Last year at this time, I felt totally certain that the verse God hand stamped this verse on my heart for 2014:

"Forget the former things, do not dwell on the past! See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert." -Isaiah 43:18-19

Boom. That was it.  I felt this most certainly applied to the hard stuff in our house, to the new battles Imana Kids was getting ready to fight, and even to Crazy Town, our former "renter."  So I prayed and I dwelled and I studied this.
Rather than pray for my E, I tried praying more for myself.  Don't get me wrong, of course I continue to pray for all my children.  But I began to really be convicted that I needed to change me to change this family's dynamics, to help my son to heal.  I don't want to cause more trauma, and I felt like parents can do a lot of damage in trying to mold a hurt child into someone that God never intended them to be.  If that makes sense?
I started praying to be a "fun mommy" more.  I prayed aloud, in front of all my kids (we like accountability, right, moms? Why can't we be accountable to our children?) that I would be patient and my words would be kind.  That we could look at what God is doing, that He can and will make a way in the desert.  We started talking a lot about His Truths.
I am not going into details because I can summarize it with this:
Yesterday, 6 professionals that know our E well and care deeply for him could not tell us why or how, but that they can pinpoint a significant improvement in his behavior and his academic ability since November.  And that the improvements are consistent. Trauma parents, you all know consistency is so big.
We know the how and why.  We actually high fived each other in the meeting.
God is doing a new thing.  For E, in the past few months, his new thing is that he has been able to sleep through the night almost every single night.  This is life changing for our family of 6.
Sleep is something we haven't had in good amounts since we adopted our boys.  Sleep can't happen if you are really scared, if your brain is processing trauma or you are so overwhelmed and dis-regulated that you can not relax.
 And that's all I am going to write about for a spell.  You all have loved us well and I want to keep you updated from time to time.  At the risk of being offensive, I don't want parenting a child from a hard place to become an idol.  There is a fine line between therapeutic lamenting vs martyrdom.  I could continue to share with you the stories and conversations and moments that are surely more worthy of reality television than something the Kardashians did last week.  And I will, sometimes.
XOXO
Kara
PS  Ezekiel still hasn't lost any baby teeth, which is a status thing in first grade.  Unless you are Ezekiel, and you consider growing multiple rows of teeth , like a shark, because you figure you'll never have to look silly with a "hole in your mouth."

Then he said this.

     Once, in college, I was hanging out with a student priest (is that a thing?) in a bar in Guatemala.  All good stories start like this, don't they?  He was about my age, but our worlds could not have been further apart.  My priest-in-training friend had grown up in a rural village in the mountains of Guatemala.  He was an orphan. He told me that as a young boy, he had been adopted by another family, but that he later ran away from them.  I asked him why and he told me that he never felt like he fit in because he was darker skinned than his adoptive family; and that because he was old enough to remember he was adopted, he could never "forget."  He said that even though they told him they loved him and that he was their son, he never really felt like he was theirs.  Oh.  I didn't have words then,  and I still don't now.  It just sucks. As a naive college girl, this conversation made me stomach hurt and opened my eyes, just a glimpse, to the plight of orphans.  I wish I could find that priest friend now and give him a mama hug.
    I remembered of that story tonight because I am praying for God to speed up His healing process for my own boy.  It seems like we've had E forever, that surely enough time has passed for him to feel like he is home.  It seems like all our repetitiousness, our intentional everything, our deliberateness with him would have erased his painful passed.  It seems like it to us.  But we aren't really the ones that lived it.  That live it now.  Tonight, after E told a lie,  I told him that I was praying for the day that he could trust me with all his heart.  He began arguing and I held his hands and told him that even if he lied to me every day for the rest of his life, I would still love him and be his mom.  Then he said

"But what if you want to send me back?"

    Just like that.  Ripped my heart right out of my chest.  My son, that has been home for 5 years, went on to tell me that the reason he comes in our room sometimes is because he wonders if we will send him back to the orphanage if he is bad.  He even said something about how "even the nuns didn't want me after my birth mom took me there."
     So we cried together.  We prayed for God to bring E redemption tonight.  We prayed that he would know in every corner of his heart that we forever his.  Come Lord Jesus, come.

Baby cries

     I was taking a hiatus.  I wanted to go the whole summer without blogging.
     Nobody likes a whiner.  And it's always the same old drama.  Dis-regulation.  Hypervigilance.  Lack of sleep.  Lying.  Blah. Blah. Blah.  Yada, yada, yada.
     Gonna spare you the gory details of summer share something beautiful instead.  One of those moments I will treasure in my mama heart forever.  THIS.

A nest next to MAMA!!!

       My E has had some especially tough nights.  Like newborn feeding kind of schedules.  We never, ever get angry at him.  I offer to snuggle him when he wakes us up but he always gets upset and resists it. He just wants our "help" when he changes into dry pants, bedding, etc.  Lately it has been goofy stuff like "I heard something naughty outside" or "I was just talking to myself a lot."  I know he is afraid of something but he won't or can't say what.  And I can't comfort or give him peace.
     Tonight we were pulling into the garage from running errands.  Etienne started to apologize for waking me up last night.  I told him no big deal, and then I asked him what I ask him every night.  Every. Single. Night.
"Maybe you are afraid or worried about something and you need me to help you pray about it."
     My E started sobbing.  It was the most real, genuine emotion I have seen from my son.  Deep in his heart kind of gut wrenching sobs.  Big, big tears.  Then he let me climb on to his booster seat.  I got to pick my great big boy up and rock him and he didn't push me or tense up. He just leaned into me and cried.

He told me that he is so afraid that his mom and dad will die without him someday.

He told me he is so afraid that he won't know how to drive a car or read a book or "pay for things."

He told me he is so afraid that he won't know how to tell the truth or respect people without us.

He told me that when his mom and dad die and go to be with Jesus, he wants to too.  

"Because, mom, why wouldn't I want to just be with you and dad and Jesus?"

Then I asked him if he would sleep with me and dad.  He finally, finally said yes.

Hospitable

Hospitality  

    It's funny how God reaches us, isn't it?  This morning I was reading through some scripture on hospitality.  The gift used to be peculiar to me; I didn't really appreciate how welcoming someone into your home could be considered a spiritual gift.  Since my hubs is always looking for a reason to smoke meat and our dining room table is the Imana Kids  HQ, we often have a few extra cars in the driveway or a guest sleeping over.  We dig it.  We're totally hospitable, all six of us.
    A good host has fresh towels out, ice tea chilled and kiddos that keep their clothes on while company is present, right?  Wrong.  This is not the same as hospitality.  This is entertaining.  If my desire is to practice hospitality in the biblical sense, it's not about how clean my bathroom is or whether the boys smell or not.  It's about serving His children.  All of them.  The ones that are easy to love and the ones that press our buttons.  We want to welcome others into our space because that's how God loves others.  He meets them where they're at and welcomes them in.
    Paul wrote a lot about others hosting him.  In one chapter alone, he references a girl named Lydia, a girl who tells fortunes and a prison guard, all of whom he goes on to dine and stay with after becoming baptized (Acts 16).  Strangers became family, just like that.

Being at Home

    What makes a house a home?  I think about how it feels whenever I go to my friend Nicole's house.  She's got lots of kids too and part of the reason I feel comfortable is that I know she gets what it's like to herd cats.  There's always a low level of chaos and that's okay.  In her space, I feel loved, safe and wanted.  I can't recall if she has fresh bath soap or whether there are dishes in her sink.  I know that when I'm there, I can let out a sigh of relief. I'm safe and I'm loved there.
     The Greek word hospitality is philoxenia, which means 'love of strangers'.  I know that Paul talked about showing hospitality to the poor and the brokenhearted, the tax collectors and prostitutes.  But I'm just gonna say it.  There are still many days when I look at my son, whom I know with all my being is my son, and he is so far away and distant and removed.  A stranger to me even though it brings me to tears to admit it.  I need to love that stranger better.  I need to show that stranger whatever I can to so that he can exhale that he is home.
     SO.  So just when I think I can't bend any further, God throws me this. How do I better make my baby boy feel that his family is his home?  What can I do so that he can rest well and have peace in our presence?  There are tangible solutions: empty his room of everything other than a bed, restart our rigid after school routine, eliminate activities.  But I also know that I need to check my own heart.  I gotta let go even more.  Part of being hospitable in a biblical sense is meeting the needs of those around you.  We go in these phases where we think we can jump back in to the rest of the world, doing the American run-around-be-too-busy drama.  What my son really needs is less of that and more of us.

Over and over again. And repeat.

    My kid also needs the kind of mercy and grace that I show my guests.  Instead of raising my voice as he (deliberately) defies me once again, I gotta press on with the kind mommy voice.  You know the one; the after the first-cup-of-coffee voice.  And keep that mommy voice going over and over and over again NOT EXPECTING to be reciprocated, however hard it may be.  Because I know in my heart of hearts that at the end of the day, if I am continuing to correct and discipline and correct and discipline my E, he's going to feel defeated and unaccepted, and ultimately, unloved.  Yuck.  I hate to let that settle. 

    I don't know why it's harder for me to feed the poor and show mercy to the brokenhearted then it is to show patience to my son.  But it is.  I gave up a long time ago into whatever I thought "normal" looked like.  Yet there is still this part of me that wants to change things I can't change; and that's the part of me holding my son back.  Come, Jesus, please come.  I want with all my being for my E to feel at home.  I want him to be able to climb onto my lap and fall asleep feeling safe and wanted and loved.  Home.

    

Tryin' for a snuggle

Hard stuff

     I haven't written much lately because I am just worn out.  We've had a lot of battles to fight.  Hard stuff with Imana Kids.  Hard stuff with our house that won't sell (and deciding to let that battle with the "renter" go).  Hard stuff with our jobs.  And a few weeks ago, hard stuff with my health.  Don't get me wrong; we know our cups run over with blessings.  But we could really use some good news.    
     Sometimes we try to control the hard stuff.  Do we do something, try to move forward, fix it?  Or do we try to rest in  Him?  I often wonder how to find the balance between being God's hands and feet but also being still.  Waiting on Him.  Our adoption has taught us over and over and over again that we have to wait on Him.  We don't have a choice; we can't quickly heal or erase the hurt that orphanage life imprints on a child's heart.  Only our heavenly Father can do that.
     Tonight Etienne was on his second meltdown of the day.  When he gets to spiraling, I've gotten to this place where I can physically separate me from myself...like I watch me in motion.  I think it is the only way that I can respond in an attachment way rather then being angry and mean.  Don't let me fool you, in my head I am screaming and it sometimes takes all my willpower not to swat him.  I made the mistake (again and again) of trying to hold him.  He pushed me away harder and looked panicked.

I said "E, stop, why are you pushing me like that?"  

He said "When I am mad I have to protect myself from you hurting me."

     Kick in the gut.  And the heart.  We've been loving him for almost 5 years. 5 freakin' years.  And still.  His gut instinct is to protect himself from me.  His mama.  Ugh.  This is hard stuff too.
     Do I overreact? Yup, been doing it for years.  Do I get emotional? Always.  Am I a yeller? Not usually, but more now than before I had 4 kids.  Do I hurt my kid?  Oh my.  I pray, no.  But hearing my boy say he has to protect himself from me makes me replay every ugly scenario we've lived.  And people wander why we haven't started spanking him "yet".  Is it my words? Am I mean? Am I over correcting and nagging and ugly?  Sigh.  
     So once again, I am resting. I am waiting.  Be still.  Psalm 46:10..."Be still and know that I am God.  I will be exalted among nations and in the earth."  I have got to let this one go.  I've been trying and trying to be hands and feet to my son but even my hands holding him aren't going to fix it all my son's wounds.   My son whose heart is on the mend.
     

Baking Bread and stuff

     Etienne's been having some rough days (and nights).  My E has been home from the orphanage for over four years.  But every moment that he was lying in that cold metal crib, away from my arms, damage was done.  We are still reminded of it.  When he stares right through me and tells ridiculous, absurd lies.  At 3 AM, when he wakes us up because's he's taken his shirt off and undone his bed; my brain flashes back to a memory of rows and rows of cribs, all full but silent.  Our poor kiddo, he knows somewhere in his brain all the things he should not do, but he does them anyway.  His lack of self-control makes me sad, and truthfully, fearful of adolescence. The constant battles he fights, they suck.  It's ugly and it's not fair that everything is so hard for him.
     Honestly, it also infuriates me too.  Remember when you were chasing after your two year old all day, keeping them from hurting themselves and constantly finding a nice way to say "no"?  Yes, that.  There are days that I want to scream that he  is still not convinced of our love.
     The thing that helps is those ugly memories of his first home stop.  Thank you God that I can't forget.  Thank you God that You can make good out of the bad.  Thank you God that I today I found empathy with those memories.
     Trying to embrace the attachment thing, even though it makes me want to pull my hair out.  That means E stays by my side.  We decided we'd do some baking.  Molly made bread, E made banana bread and Zeke and I made sweet potato soup.  All at once.  Music blaring, flour flying, everyone talking at once and no one really listening.  It was a blast.  The only thing he broke was eggs.  Lots.  But no lies were told.  He smiled at me and I wasn't pushed away once.  We laughed that Molly's bread tasted like glue and rotten bananas are fun to squish.   We talked about birth moms and yeast and how the Oscars are stupid.  It was messy and loud and grand.

Wanted.

I asked Ezekiel how his day was.  He said (in his Barry White voice), arms crossed, scowling,

"Great until I got mad at my friend!"

It is really hard for Molly, Blake and me not to giggle when he gets angry.  It's that voice, it kills us every time.  Molly rubs his little dreads as we sit down to get the whole story about why Ezekiel got so mad.

"I was telling all my friends about how I have a birth ("berf") mom in Rwanda.  Then ___said I wasn't wanted by her!"

Ugh.  Another kick in the stomach. Knowing my Zeke-ee baby, I had to remain stoic and play off his reaction.  He gets really emotional ,or really not, depending on the weather.  I decided to hold my own gut wrenching inside for a moment.

"So I told him 'MY MOM STAYED UP ALL NIGHT LONG WORKING TO GET ME AND MY MOM WENT IN AN AIRPLANE FOR 2 DAYS TO GET ME!!  MY WHOLE FAMILY WENT TO BRING ME HOME!!!"

Oh sweet Zeke.  He's been listening.  All the nights that we tell him how much we wanted him. All the snuggles and stories of working extra hours, of waking up early to check our emails, of aching arms as I rocked in my chair, praying my boys home.  He was listening.  I am so grateful that my Zeke is confident in his place in this world.  

 

Trust

     It's been a couple weeks since I've written.  In the back of my head, I have a little reminder button that alarms after I hit a week mark of no writing....I've hit snooze a lot lately. :)
     For 2014, I have decided that my word is SWAY.

Sway

verb  /swei/

1. To swing back and forth or to and fro. See Synonyms at swing.

2. To incline or bend to one side; veer: She swayed and put out a hand to steady herself.

3.

a. To incline toward change, as in opinion or feeling.

b. To fluctuate, as in outlook.

I always have a prayer for the year that I write for each of my family members.  The first week of the New Year, Ryan was working in Rwanda, so I had extra time to pray and reflect. Something God revealed to me in choosing this word was that maybe some of the struggles that we have in our day to day functioning wouldn't be such a struggle if I could bend a little, like a tree.  Maybe if I let go of what I want.  Like, if E can not walk upright, if he persistently crashes up and down the stairs, but he doesn't do structural damage, how much does it matter?  Why do I need him to fix his gross motor skills?  Sure, we need new pants every 3 months but the thrift store is just down the street.
 If Etienne constantly fills his pockets and hands with trinkets or trash, it really doesn't matter to the rest of the world.  He can just check all pockets, crevices and holes for garbage before we load the laundry in the washer.
Yet there are some things that I can't sway on.  Trust being one of these absolutes.
Overnight, I heard Etienne up in his room.  His diaper layers had leaked and he was crawling back into a soaked bed.  I whispered for him to let me take the sheets off and after some resistance, he moved out of the way for me to strip the bed.
Later on in the morning, I reminded him that we don't want him sleeping in a wet bed and that he never, ever "gets in trouble" for wet bedding.  He looked at me, with that flat expression that splinters my heart, and said

"I can do it because I don't need your help."

 On the surface, maybe this isn't a big deal.  Maybe it's just him voicing his desire for independence.  But coupled with leftover breakfast bars hidden in his pillow case or the temper tantrums when I cut his food reminds me that there was a time before I was E's.  There was a time when he had no one give him food, wash his hair or kiss his boo-boos.  
So I can not sway on that.  I won't sway on earning his trust.  That's our absolute.
In case you missed it, Ryan and I, along with some dear friends, have started a foundation.  In the first 3 weeks of January we have both returned to Rwanda on individual trips to work.  I feel the judgement, "Well, that can not be good for the children, when their parents are coming and going."
 Let me tell you this.  Me coming home to my Molly, Blake, E and Zeke is healing.  It's promoting trust.  It's a live demo of what we've been trying to teach E for four years.  Our family, our love, our commitment, it doesn't quit or go away.  (Honestly, the reprieve is great and E's behavior is a little better when we get home.)
 So if you notice that E's clothing is falling apart, it's because his mama decided to sway on that.  His crazy 'fro may look increasingly disheveled but he won't be alone in the middle of the night.  I may force him to cover every cut and scratch with a band-aid and I will probably continue to annoy him when I try to rock all 65 pounds of him after a hard day.  That's what mamas do.  

 

Breaking the Sleep Cycle

  I've written a lot over the years regarding our struggles with sleep (or rather a lack thereof).  As I have learned more about my son and the rewiring of his thinking, feelings and even senses, I totally get why he does not sleep well.  Who would, really, when they have such extreme conditions early in life?  Of course he still processes old memories, old feelings and old fears at night.  Of course he needs grace in this.
That being said. UGH! Finding that grace for him in the last hours of the day is difficult for all of us.  Our cycle here is that E wakes up early.  Really early for a kid who goes, goes, goes without a nap or even a pause all day long.  Usually, E is up 2 hours before the rest of the kids.  Some days (note, I didn't use words like many or most!) he will lie in his bed humming softly or talking to himself.  Usually he wonders to the bathroom at least two times.  By the time the rest of the entourage wakes up, this kid is WIRED and ready to go.  It's best for all of us if he gets dressed, brushes his teeth, etc, in my bathroom.  His nonstop chatter, chanting, touching and stomping is a lot so bright and early.
  By the time 4 o'clock rolls around, E is done.  Finished.  Ready for bed.  I would be too if I ran- not walked-everywhere, was hypervigilant to everyone around me and generally was on fast forward mode.  That's where our strict routine comes in with the high protein, the sprints, yada, yada, yada.  Basically we hang on until bedtime.
Now usually I avoid asking for advice.  Please don't take this the wrong way.  It just stems from the fact that parenting E is never going to fit the mold for most kids.  I've been hurt a lot over the years by this.  I value all your opinions and thoughts but I have also come to guard my heart in this area.
E is chronically sleep deprived.  We can see and hear his fatigue.  I don't know how to break this cycle.....I would guess that he gets about 9 hours of sleep.  This is the kind of sleep that involves crashing into the wall, hanging off the bed, tossing and turning, keeping muscles flexed, peeing.  Not that sound or restful.
Thoughts? Suggestions?  I'm bracing myself but I'm ready for my community here.

"WAY TO GO!"

This is a first!

     Friday Etienne got his first ever "Way to go!"  These are awarded by the teacher for either being respectful, responsible, safe or caring.  This was kind of a big deal (for obvious reasons).  Then, on the way home, he chucked it out the window.  Typical irony of our life.  We love small victories and funny stories.
     We had parent/teacher conferences tonight.  Cheering that we haven't had calls from the Principal this year.  Thankful that no parents have complained or threatened us (not exaggerating, true stories).  Bummed that E's poor teacher has to discuss a lot behavior drama with us.  Bummed that school is not his thing.  He is getting English Language Learning (ELL) again; she says that she can definitely identify some language barriers.  Still.  Etienne is also getting some supplemental reading.  These are services that I never would have imagined I would be so appreciative or rely upon.  They are essential for my son to learn.
     Rejoicing that she said "Some of the things he says amaze me.  There are times that he comprehends things beyond years.  It's like he's an old soul."  This brought tears to my eyes.  The only prayer that I have ever had for Etienne in public school was that people could see the real him; that his behaviors wouldn't hinder relationships or learning.  Ultimately, his classmates and the staff around him can see his loving heart and caring ways.
     I spent this morning in worship alone.  Reading scripture and listening to music.  Reflecting on how far God has brought our family and my heart.  I can't believe that the softness in my son's eyes, the way he leans into me when I am near him, or how in the past week alone we have been "lunch buddies" (packing the same lunch) and "work buddies," (doing home repair together!).  This is so much evidence of God's grace in our home, in E's healing and my heart.
     Etienne is back to having a difficult time sleeping at night.  This makes learning, behaving and functioning all day long a lot harder for our man.  We have totally compensated over the years as to how much rest we need, but our prayer for E is that he may rest well each night so that behaving and learning is a little easier during the day.
   

Nothing so broken.

   A couple of nights ago I got one of those moments.  You know the ones.  The kind that need savored, captured in  a corner of your heart where you will never, ever lose it.  Even in the midst of it, I told myself that I would relive this moment even when I was old and gray.  Over the last few years, since we adopted two of our children from Rwanda, many of our moments have been rough.  Painful and not blog-worthy.  But the other night, I was gifted with a sweet moment over the letter 'W.'
     E's been home a long time now.  Four years today, in fact.  Long enough that most of our community doesn't really remember us from before we became insane (eh, I mean a party of 6).  Long enough that it's easy for outsiders not to possibly grasp the enormity of how we became we.  The intricacies that weaved our boys to us.  Long enough not to understand that sometimes even the littlest thing, like only eating two helpings at dinner instead of five is a really big deal.  Or how a six year old finally, finally recognizing the alphabet after four years of practice is enough to send his mama into a heap of tears.
     It's no secret that school isn't E's thing.  Kindergarten was really all about attempting to grasp some of the general expectations that the world has on people.  Don't put your feet on your neighbor.  Stop clogging the toilets with paper towels.  Avoid throwing your socks on other people's faces.  Those.  And also recognizing the alphabet, counting to 20.  Tying your shoes.  Sigh.  By spring time, E hadn't really mastered any of the above listed.  He did, however, share the gospel with at least 3 classmates, open his milk by himself and wrapped his way into his teacher's heart.  That's about it.
     Before E had started school, I had done a couple of years of "homework" with E every day to help him try to catch up to the rest of the kids that didn't have three languages scrambled into their heads before the age of 4.  Sometimes our homework involved tubs of rice, a string of dyed pasta or a bucket of water.  We used clay.  We explored forests.  We celebrated when E sat for 5 minutes straight.  Eventually, I realized I wasn't getting anywhere.  The boy still had a blank look when we read "Chicka Chicka Boom."  Every patient tactic I used failed.  Two years of our efforts, and at the end of kindergarten he could not if his life depended on it identify more than a handful of letters.  We knew, being the savvy attachment parenting gurus that we are, that this was because our son was still struggling to bond with us as his forever family.  There was this wall between my son and me.  I finally threw in the cards the day that my sister-in-law pointed to a McDonald's cup and asked him the letter. He didn't know I was nearby as he proudly said "M."    My stomach lurched and tears filled my eyes.  That was the last day that I did any extra "homework" with my son.  We still read books as a family each night, but I quit trying to help E learn.  It was pointless.  He still cringed when I touched him.  Our nights were sleepless, filled with a wandering six year old, wet linens and  restless sleep.  The kid still glazed over when I told him that I loved him.  Each day we were filling every minute with strict routine and structure for our son; giving him less opportunity to spiral into uncontrollable behavior.  After three and a half years, we had reached a point where I really believed that God would redeem my son.  But  redemption would not come in my lifetime.
     So we decided to go to Africa.  Coworkers, the same ones that weathered years of me swallowing tears, avoiding calls from the Principal's office, generally looking frazzled, raised their eye brows.  Family politely, subtly questioned if that was a good plan "for E."  Why not?  Really, we'd already been in survival mode for so long.  Part of me wanted the 16 hr flight to just sleep.  The rest of me just needed a break from constant frustration.  It hurts to keep on loving on someone that doesn't reciprocate.  We had reached a point where we knew that whatever repercussions would come from our trip weren't anything worse that what we were already living.
     We came home to the best summer ever.  The kid didn't wiggle away from my touch.  He looked me in the eye.  We all six had fun.  We laughed.  We didn't speak of it, but Ryan and I felt that there had been a shift in our home.   I found the energy to work on a little "homework" again.  The week before school started, I asked E to do chalk on the driveway with me.  At first he whined, but eventually I convinced him we could make a game.  First, I drew a whale.  He guessed it.  Then I drew a whistle.  After the whistle came the wave.  Soon, E got that we were making the 'W' sound.  It's a tricky one.  Just say 'w' aloud.  Doesn't it sound like it should start with a 'd?'  I held up my middle three fingers, forming a wave or a 'W.'  E could see it.  Holding his middle fingers formed the shape of a wave and the letter.  It was pure luck that I pulled that wave/three finger W thing together on th"e spot like that.  Whatever.  I asked the other kids to say 'w' words throughout the day to help their brother with the repetitiveness of it.  For a couple of days, the six of us did great holding our three fingers up for a 'w,' trying our best to use silly words like "wing nut" and "walrus whisperer" in normal conversation.  Then school came and we jumped into our fall routines of school, sports, drama, work.  Life goes on.
     Ryan and I were tucking E in the other night.  I was feeling a little guilty that we hadn't read that night, we'd watched "Wipe Out," instead.  Ah-ha!  "E, was does 'Wipe Out' start with?"  I asked.  It had been at least a week since we had practiced the tricky letter.  E thought for a moment, then said

"Wa, wa, wa.  W! Wipe Out starts with 'w'!"  He grinned and held up his three middle fingers, forming his wave.

"Worm! Water! Wave! Wiggle!"  He continued with his words.  We were all three smiling big, goofy grins.  Then Ryan asked E.

"E, who taught you the letter 'w?'  Was it grandma? Was it at school?  On Sesame Street?"

     A slow grin spread across E's face.  He put his arms around me, sort of pulling me to his chest.  Then he said

"Mommy taught it to me."

     By this time, I didn't just have tears in my eyes.  I was crying hard and E kept wiping my face.  We didn't need words to explain why this was a big deal.  E knew just like his parents.  That wall had come down.  He learned something from his mama.  For the first time ever.
     Sure, one could argue that I have indirectly taught my son many things since bringing him home.  Speaking English, brushing his teeth or blowing his nose are all things he's learned living in a family.  Those are all necessary skills for a child in a structured setting.  This was very different.  My efforts, four years of wheels spinning, hadn't ever gotten us anywhere.  And here we were, on a random school night in September, crying our eyes out over the letter 'w.'  It couldn't have been more perfect.  Another chapter in our E's story that only our Creator could write.
     Redemption has come.  In my lifetime.  In unexpected and beautifully messy ways.  It wasn't me.  It wasn't the constant structure or framework.  I can't attribute it to attachment parenting or a good therapist.  It's so much more than that.  God's love has knocked down that wall that brokenness and abandonment had built around my E.  And it's not going anywhere.  I can feel and see and tangibly touch the changes in my E's heart.  His eyes are soft and he leans against me when we are near.  E is all mine and I am all his.

   

   

Birth Moms

     I swear that the kids save up their most awkard ("Mom, where do you catch the baby out of?), embarrassing ("LOOK! That man looks like Chunk!) and heart stopping (see below) conversations for when Ryan is at work.  I get to be the one to fumble, usually tearfully, through these moments with them.
     To be honest, Blake has been a stinker this week.  That kid is either really, really good or really, really bad.  Luckily, he's usually great.  Not so much this week.  Being the instigator that he is, Blake had managed to get his brothers naked, screaming and running circles around the dining room table.  At one point, I hollered in my toughest voice something about birthing Blake into this world and taking him back out of it.  Don't judge.  You weren't herding loud, nude boys.
     A short while later, as I was lathering lotion on the now clean, naked boys, Ezekiel began to cry.  Really big tears rolled down his soft cheeks.  Sweet boy said in his deep voice

"Mommy, I don't know if I am supposed to love you or my birth mommy more."

     Oh my heart.  I wrapped him in the biggest mommy hug I could and rocked him.  I told him that there is room enough to love us both.  That sometimes he may not want to love her at all and that's okay.  That sometimes he may not want to love me and that's okay too.  He just cried harder and said

"Keep hugging me, Mommy."

     I reminded my Zeke that his birth mom could not give him clean water or food or a safe place to live.  He asked if she was dead and I was honest.  I said I didn't know, that only God really knew.  I said that it really stinks that we don't know for sure but that we do know for sure that I am his real, forever mama.  That God made us family.  Then Molly, whom by this time was rubbing Ezekiel's back, said

"Zeke, remember how God loves us all so much? Remember how He doesn't love some people more than others?  You can have a different kind of love for both your mamas and it doesn't have to be more or less."

     She rocks that big sister thing.  I realized later that my lame comment about birthing Blake must have stuck in sweet Zeke's head.  Ugh.  I always knew that this conversation would come up.  This is one that I've said over and over to myself, in my head.  But saying it aloud to my son as his big body shook with tears wasn't something that I could ever really prepare for.  It's the sin of the world that there are orphans.  That birth moms can't or won't keep their children.  But then there is that thing called grace. Once again,  I was reminded how sacred and precious and-holy cow!-huge this life we live is.  How blessed I am to be the one to guide their little hearts to Him.  

Molly walked Ezekiel to kindergarten but he would not let her hold his hand. Sniffle, sniffle.

  

 

 

 

The Other Shoe.

     We've been waiting for the other shoe to drop since returning from Rwanda.  And guess what?  It hasn't.  That stinkin' shoe hasn't even slipped loose.
     For real.  Pinch me.  There have been countless moments when I have thought to myself "this is the best summer we have had since 2009!"  I can't tell you how many times my eyes have welled up with tears as Ryan and I sit on our red bench, watching our kids play baseball or catch fire flies.  I have not sat on the steps outside the boys' room, crying, once this summer (since '09, I would almost nightly collapse in tears next to Ryan on those stairs).  We are entering our last week of summer here...I think it's safe to say that we stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop.
     There is zero logic in our plan. Zero.  Who goes to the other side of the world to find healing for their son's hurt heart?  We haven't gone to therapy, there aren't any new supplements or theories or attachment techniques.  It's just another chapter that God has written in Etienne's life.  And I am so, so thankful for this illogical twist.
     We still have our wet beds, our crashing into everything, our general random-weird-post institution behavior.  But the dark, flat stares, the manipulating lies, the hurtful actions are nothing like what we've survived in the past.
     Part of it is that I have embraced that my E will never function  like other kids.  Don't judge-let me explain.  For example,  I know Etienne's cues these days and I'm meeting him where he's at.  If he's been out of his comfort zone, over stimulated or tired, it doesn't work to try to snuggle him or even to have him nap.  Instead, we've taken to running together.  The physical exercise helps him regulate himself as well as taking him away from the stimuli (or the grown up that is low on patience).  So when he's starting to do flips off the furniture (I'm not kidding) or laughing his high pitched tired scream, I make him run five laps around the perimeter of the house.  Corporal punishment? Nope, he likes it and we call it "preseason conditioning."
     School starts soon.  E says he could "stay in summer forever."  I'm not gonna lie; I have my own fears about him returning to sitting in a desk, in a classroom with people that don't know his heart.  I get nervous to think that the expectations of the school are going to be really, really challenging for him.  But then I go the grocery store and another mother tells me that E was always the boy that tied her son's shoes.  Or we work in the school garden and his old teacher shares how he always offered to pray for his classmates.  And I know God is using my E in that public school to bring Him glory.
      I think back to a few months ago, when we were so afraid of the aftermath of going to Africa.  And that aftermath has been the best summer of our lives: a swimming, books, ice cream, tan lines, s'mores, road trips, fire flies,  bare feet kinda summer.  It was worth it.  The last four years of feeling like we were just hanging on.  They have been worth every moment we have savored this summer.  So bring on first grade! (Gulp.)  

Saying "yes"

     I can see it in their eyes.  The people that know our family from a distance.  Neighbors or coworkers that have maybe seen a glimpse of the state of stress that our home has (frequently) been in for the past four years.  I sense the judgement; how they believe that we are nuts when we say we have launched a foundation.
     Their questions: Why would they commit to more? Because God has blessed us with a team of resources.   Don't they need to focus on the kids that they already have? We want our kids to learn to obey God even if the world does not. What do they know about a foundation? Nothing.  But we are quick learners.
    I imagine that when Simon Peter threw aside his nets and gave up his life as a fisherman, the guys in the next boat raised their eyebrows.  Don't misread me here.  There aren't plans to quit my day job.  I am just having a new appreciation for what it feels like to say "Yes!" more loudly and bolder than we ever have before.  To not get too comfortable.
     When I was younger, I was the kid that volunteered to host the party, make the extra posters, run for the next class office.  Somewhere between there and here, I stopped saying yes to others.  It was the most liberating feeling NOT to sign up to bring cupcakes or substitute for Sunday school.  I know that is a bold statement but you have to understand that my saying yes was to please those around me.  My identity isn't in whether the rest of the moms think I have it all together.  My identity is in my maker.
     Standing at the gates of Kimisagara, I could hear God shouting at me as I watched my husband hold those sweet faces in his hands and tell them that they had a heavenly father.  I felt God tapping on my heart as my only daughter sobbed as she said goodbye to Rwanda.  And being home to some of the most calm, RAD free days in four years just makes His plan that much more clear.  Our future is with these kids.
     We have some amazing, amazing team members that are doing this with us.  Our family has given us their back yards, their time, and most importantly, their blessing.  Those that know us well-and know that God is the creator of some of the craziest story lines-are right beside us in this.  We are one blessed family to be loved like this.
     There won't be a finished basement, a weekend away or a new windshield on the van.  As Ryan reminded me, none of those are advancing the kingdom of God.  I love it that this is the man that leads my family.  And I'm not gonna lie, he's leading me where I have always hoped to be!  So yes, we are saying "yes."  Besides, Blake, E and Zeke reminded me tonight that if you say no to God, you may end up in the belly of a fish.

Updates

     Today I heard a sermon about worship that focused on Psalm 95.  Part of worship is being in awe of how big God is.  How little we are.  Maybe it's looking at the Rocky Mountains, hearing the waves of the Pacific crash onto the shore or watching your baby breathe his first breath.

     For me, I am living in awe right now.  It's like a light bulb came on in our house after all these years of having it blink on and off.  Let me explain.

     A month ago, when we were preparing to leave for Rwanda, we got a lot of questions about our trip, leaving our former orphan to return to his country, would effect him.  How he would cope and what the aftermath would look like for us.  The first of the awe was that I had zero, zero, worries about this.  I felt totally at peace and there wasn't an ounce of anxiety regarding Etienne or his brothers.  Wow, this felt good. It feels good to feel good!

     Here we are, three weeks after coming home, doing great.  DOING GREAT!!!  Our first night home, Etienne said the dinner pray.  It was eloquent and beautiful and thoughtful.  That first night, he prayed for the kids we left behind.  And since that night, he is still on board.  No lying.  No destruction.  No all nighters.  It's like God had been working Etienne up for this too.

     So I am in awe.  I am in awe that God could take all our years of struggle to shape us for this.  I am in awe that He has given Etienne a peace that only He can give.  I am in awe that us leaving the continent for many, many nights would result in....healing.  I am crying as I type that.

     That is worship.  The awe at my family and what God is doing.  Every theory, every book, every support group; none of it has had the outcome of Ryan and I returning to an orphanage in Rwanda without Etienne. That is God.  That is awe.  That is my worship.  

Goofball is a fish.  The mask is for effect only.

     Wait, there's more.

     Our foundation is taking off.  Imana Kids is the real deal.  I mean, God is moving.  Things are coming together and they aren't stressful or hard or frustrating.  Babies aren't being born while I am on call (more time to work on bylaws and such!), necessary documents are easy to find, people answer their emails, the kids get along while we write.  Who knew a college kid, a couple of teachers and a midwife could figure out a non-profit?  We have 4 kick-off parties with a goal of $10,000 by Labor Day.  It's big.  God is bigger.  That's awe.  It's worship; my life is worship.

     

Strength.

"I have never said 'Do not pee in the trash cans,' so I can't get mad that someone peed in all the trash cans."

     Those words actually came out of my mouth.  After the lengthy clean up that followed the lying, the manipulation and the tears, I wound up with my 69 lb six year old in my arms, rocking.  In my heart of hearts, I know that he can't cognitively understand empathy or consequences to his actions.  I equate it to an 18 month old that thinks it is funny when they hit you in the face.  You don't punish the infant or toddler because you know that they don't understand that they just hurt you; that their little brain can't comprehend their action yet.  So you patiently correct them and move along.  I feel bold sharing this because I know that many, many people would find this idea insane.  But until you live with a child that has been deeply wounded, you probably can't get it.  And that's okay.  I was there and I still find myself wanting to lash out when I am peeling up wet trash....it's hard.
     So that is where we are at.  We are trying to condition our brains to give up (for now, and don't judge) consequences, lectures or really much reaction for things like urinating in the trash can.  This means that my boy is doing everything with me or I am doing it for him.  And guess what? He isn't fighting it.
     As we were attempting to rock, this is what I said:

"No matter what you do in this life, I am strong enough to handle it.  There isn't anything you can do that I am not strong enough for.  I can do this because God chose me for you and because my strength is really His strength.  I will freak out.  I will cry.  But I will still be here with you. "

    And then I stumbled and fumbled my way to cradle him in my arms all the way to bed.  That's how we're rolling (for now).

Dwell on This

The past three days have been rough.  Really rough.  My spirit is depleted and I'm physically drained.  I have been dwelling on God's character because that is all that I know that is unchanging.  We had been talking about  this with our Rwanda team and yesterday my brother encouraged me to pray on this.

• God is unchanging (Hebrews 13:8)
• God's way is perfect (Psalm 18:30)
• God is always good. Always. Psalm 100:5)
• God will redeem (Isaiah 47:4)

  Last night I felt like redemption was very far away.  Then Zeke asked me to read out of his bible.  He picked the parable in Luke that Jesus tells of a lost sheep.  The little cartoon was of Jesus embracing one sheep out of a flock of 100, grinning a goofy grin, with all the other shepherds throwing a party.  That goofy image is imprinted with me now.
 
PS To all the other parents that meet my son.  Please show us grace.  If my child has hurt yours, it is because his heart is hurting.  He doesn't know how to feel safe.  He doesn't get empathy and his little mind can't control his impulses.  It's not an excuse.  It's just the reality.  We are trying.  Know that we have read every book, sought wise counsel, attempted each parenting theory.  Know that we have shed tears for your kiddo.  Ultimately, we rest in the God's character that He will indeed fix this too (Acts 13:38).

Hope

I haven't been writing as much lately.
I struggle with my voice.  And that doesn't happen often.  I feel like I can't do justice trying to express this fine-feathered, often over and misused thing called hope.  I think of Kylie and JaninaF, my little trolls that has somehow found a space in my heart (I still really wanna buy them a coffee). Thoughts of them make me stop typing.  It isn't because I want their approval or I need to have "the last word."  It's because I feel so much sympathy for them that they are missing out.
Missing out on how much richer and fuller and more meaningful everything in life is when you have hope in something bigger than you.  When you find that hope that is unchanging, everlasting and unconditional.
I'm gonna continue to be honest here.  We've had to put on our boxing gloves for Etienne more than we'd like.  Old ugly stuff creeping back in.  I physically feel ill when he slips into the protective mode.  You know the one: the lying, manipulating, hurtful stuff that he does to to protect himself.  I can't stand that sometimes he still has a primal need to resist love.  Ugh.
But here's where hope comes in bigger and better.
There's been lots of lies this week.  Ones that hurt siblings and mama.  At bedtime, we were reading a story about when Moses had warned Pharaoh to free the  Israelites.  The gist of the devotion was that Pharaoh's pride had consequences and the little kiddo summary was "God, others, me."  Good stuff.  Etienne on his on accord said "So when you are lying you are just thinking about yourself and what you want, right?"  Bingo.
Sigh.  This is my son that routinely misses the entire plot of a movie, that until last week didn't realize Eve was a woman; that still loses a lot in translation.  But not this.  He got this.
That, dear trolls, is what hope looks like.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -That perches in the soul -And sings the tune without the words -And never stops - at all - Emily Dickinson

Well this is new.

   Crazy Tuesdays.  Ryan teaches at a junior college which leaves me shuttling everyone from point A to point B.  I met him at Etienne's football practice, dropped E off, then left to get Molly at her rehearsal.  An hour later, Molly, Zeke and I were taking a walk as Ryan and the other boys arrived home.  A few minutes later, Etienne ran to catch up with us, already in tears.  He is mad.  Apparently, flag football was "good."   We attempted to continue our walk but E was tearful and looking for a fight.  After bullying Zeke and being scolded, he was literally on the sidewalk having a full out temper tantrum.  The 68lb'r was screaming, kicking, punching and sobbing as I struggled to identify our trigger to the meltdown.  I let the other kids move on ahead, sat down on the sidewalk, and wrapped him in a full body hug.  Mostly to smother the screaming and avoid neighbors calling CPS.  We lay on the sidewalk until he could calm himself enough to insert a thumb in the mouth (don't judge, this is our self soothing to get calm), but he still couldn't walk without yelling and crying at me.  Eventually, I just picked him up and carried him the couple blocks home.  Ryan and I turned on some lullaby music, ran a warm bath and stuck him in there alone for a bit.
   Ten minutes of lullaby songs and lavender bath water later, Etienne was able to verbalize that he was really mad at me.  It was one of those moments where I had patience and compassion only by the grace of God because his fit, rage and tears had been off the chart.  But I didn't lose it and I wasn't faking it as I waited for an explanation.

"Mommy, I was mad at you that you didn't stay with me at my football practice.  You weren't with me."

     Throat swelling shut.  Eyes melting.  No words.  I wrapped him up in a towel and a hug.  We stayed that way a few minutes.  When I found words, I told him that maybe we could work on our emotions some more.  That maybe he was feeling afraid that I wasn't with him; and that maybe he felt sad when we were apart.  We made a plan that next time he feels this way, he will give me a hug and tell me that he had missed me.
     This is another big leap forward.  I am conditioned to the ridiculous melt downs and fits.  I understand the reasoning that my son feels abandoned and that he can't comprehend his feelings.  I am a RAD mom; it's how we roll.  What I am not used to is this progress, this stretching of his little heart.  But I am a quick learner.   I will take it.

This.

     It's difficult for me to write right now.  I want to be truthful and I want to stay transparent.  I want to express our new found hope; but not discount the daily battles that our boy is still working on.  It's such a fine, fine line.
     My mind thinks of all my friends in our trust based parenting group; the parents that get what I mean when I talk about my giant 6 yo moving his body like a toddler.  The moms that understand the heartache of fighting for a child, day in and day out, that doesn't believe he is worth fighting for.  I want to transpose some of the glimpses of healthy that we are getting more and more and more of.  I want those families to know God is bigger than the hurt any child has endured.  God may not fix it now but He sees and loves and knows each of these babies by name.  As they were, as they are and as they will become.
     Etienne only slept a few hours last night.  Once he needed all his sheets changed, he just couldn't settle his body or his mind back down.  He was in the unreachable place.  I think we both fell asleep just before dawn.  Needless to say, our morning was rough.  Tears over the shape of his Afro and that the toothbrush was "too wet."  Any parent familiar with the hardcore attachment stuff will know what I did.  I hugged him close.  I whispered words of Isaiah to him.  I made him stay right next to me.  This is where we have new hope.  He listened to me and he heard me and he felt me.  He stopped fighting me, he swallowed his tears and he said he was sorry.  I could reach him this morning.  He got out of that unreachable place.
     Those moments, they break my heart all over again for him.  They make me forget our long night and the endless laundry.  They remind me of where we have been and they give me more strength than a restful night of sleep could ever do.

"Great is your faithfulness; Your mercies are new every morning." -Lamentations 3:23