Holding Loosely, Clinging Tightly

Plan. Don't plan. Think of the future. Don't do that. Wish for something. Stop wishing. Live in the moment. What about tomorrow?

Hello, conundrum:
\kə-ˈnən-drəm\

a) a question or problem having only a conjectural answer  

b) an intricate and difficult problem 

 

This is where I live. And it's where I've always lived, but this adoption process has just made that all the more evident.

  

As a human, (and a person with slight OCD tendencies!) I like to have a plan. I like to map out my future. And I often deviate from my map, but at least I made it and I'm typically somewhat in control of the deviations. When I was about 6 (i.e. could independently hold a pencil) I started goal setting every January 1st with my dad. Some people laugh at the proverbial "New Years' Resolutions," but for me they're an excellent re-orientation towards what I should be striving to be: more like Christ.

 

So, the adoption...

 

The thing is, there's no plan.

 

Oh, we filled out all the paperwork. We've paid our first chunk of change (goodbye, $$$$$), and we've completed the homestudy, the classes, and the interviews.

 

But now there is no plan.

 

 With everything that is in my heart, I want to hold a baby. I want to cuddle it, and soothe it. For years I've babysat screaming babies who quieted at the sound of their mom's voices. I'm ready to be the mom. 

Adoption isn't like a nine-month gestation period. While it may not have the swollen ankles (yay!), it does not have the degree of certainty. While I understand that literally anything  can happen at any birth, we're facing an additional hurdle. 

We may be chosen by a birth mom. I may go with her to all her appointments. I may stand in labor and delivery holding her hand. I may get to hold the screaming, brand-new baby. I may cuddle it, feed it, love it...

And then we may leave the hospital without a baby.

Until the birth mom signs the papers, that is still her baby. As it should be.

So I can't plan. I can't nest. I can't buy baby clothes. I can't have a shower. Because we may go through an entire 12 months and never get a baby. And then we have to decide if we'll pay another chunk of change, go through another home study, and complete more paperwork in order to try for another 12 months.

Because I may not have a baby.

To me it is  important that I not accumulate baby things, plan my baby schedule, and dream of baby-baby-baby.

Because then I will make an idol out of motherhood.

I want it dearly. I want it desperately.

But it may not be my plan. And if that is the case, I want to drift into that knowledge with a heart free of bitterness towards my God. I want my satisfaction to rest wholly with Him, and I know that "at an acceptable time, [He], in the abundance of [His] steadfast love [will] answer me in [His] saving faithfulness."(Ps. 69:13)

So I'm standing (perhaps) on the brink of motherhood. Trying not to get excited, but still trying to delight in this process. Trying to hold it loosely, while simultaneously passionately pursue it. Trying to rejoice in this opportunity, and rejoice if it is taken away.

For the only way I will be truly joyful, is if I believe that God alone can satisfy, and I must cling to Him. As Psalm 63 says over and over, "My soul thirsts for you....because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise you... My soul will be satisfied... for you have been my help. In the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy. My soul clings to you." God's hand will not let me fall. His plans are better than mine.

My baby (if they're out there!), and all babies, rest in the same hands that I do... For my God is a big and loving God.

Same lesson as always... I just had to fill out tons of paperwork to arrive there this time...

Ginger-Ale and Communication

I get sick a lot.

A combination of a weak stomach (hello, ulcerative colitis!) and absolutely no bravado, means that about once a week, all I want to do is curl up on the couch and say "Goodbye, world!"

When we first got married, Scott knew about these episodes. He had been present when one landed me in the hospital, so he was no stranger to my suffering. As such, I thought he was privvy to the private code of the patient.

"I'm not feeling well" = the hubby should come home early, first stopping to pick up chicken noodle soup, a chick-flick with Katherine Heigl, and a big, huge bottle of Ginger-Ale.

But he didn't pick up on the code.

After the first few dozen disapointments, I realized that I was expecting my husband to read my mind. So, being the loving wife that I am, I decided to spell it out a little more clearly...

"Honey, I'm not feeling well... Ginger-Ale would be nice."

He still didn't get it. Granted, it was one text in the sea of 100-or-so that I send him that day, but he didn't grab my desperate need for Ginger-Ale even when I spelled it out.

Well, I'm an understanding, long-suffering lil' wifey. My desire is to help my husband. So I mobilized an ad-campaign via text messaging during the next sick day:

"My tummy hurts. Ginger-Ale is yummy."
"When we were sick, my mom would let us have Ginger-Ale as a treat."
"I love Ginger-Ale."
"Have you ever noticed how soothing Ginger-Ale is when you have a sick tummy?"
"Don't you just think Ginger-Ale is amazing?"
"My goodness, Ginger-Ale would sure taste refreshing."
"My poor tummy needs Ginger-Ale."

Yes. I probably over-did it. But, after all, it was loving of me, because I wanted my husband to succeed!

That night, he walks through the door. Empty handed.

"Honey, where's the Ginger-Ale?"
He looks nonplussed: "Ginger-Ale?"
"Yes, please... my tummy has been hurting."
"Oh Courtney, I'm sorry. I didn't know you wanted me to pick up Ginger-Ale."

At which point, I'm ashamed to say, I lost it:

"How could you not know that I wanted to you get Ginger-Ale!?!"
"Sweetie, you never texted me asking me!"
"What!?! I think I probably referenced Ginger-Ale FIFTY TIMES today!" (A lack of Ginger-Ale makes me a smidge dramatic.)

He pulls out his phone, "Oh, these texts? Yes, I understood you like Ginger-Ale, but you never asked me to get you any."

I bury my head in my pillow, "How on earth could you miss the fact that I wanted Ginger-Ale?"

"Well, you never asked for it... Next time, just send me a text telling me exactly what you want, and I'll put it in my iPod and make sure that it gets added to my to-do list."

Tears welled up in my eyes, "I don't want to be another item on your to-do list! I want you to just know what I need and to just remember and do it!"

"Courtney, honey, I'm not going to remember it unless I write it down on my to-do list."

"But you should! You should just know! You should just do! It shouldn't be so much work! Is it so hard  to anticipate my needs and love me?!"

At which point in time, the poor man could have legitimately said that, "Yes" it was hard! My goodness... pain makes me emotional!

You see, it's a common misconception among women, I along with the rest, that loving service should just spring up like a burbling brook, elicited by my most obtuse references. I have been blessed with the world's most loving, intuitive husband. Because of this, I took it for granted that he would understand every single, most hidden agenda in every single moment of our communication.

It's not fair to expect communication to flow they way it does in movies or chick-lit. Women interpret true love as spontaneous acts of love and service without much direction being needed. Men should just know what we want.

My wonderful hubby was very anxious to serve me, but the thought of being another item on his to-do list, made me feel un-loved (largely because I didn't like acknowledging that sick-me was so much work, and that our intuitive love didn't span all modalities of communication). My interpretation of anticipatory love was very inappropriately constructed. Love is sacrificial. The fact that my husband writes notes to himself in order to remember to be sacrificial, in no way decreases the wonder of his service. If anything, it heightens it--showing me that it is that important to him.

 True love is not a Katherine Heigl movie where the hero interprets her needs correctly during that first, candle-lit dinner. True love is writing notes to remember that a sick wife wants ginger-ale...and a chick-flick... and pj's... and a cuddle while watching said chick-flick in said pjs. It may seem less romantic, but the love that it springs from is consciouly serving the other person and striving to be a loving leader. Buying into romantic, intuitive nonsense is crazy. Clear communication and a willingness to serve (from both husband and wife!) is worth a thousand candlelight dinners.

************************************************
Addendum: Several months after the initial Ginger-Ale conversation, I became deathly ill while working--yucky flu! My wonderful hubby (without my asking!) showed up to drive me home from work. As I climbed into the car, he placed a cold towel over my eyes, presented a giant teddy-bear for me to snuggle, and said, "Honey, there's ginger-ale cooling in the fridge at home."


Now, that's true love.

FAQ : About the Allison Adoption

Let's just be honest. The way our family is being constructed is... non-traditional.

And the questions we have gotten have ranged from mundane to down-right hilarious. For example, if I was pregnant, no one would ask me, "So, do you care what your baby looks like?" If my little biological squidgee popped out uglier than a box of rocks, no one would say a peep... They would just call him "preciously tiny," and avoid adjectives like "cute" and "adorable."

However, I recognize that adoption is not the norm, and as such, there are a multitude of questions. Since I can't answer questions about how I'm handling morning sickness, or what the pressure on my bladder is like, I'll take a stab at a few of the more common adoption questions...

How does the process work?
Paperwork. Paperwork. Paperwork. And then.... more paperwork. I'm not joking. This process is insane. Then you go through a "psycho-social genogram interview" (no, I'm not making this up), an 8 hour home-study class, and then personal visits (maybe one, maybe two) to complete your homestudy at your own house. There are physicals, background checks, TB tests... It is crazy.

Then, after collecting the mountains of data, the agency (we're using ASC in Indianapolis--more about them later) creates a bio... six pages of your information beautifully laid out with pictures.

Then you wait.

Birth mothers come to the agency and look for specific things couples have. In return, some couples are restricted as to which birth mothers they want to be shown to. All you do is sit there and wait. For someone to pick you...

How long will it take?
We have been told 3-6 months if we're adopting a little black baby, 6-12 for all other races. However, we have been repeatedly warned not to listen to the averages. Sometimes it takes much longer. Other times it takes much less time. We're planning on going active in July (meaning we will be regularly shown to birth mothers). This means we could be parents in... JULY! (or it could be July 2013!)

How much does it cost?
LOTS.

Let me say this again: A WHOLE HONKIN' BIG PILE OF MONEY.

But I can't think of a better thing to do with it! Please pray for us as we manage our financial resources during this time. We do not have this cash stashed in an account somewhere. We are stepping out in faith that now is the time, and God will help us. He has so far!

What are you asking for in your baby? (gender, nationality, etc.)
We want a baby.

That's it.

That's all.

We are willing to take any race, any ethnicity, either gender. We have agreed to the widest parameters established by the agency (disability, maternal drug use, etc). Bring on the adventure!

I would not be able to catalogue order my baby if it were growing inside me. We don't think our adoption should operate any differently. We absolutely love the fact that our family will be composed of multiple different skin colors and DNA--what a picture of the global church!

Can you not have biological children?
(Yes, people ask this.)

We don't know, and right now, that doesn't really matter. Scott and I both decided (separately, and then delighted in this common ground when we fell in love) that adoption was going to be an integral part of our future family (God willing). We know that it is possible that we may have children. But we also know the chances are not amazingly good.

I personally have always wanted my first child to be adopted... I want that child to know that they weren't a second choice, they were my first choice. I want them to know that I dreamed about their unique appearance and personality the same way I dream about what a two-year old "little Scott" would look like. We are not sad or disappointed about our family options. We are delighted with them! I can hardly wait to see what our future little ones are like!

As this process progresses, there will be more humor, more struggles, and more questions (some of them my own!), but my prayer is that through it all, the model of Christ's love will be clearly seen... We want our family to display the gospel.


May God receive all the glory.

Of Heartache and Hope - Psalm 66

Okay.

I’m ready. I have been waiting for that time when the tears come less quickly, waiting for a time when
the pain won’t leap out with startling rapidity. Waiting for healing from grief. But it hasn’t come. Not
now. Not yet. Maybe never.

December 26th.

My life forever changed.

Our baby died.

Scott and I were only a few weeks into being parents. Almost to the end of the first trimester, we were
prepping ways to tell families and friends about the little surprise that we were welcoming into the
world. And then I began to experience excruciating pain.

A series of tests. Two ER visits. I was told that my baby was dead. Then told that my baby was alive.
Finally—that my baby was growing outside of my uterus—and that my baby and I would both die if
the pregnancy continued. There was no question. No possibilities. Only certainty. We would both die,
probably in the second trimester.

Chemo treatments to end my baby’s life. The pain, the shaking, the nausea—knowing that my baby was
dying.

On Christmas day. An ultrasound. My baby’s heartbeat—still. Unspeakable pain. Surgery.

A blur of agony and hard choices. Tears. Lots and lots of tears. Brokenness.

And my Savior. God’s grace.

Bless our God, O peoples; who has kept our soul among the living and has not let our feet slip. For you, O God, have tested us… you laid a crushing burden on our backs… we went through fire and through water; yet you have brought us out to a place of abundance. (Ps. 66)

My sustenance was Psalm 66 and constant thanksgiving. “I’m thankful for nurses who work on
Christmas. I’m thankful for a husband who brings me cold water. I’m thankful for excellent medical care. I’m thankful for Dr. Wickert. I’m thankful for eternity and heaven…Thank you, thank you, thank you…

“Thank you, Lord for letting my baby spend eternity praising you. I asked that they may live for your
glory all their lives. You have granted my prayer in a way I did not expect, but a way which is so loving for my baby.”

Grief doesn’t go away. Instead, it’s like a deep dye, saturating the weave of your life. As time goes, it
lightens, it washes, but it never leaves. Your fabric has been changed. Permanently altered. And by
God’s grace, it becomes beautiful. Beautiful, but different.

By God’s grace, I battled bitterness, discontent, insecurity, worthlessness, depression, fear, and anger.

I have not emerged victorious. I am still battling, but such is life. Fortunately, the intensity of the battle is waning. Rest comes frequently. Tears don’t rain as often. God has led me to a land of sunshine.

Come and see what God has done:
he is awesome in his deeds toward the children of man. (Ps.66)

I do not know why God orchestrated my first venture into motherhood in this way. But I can see the
blessings: I can see increased compassion and sensitivity, a continual focus towards heaven. The blessings which come after the pain are much sweeter.

And a new blessing is coming…

Building a family is not about splitting and combining DNA. It’s not about biology. It’s not about
procreation. It’s about love. God’s family is a beautiful amalgamation of different backgrounds, different skin colors, and different gifts.

But it is a family—knit together by passionate, all-consuming love of our great God and faithful Savior.

We want our family on this earth to model our eternal family.

With that in mind, we are in the process of adoption.

Because we wholeheartedly believe that this is the best way for us to bring God glory and praise… and
because He deserves it all and so much more, we are venturing into another adventure of parenting.
The waters are choppy. The sea not as quickly navigated. Some of the unknowns are terrifying, but
God’s grace continues to amaze.

“Shout for joy to God, all the earth;
sing the glory of his name;
give to him glorious praise!
Say to God, “How awesome are your deeds…
All the earth worships you
and sings praises to you;
they sing praises to your name.”
(Psalm 66)

Now There's A Brother "Over There"

He was so tiny. I don't remember, I just see a picture in my baby book-- my little golden head leaning over a new baby. "Tiny hands! Tiny feet!" Even to a little two year old, he seemed tiny. My own little "Bax" (a two-year old's attempt at saying "Baby Alex").

Then there were the matching shorts and jumpers. My mom seemed to love dressing us in matching patterns. Bax inevitably wore suspenders. And he couldn't figure out how to smile. His eyes would scrunch up, his chin would stick out, and he "ruined" every picture. As a five year old, I tried to teach him. But he wasn't good at listening. We played together for hours. I wanted a sister, so I'd beg him to dress up in my dresses. He would. He would even talk in a high, squeaky "girl voice."

When Trevor came along, I lost my best friend. Alex was so relieved to not have to dress up in ruffles and play princess. He and Trevor built forts, made crazy hats out of buckets, and besieged me as I holed up in my little log cabin. Of course, there were the joint ventures: when I tried to sail down the creek on a raft (Alex told me that it would sink--I just thought he was squelching adventure), or when I convinced them both to donate their Christmas money to buy an American Girl doll (Mom found out about that one).

As we grew older, our lives grew in parallels. We lived together for two years in college--two crazy, full, workaholic years. I watched my brother make bad decisions, and then change. He watched me walk off several cliffs, and the grace which brought me back to solid ground. We know each others' foibles. He knows my quirks, habits, and faults. I know his idiosyncrasies, opinions, and interests.

He watched me marry the man of my dreams.
I watched him marry the princess he wanted to protect.

Alexander Joseph Blake.

2nd Lieutenant in the Army of the United States of America.

Today I hugged my playmate, roommate, brother, friend goodbye.

Afghanistan doesn't know what it's getting. My brother is off on another great adventure. I'm delighted in his bravery, terrified by his lack of fear, and convinced that God's plan for my brother has not changed, regardless of his location. My brother rests safely in Afghanistan, protected by the God of the universe, the same God who protected him in his tree-climbing, rock-jumping, fort-besieging childhood.

Please come home soon.

"So prepare, say a prayer, send the word, send the word to be-ware
We'll be over, we're coming over,
And we won't come back 'til it's over Over There!"*

I love you, Bax.

Alex's commissioning. December 2010.

*"Over There"
by George M. Cohan
Copyright © 1917 by Leo. Feist, Inc., New York

Tired of Tired

It happens almost every evening. Five o'clock. I'm driving home. All day long I've been dreaming and planning what I'm going to do this evening. If I had some down-time over lunch, I probably concocted a beautifully organized, prioritized to-do list.

But as I'm driving home, my motivation wains. The exhaustion of the day comes rushing in. The adrenaline that got me through 7 patients and piles of paperwork suddenly ebbs. And I'm left with mind-numbing fatigue.

I know why it's there. It's the perfect concoction of a high-stress job and a low iron count. I'm anemic. I battle chronic stomach problems. And I run hard in a pressure-cooker job all day. (Which I love, I promise!)

But knowing why it's there ("Remember, Courtney, you're anemic and it was a long day.") is still a long way from resting in that state. I know why I'm tired, but that doesn't mean that I am resigned to this feeling. It doesn't mean that I greet it with grace. It doesn't mean that mentally, every evening, I smile, sigh, and delight in the health that I do have.

Au contrair. It means that many nights my husband has to put up with frustrated whining as I come face-to-face with my own inadequacy.

Because that's what this is. This isn't about my to-do list or my stomach.

This is about my pride and self-sufficiency. This is about my ability to manipulate and control my world.  It's about not allowing my to-do list to become my source of identity.

For some strange, unknown reason, God saved me, and loves me, regardless of my to-do list. My identity is as his child. I am His. That is all.

My prayer mimics those of the Puritan fathers:

"The thought of thine infinite serenity cheers me,
For I am toiling and moiling, troubled and distressed...
I come to thee as a sinner with cares and sorrows,
to leave every concern entirely to thee,
every sin calling for Christ's precious blood...
Grant me to know that I truly live only when I live to thee,
that all else is trifling.
Thy presence alone can make me holy, devout, strong, and happy.
Abide in me, gracious God."

May I do one things today: rest in my Savior.