, who do we tell? How do we break the news to our son? Do we set up the crib or do we wait until the court date is done? What risks do we take and where do we move forward with abandon? Do we leave facebook for the next 30 days while we wait so we aren't tempted to tell anyone? Or do we tell the world and risk having to tell them all over again if something happens?

The whirlwind of what's and how's will not slow down for awhile. So you go about making dinner. You play with your son and repair his broken light saber. You listen to him talk with his guinea pigs and anticipate the look on his face when you tell him that night at dinner. You think about the fun of telling all the grandparents.

And you pause. You thank God deeply. It hasn't been easy. You haven't always trusted Him on this journey. In fact, you've been downright angry sometimes. But you know He's stuck by you. You know He loves this little boy and has been waiting for him longer than you have. And you know he'll be in the next part of this wait. These 30 days of paperwork and court appearances and tracking down of a birth father. You know the reality that this could fall through, but you praise God anyway and hope for the reality that this boy, this sweet little boy, will be a part of your forever family.

You got the call. And it changed everything.

Telling the Story

It's been about 36 hours since we became a family of four. (Or a family of 7 according to Josh. You cannot leave out the guinea pigs and the dog. That's just wrong.) As you can well imagine, we are reeling, not to mention sleep-deprived. How do you go from a family of 3 for over 7 years to suddenly having this new little person in the house? A new little person who had adjusted to a different home for his first six weeks of life? Who doesn't really know us? Who has just the clearest bit of uncertainty when he gazes at us? Who has already suffered two losses in his little life?

Of course, there's a back story here. A period of time during which we learned about him, got to visit him, spent lots of time talking about the "ifs" with this specific little boy. A period during which we stayed silent publicly but privately processed and prepared. As much as you can, anyway.

Now that there are no more "what-ifs" in this story, now that he's home, we are excited to tell the story. We won't share every detail due to privacy issues in the adoption process and out of respect to his birthparents. But we are delighted to share the important parts, the journey home of our Nathaniel Jaceyon and how we felt along the way.

And before telling the bigger story, why the name?

Nathaniel means "gift of God" and Jaceyon is the name given to him by his birth mother. Putting the names together, we knew we would always be reminded of God's goodness in this gift to us and his birth mother's brave decision and love for him. That was really important to us. No matter how much she is physically a part of our stories from this point on, she is inextricably linked in a powerful way to our family. We wanted him to know that truth when he is old enough to process his story.

So, over the next few weeks, I will post that story of this little man becoming a part of our family. It has been quite an emotional ride for all of us and the coming home is just the start of our family's next chapter. We are so grateful for the ways our friends and family have rejoiced with us so far and look forward to when they will actually meet this precious little man in person.