One Day I Will Meet My Children

We don't always talk about it, but Handsome and I have babies we've never met. Three of them. We've grieved and we've processed over the span of two decades, but 19 years ago we had our first miscarriage. Three months later, this little princess announced her presence when my favorite jeans no longer fit.

We reveled in her. We praised God for this gift. It felt like redemption. 

I couldn't help but feel like God was back on our side. I didn't realize how wrong this thought was. All my hope was in the wrong thing. 

She was two when we got pregnant again. It wasn't planned. And it shook me. I was 11 weeks along. We heard a heart beat and our doctors assured us that all was right. All my faith hung in their words. My hope was in the wrong thing. 

We went through it all again. The telling our friends and family. The trying to get the word out to the church, so it wouldn't hurt when they asked how I was feeling. 

Months later, we were floored when we heard the doctor say, for the third time, we were losing our baby. This one would take surgery. This one wasn't as simple. This one wasn't supposed to happen. We made it past the dangerous time. We finally exhaled our fears of losing another one. I was banking on statistics. 

I never asked God why. Until now. I was so broken. My husband struggled with how to support me, and I was no help. I didn't know how to help myself or what I even needed. I was devastated. And not only from losing a third baby. I hurt because God was revealing to me that my hope was in the wrong thing. I knew better. I knew God. 

God isn't only God when he heals me or when he allows us to keep our babies here on Earth. He's God when he takes them to heaven too early, too. 

He isn't just God when he takes them quick and early if he has to take them. He's God when he chooses to take our babies well into the second trimester as well. 

He's God when we hurt and he is God when we heal and when we love and when we live and when we soar and when we break. 

I was broken. Shattered bits. It was as if I could look down at the pile of me. At my loss.

Two boys and a little girl- although we are going off of what we feel God told us about their genders. The doctors were guessing. 

It isn't something you get over. It's something you learn to make part of your story. Even more, our story is something God has used countless times to bring comfort to other couples facing the same loss. I can't begin to say the miracle this is. 

When you lose a baby, you are changed. Even if that baby was only growing in your belly for two months, three months, four months. It's a loss and a grieving process only a loving God can walk you through. 

When we finally get to the point where we grieve our expectation and open our devastated grip, we move from grief to over-come. We are overcome. 

We find all our faith is in one basket. 

Jesus. 

He's the well that won't run dry. He's the one who promises to take our mistakes and hurts and the terrible and break them down to their simplest bits and not reuse them. He makes them new. He makes them filled with life and able to bring healing and glory in his name. 

Our babies, whom we've yet to hold, have already helped other women. God is using their stories to bring hope and light and life. 

I love how my Jesus works. 

Boaz James

Henry Elias

And 

Victory Faith

Happy Mother's Day, babies. I am your mama. One day I will meet you and it will be perfect.

~Nonsense

Why We Don't Listen to Christian Music

I bet we could get into a contest over who had a more bizarre childhood. Sadly for you, there's no way I can lose this game. Sadly for me, I always seem to win this one. 

I grew up in the ghetto. Not just a regular ghetto. A multicultural ghetto in Vegas with a basketball hoop and a commercial water fountain in my backyard. A basketball hoop in my backyard and a recording studio where my garage used to stand. Legit. Recording studio. 

I have memories of splicing reels to edit recordings I made of myself. I remember turning on the strobe light and setting the record player to spin Bonnie Tyler on repeat. Most days there was a strobe light to accompany the fully mirrored wall. 

We each took an instrument, my brothers and me. Sometimes we would jam, and usually we are unplugged, but it didn't matter. Music was deep in us. 

Any sort of music walked through our recording studio. Our friends, the Demmans, owned a recording studio, so when we weren't in our little garage, we were there. Even more music walked through their doors. Mama Demman taught me to sing, and it's a gift I've cherished forever. 

It's a passion most of my children have picked up. 

More than that, it's a skill they've worked hard at. Elijah currently is learning the acoustic, bass, piano, and cajon. Layla Grace gets a tune in her head and can't stop until she's mastered it on the piano. Sam and Addison are the next Sonny and Cher with their singing. Izzys the master of voice, music playlists, and lyrics, and she's always good to jump into whatever kitchen musical I throw out there. Its not that they are amazing musicians. Not one of us is. 

It's that music is a major part of who we are as a family. We can't do dishes without it. I won't be shocked if ever The Squirrel tells us she needs an exit beat before she agrees to do her chores. And I'll be even less surprised when one of my kids just gives her one. No hesitation. No questions. Just a beat to move on to.

It's things like this that keep our music selection broad. I love worship music. So much it feeds my soul more than any other part of a church service. I could steep in a worship service like a sweaty tea bag, except it's the music diffusing in me. Not the other way around. The words. The intimacy. The talented musicians. Steeped. 

There's this funny question that comes up with many parents I talk to. "Do you let your kid listen to secular music?" I understand what these parents are getting at. And I can even guess as to why they are scared for their kids to journey outside of what some guy somewhere calls Christian music, but I have to tel you, friends. This is off base. 

What IS Christian music? If you mean worship music, then, no. Emphatically I don't only listen to or insist my kids listen to worship music. Nor do I make them take "secular" music and change the lyrics to talk about God. 

We do have some boundaries in what we listen to, because I fully believe the Bible when it tells me what I put in is what will come out. But I don't throw a blanket negatory good buddy over any genre. 

My iPod holds country, worship, rap, folk, hip hop, EDM, classic rock, and even Christmas. (Of course there's Christmas). My thoughts are this. 

I am a Christian. I am a teacher. I work in public school because it's the lost to whom I am called. God has used my faith and prayer and allowed me to share more encouragement than I ever did in a private Christian school. 

Does this mean I am a secular teacher? If I don't talk about God when I am loving my students or counseling their families is my work worldly? Do I HAVE to say I am here to love you because of Jesus's love for me for it to count. Nope. No way. 

That's the Holy Spirit's job. I am called to be a teacher. God has gifted me in this skill just as he has gifted countless musicians, accountants, doctors, writers, and trampoline makers. 

We have music in our pores. All music. I will always encourage my kids to be mindful of lyrics and wise about what they allow to contribute to their minds. But we will honor God through using our gift of music and celebrating everyone else he has gifted as well.
~Nonsense 

¿Ya?No¿

About twenty minutes and some days ago, I saw, from the corner of my eye, this hair. It rivaled mine in every way except pigment. I strolled on over and introduced myself. She introduced herself as Jami Armine. We've been late night texting and swapping sarcasm "like we are the oldest and dearest of friends." (Kathleen Kelly of the little bookstore.) Today she has blessed us with her heart on adopting her own version of my Sam. His name too happens to be Sam. Sam 2.0 Here is her story...

We currently have seven children. They range in age from 21 year to 7 months.  4 biological, 1 adopted, 1 almost adopted, and a wee baby foster daughter.  

Our 4-year-old son, Sam is… well, he’s a hot mess.  

Although, we are often offered congratulatory praise for our “awesomeness” for opening our home to the boy, the truth is… He saved our lives.

  

At a time when all was lost, I made a ridiculously inappropriate phone call and stammered, “We want to adopt.” 

Nine months from that day, we met Sam. 

And we laughed again. 

We smiled again.

We hoped again. 

We stopped sleeping through the night… again.  

Sam has a non-stop chatter. Oddly enough, in spite of the fact that he has been in our home since he was ten-days-old and we are Texans of German – Scottish-Norwegian descent – Sam has a little bit of a Mexico-ish dialect.  And he can’t say cheese, but he says queso perfectly. 

Ours in not to question why.  

And lately he has this thing he says, with a Hispanic quick tongue. He says it repeatedly after a question. 

“Can I have a dwink of water, Ya? No? Ya? NO? Ya? Or NO?” 

It gets to be laughable. Especially in a two-part question. 

Sam: Can I have cookies and go outside? Ya? No? Ya? NO? Ya? Or NO?

Me: You can go outside, but you can’t have cookies because it is almost time for dinner.

Sam: Ya? No?

Me: No. No, and Ya. 

Sam: Ya? No? 

Me: No. No. Ya. 

Sam: No-Ya I have cookies and go outside?  

Me: Ya, no? Wait, what?  

Inevitably, we just give him anything he asks for.  

So the other day someone asked me how we knew for sure that God was calling us to foster and adopt. I can honestly say I was self-willed in this.  It was on my heart, we wanted to rewrite our story. Stop being the “Poor Amerines” and be instead, people of joy.  

And I didn’t wait for a ya.  

I didn’t wait for a no.  

We just jumped in… head first.  

In other scenarios we have prayed and asked, or begged for clarity. And there have been other times we have used the Ya? No? tactic to quickly get our way.  And then we have someone to blame when it blows up.  You said “Ya? No? Oh wait you didn’t say ya?”

But you can’t stump God.  

Nor can you out-wit Him.  
“We aren’t called to (adopt, foster, give, donate…)” 

And sorry, that is ballarky.  Yes, we have clear and concise words from God that guide us, like our first placement, a real live human boy… that I knew wasn’t our son.  But spare yourself, and those around you the “I am not called…” Because there are a million ways to serve the least of these and we are ALL called to that. (Matthew 25:40)

And He who gives also takes away. (Job 1:21) And that hurts. We were never told it wouldn’t hurt.  

Loving hurts. 

Yet we are all called to love. (John 13:34)   

And I am momma to a quirky little Mexican boy. He makes us laugh. He teaches us daily.

Sometimes there is a clear answer and sometimes there is simply a clear risk. But the risk has been worth the pain. 

The truth is our God moves how He moves and saves how He saves. He called us each to care for the orphans and the widows. He encouraged us to give until it hurts. (Luke 9:23-25) To walk away from your possessions, let the dead bury the dead and follow Him.  (Matthew 19:21)

And this, is much easier said than done.  

I fully assume you know where I speak from… 

Ya? No?  

May your floors be sticky and your calling ordained.

 Love, Jami 

Defend the weak and the fatherless, uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed.  Psalm 82:3

Visit Jami at Sacred Ground Sticky Floors

A Classic Tale

::flasback segment::

Layla Grace-6 monthish
Eli-18months-ish
Isabelle-4 ish
Me-the day I turned grey

It's a day like any other. We have errands to run. One including the grocery store.

We stroll into Albertson's, oh so unsuspecting. I have Eli and Layla squeeezed into the front seat normally meant for one. They are rigged, two legs in one hole and a baby blanket wedged to one side. Isabelle is walking.
I have my calculator, my list, and we are all set with goodies from the cold drink aisle. I do the usual patrolling.
"Don't take that off the shelf."
"Don't lick the cart."
Stuff like that.
About an hour or more into it we are in the home stretch with only about three aisles to go. I am at the butcher counter getting steaks for dinner. (ah the good wife) ::pat pat pat::

Suddenly, out of my apron wearing day dream, I notice a cold something or other ::drip drip drop::

What is that? ::drip::

I bend to see milk splattering under my cart.::drop::

Quite a bit of it.

"what? how did that happen?" ::drip drop::

"Elijah, what did you do?" And this is where, if he could speak, he would tell me he ate through the milk carton. Right through the plastic.
Good grief, what a mess.

I wiggle closer to the lobster tank where they provide you with free paper towels--for the dive I suppose. As it turns out they are equally handy for almost-two-year-olds.

So I get my steaks and turn around just in time to notice Layla has gnawed herself a little snack. This one is made of a different variety- same animal. Her preference is raw hamburger.

Through my disgust and her wailings of injustice, I manage to dig as much as possible out of her mouth, left wondering how much she actually ate. ew.

I notice a convenient trash receptacle nearby and deposit the remnants of her snack into the can. Just as I do my hand gets snagged on the lid. It is one of those big metal cans with the teeter tottery lids.

Life is now in slow motion. teeter, totter, teeeeetter, toooooottterrr.

The kids are crying, the butcher woman is agasp, chest heaving, and my eyes are wide as the trash can lid flies up, up, up into the air.

And me? I am spider man as I look around me, taking it all in.
Only then does the display catch my eye.

"Hello. I hadn't noticed you before."

I make a mental registry of everything as it all comes crashing to the ground. No, not paper towels, that would be too easy. I see can openers, corkscrews, wire baskets, salt and pepper shakers, thermomoters, anything metal a grocery store would carry.

Yes, it is all on this very special, metal itself, display. And it too is on the floor. All it's guts splayed for passersby.

(You know what always amazes me? how everything gets so quiet when a terrible loud noise happens.)

It feels like hours pass. Days maybe.

Isabelle is the first to speak-- and I quote "NO WAY THAT JUST HAPPENED!"
I am still too shocked to say anything. Silence.

The butcher lady comes close, places her hands on my shoulders, and says, "Just go, honey. I will take care of everything."
So I do.
I unload my children and we leave the grocery store. Grocery cart full and dripping. The Good Wife steaks warming. My reputation circling the drain.

And in my best Alex Trebek voice:
"Why dont the Brewer kids go to the grocery store?"

#advicefromthemotheroffive Save yourselves