Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

family

Saturday smiles: springs in the desert edition

As you read this, I’m sipping a Starbucks, maybe nibbling a scone, chatting with a friend/fellow writer/mentor, all of which make me smile. And believe me, I’m in need of some reasons to smile.

I’ve never actually been to a desert. At least not the no-water-in-sight-sun-beating-down-for-days kind. I remember driving through the desert to see a national park, maybe in Utah, maybe in Arizona. But I’m thinkin’ our deserts here in America have nothing on say, the Sahara. I can only imagine what it’s like to literally thirst for water in the desert, or desperately seek relief from a hot sun.

Figuratively speaking, I’m so there. Our season of financial dryness — no full time work, dwindling savings, little government assistance — lingers with not much sign that it will end. This was a roller coaster week for me with a few highs (an unexpected $20 to put gas in the car; finding 4 cans of salmon in the cupboard that I didn’t know we had; progress on my current writing project; kindness and generosity of friends) and a comparable number of lows (running out of butter and Crisco, staples in my efforts to bake more things at home instead of buy them; possible car troubles; stubborn kids). I’m no big fan of roller coasters in real life. About once every few years I think, why not, and ride one only to remember why I don’t usually ride roller coasters.

I’m looking for peace. Steadiness. Certainty.

Most days, I come up empty. Until I sit and listen for God’s voice. He’s not speaking loud and clear these days. He’s whispering. In code. I’m desperate to crack it, but it would seem He’s not ready to reveal the message yet. Instead of a message, He grants me the things I can’t get on my own. Peace. Assurance. Calmness of mind. Truth. Hope. Joy. Without Him, these things are in short supply.

So, I take note of the little smiley things about the week. Those little springs that give me momentary relief from the heat and pressure of wandering in the desert.

For starters, my husband, Phil, has been phenomenal (or maybe that’s Phil-nomenal) these last couple of weeks as I wrap up a writing project. He puts dishes away and does laundry. On Thursday he swept and tidied the living room (hardwood floors and one sorta nasty rug) while we were at a playdate. Yesterday, he deep cleaned the stove top. It sparkles. He watches the kids while I work. And this week we considered switching roles. I applied for a job. For which I apparently have a preliminary phone interview later this month. Phil is excited about the Mr. Mom role. I’m excited at the possibility of leaving the house on a regular basis. Above all, I’m grateful we’re a team.

And my kids. I complain and whine and groan about how hard this parenting gig is, but these two are creative and cute and funny. (I’m a pushover for jammies. Maybe because I’m reminded of their sweetness when they are quietly — and finally — in slumberland.)

They say ridiculous (and sometimes profound) things like “I’m overwhelmed. Do you know what overwhelmed is? It’s when you’re praying and you overflow.” That, from a 4-year-old.  And the way the 2-year-old prays for our food at mealtimes is sweet and always punctuated by a loud “GOODBYE” after the “amen.” Watch out, world, we have some enthusiastic ones here.

Books make me happy. Last weekend we went to a book sale in town. The kids each got to spend a dollar they earned for participating in the Summer Reading Program. They came home with three books each. Phil and I scored this box, which really reflects our book tastes in a box.

History. Christian fiction. Bible study. Atheist primer. Humor. Drinking. (Mainly the coffee, tea and soda variety.)

We had some awesome playdates with friends this week. The kids got a lot more social time than they’re used to, and even though I have work to finish, it was good to emerge from the cocoon and speak with real live humans again. (I tend toward hermit on the social scale.)

I’ll leave you with a few more smiles.

And if you need a reason to smile this week, you can borrow some of mine.

 

Guest post: Bringing home strays (informal foster care)

Today, I’m honored to have a guest blogger. Carol Cool (yes, that’s her real name, and yes, she lives up to it) is a speaker, editor, writer, pastor’s wife and dear friend. Carol has been a mentor, encourager and supporter to me in countless ways. She and her husband, Les, serve in the same denomination my husband and I are part of. Find out more about Carol and how you can be a superstar where you are here. And if you’re looking for a retreat or event speaker, she’s your woman!

Today, Carol writes about her and Les’s journey with adoption and informal foster care. May is National Foster Care Month. Check out Carol’s blog for more stories, stats and tips that are helpful in ministering to and supporting people working in and with foster care.

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“You and Les should do foster care,” said the guy sitting next to me at my brother’s wedding. He was the head of a children’s home, so he had a vested interest. Les happened to hear the comment and knew it would break my heart if I ever had to let a foster child go. So his reply was, “I’d have to have a personal message from God before I would ever let Carol do foster care.”

There was no personal message from God.

And yet over the years, Les and I have had 10 kids live in our home for periods of time, as well as two young adults and a single mom. Some were with us for only a few weeks, some a few months, the mom and her kids for almost a year, Joy forever. Not one came through a placement agency, government or private.

Les always says, “Some people bring home stray animals; Carol brings home stray people.” But I’m not the only one bringing them home; he’s brought his share. They’ve come as we’ve kept our eyes and ears and hearts open to how people are hurting. They’ve come as we’ve recognized a need we could fill. The family came through a thought God pressed on Les’s heart (so I guess there was a message from God).

Did my heart ever get broken? Multiple times. Eighteen-year-old Lori “left” before she even came, calling me before boarding a bus to head back to the mentally ill mother who had kicked her out at age 13, the mother who would attempt suicide two days after Lori arrived home. As she explained her rationale and the eagerness to be loved by her mother invaded her voice, I sat on the floor of our bedroom, hugging myself and sobbing. I was pretty sure this would end badly for Lori. I believed I would never heal.

Les and Carol Cool with Debby (green) and Joy (red)

When 14-year-old Debby and her 13-year-old sister Joy came into our home, we had known them for several years through our church and got along well. We were going to adopt them. The four of us were going to be a family. Some complications required us to get permanent custody first. The day the permanent custody papers came for us to sign—20 months after they moved in with us—Debby walked out, never to return to us. I was at work. Les called to say she had left in a fight over a candy bar (Joy can still tell you what kind it was). I thought they were joking. We all grieved. We all believed we would never heal.

Two years ago, our adopted granddaughter Ashlee came to live with us. She wasn’t adjusting well at home and had become a threat to her brother and Joy. She seemed to do well for the seven months she was here. She wanted to go home. Three weeks back she imploded and things got so bad the adoption was terminated. Again we grieve. It feels like our hearts will never heal.

They do heal, but there are always scars, tender spots that, when poked by a memory, produce pain. And yet . . .

Our lives have been enriched by the presence of each person. There’s the chunk of coal still in our front yard (moved 4 times) from Lauren. There’s the “Bedtime for Bonzolinas” song I made up for Max and Katie that still runs through my head. There’s the word “crookalized” that’s still in our vocabulary thanks to Joy (and her presence in our lives and hearts always). There’s memories of the Chinese tea ceremony at Leslie’s wedding. There are the funny stories of Hannah and Gloria whose Korean father thought it was fine to have his 12- and 13-year-old girls drive on I-95 on the way to Washington, DC. There’s the “Welcome Home, Mor More” sign from Ashlee hanging on my bulletin board. There’s a friendship with Cyndi that’s lasted 30 years, in which she still calls us Mom and Dad.

Yes, I’d do it again. (Why do people ask that? Do they ask that of people who had difficult times with their birth children?) Yes, I’d do things a bit differently. Yes, I’d ask God to help me be more patient with all of them. Yes, I’d try harder to get Lori to stay, to convince Debby to come back, to keep Ashlee here in Pennsylvania (although I don’t believe any of them would have).

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do something every day that scares you.” We didn’t set out to do that, but when you open your heart and your home, it’s scary. Things can break. It’s worth the risk to love as God loves (however imperfectly we manage it).

Open your eyes. There may be someone who needs the warmth of your love and, possibly, your home. Step out and take the risk—even if you don’t receive a personal message from God.