Why Foster? Here's Why...

I dare you not to cry. . . I DARE you!

A letter to all my parents:

I was going to start by saying I’m sorry that I waited so long to write this letter to say thank you. The delay means that some of you will have left this earth before I got to say these words to you - I hope I have the opportunity to say them to you in Another Place. But I realize that my thanks would have been incomplete if I had voiced them before. I would probably still have been angry at some of you and perhaps not have recognized the sacrifices you had made. I’m sure I still don’t fully comprehend all that you have done for me, but I probably never will know in full while on this earth, so well, now’s the time to take the time.

To my birth parents:

Seems strange to write to people I don’t even know, even further to be thankful and grateful to someone I've never seen and someone I cannot remember. Thank you for choosing to give me life. Oh I know, my conception probably wasn’t a conscious choice on your part, but allowing me to continue to live, giving me birth was most definitely a choice you made. You may try to say that in “those days” you didn’t have a choice, but you and I both know better than that. I admire you so much for making that choice, for choosing the harder path. I don’t know what it cost you to make that choice, but know that I know how much courage that took. I wish I could have known you and gleaned some of that bravery from you, so that I could have been strong enough to make that right choice myself.

To my foster parents:

I don’t know what you were thinking when you got me at 18 months of age. Since my birth mom was still alive I’m sure you just thought you’d have me for a few days. But things didn’t work out that way, did they? That short-term commitment you were willing to make turned into something much longer. And year after year while I remained in your home, you got attached. I gave nicknames to your birth children that they still have to this day, you placed my picture in your hallway; somehow it felt like I had become yours.

And yet, when my birth mom died when I was four, all of a sudden everything you had done for me didn’t matter - you had poured yourself into me and yet you didn’t have a voice, a say in my future. Because you were a foster parent, you had to stand back and allow biological family members to step in and take me away from you.

I heard that before me you had fostered over 30 kids and after I left you just didn’t have the heart to do it anymore. I didn’t understand that before, but now I know why - it was because you had given me your heart, I had taken it with me. I have it now, it’s taken me awhile to give it a voice, but I know I have your heart. For you see, I long to be a foster parent as well, to do as you did. To love a child, who through no fault of their own, has no one and feels as if there is no one who cares and to say to them, “you are someone. For as long as you’re with me - a few hours, for a few days, weeks or even years, you matter, you belong, you are not abandoned and unloved, you are precious, you are priceless, you are valuable simply because you’re you”.

Thank you for showing me that, for giving me that. I don’t know what it cost you to do that, but know that words cannot express my gratefulness.

To my adoptive parents:

Seems strange to call you that, for to me you have always been just “my parents”. I never knew any differently - which speaks volumes about just what kind of parents you are. There was never any question that I was yours. I know there was a day you told me that I wasn’t biologically yours, but funny how I don’t remember it. Something that huge should have impacted my life dramatically - but it didn’t - because YOU had already impacted my life dramatically. By making me your own, by never allowing your boys to call me “cousin” but making them call me “sister”. I wonder, did you have that conversation with them? Did you ever ask them if they wanted a little sister? Did you ever ask yourself if you really wanted to raise a fifth child, so much younger than the ones you were already raising?

But even as I ask that, I know the answer - you didn’t ask those questions - you knew that if you didn’t step in I would become a ward of the state. And you were my family and you were not going to allow that to happen - no matter what the cost to you. You didn’t ask questions, you took action, you didn’t complain about the unfairness of it all, you worked toward a solution. Thank you for that, thank for you never making me feel like I was a problem, an inconvenience, a burden to bear. Thank you for loving me as your own while still allowing me to freely learn about my birth parents and my foster parents, those who had chosen to love me before you did.

To my Heavenly Parent:

I know You knew me first, even before I was conceived. I know You knew the path my life would take, even before I ever took my first steps. And though some may say it’s been a hard life, I wouldn’t have wanted anything different. I am so thankful for every parent You gave to help care for me on this earth. Each of them, perhaps even unbeknownst to them, has each in their own way, revealed You to me.

Because my birth mother chose to give me life, I now know that You are the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Because my foster parents cared for me when no one else would, I know that You care for me, especially because I was an orphan.

Because my adoptive parents welcomed me into their family so completely, I know unconditional love and can believe You when You tell me You want to adopt me as well.

Funny, of all of my parents, You are the only One who has told me what it cost You, yet You don’t make me feel guilty for that. You tell me only so I can know without a doubt how much You love me.

So to all my parents I say thank you - some kids only have a few parents, I was blessed to have many. And my prayer is that my gratefulness will be translated into action. That I can take the love given me by all of you and not just hold it all in for myself, but to pour it out to others. To allow your love to continue to flow, from you, through me to others. Please know you made and continue to make a difference in my life and as a result, by the grace of God, a difference in this world.

I love you,

Valerie

I've been a foster parent for fifteen years, and one of the most common comments I get is "How do you do it?" This letter - NOT addressed to me, by the way - is how. Because foster and adoptive parents DO make a difference. It only takes one: one child, one parent; to change the course of a life. Think about it. =)

Funny the Way it Is...

Kelsey called me yesterday. I was glad to hear from her. As she and Kris get more and more secure in their adult lives, the phone calls get more and more spread out, I've noticed. Not that that's a bad thing. Just different. Elesha makes up for it, though.

She was excited, talking about a new assignment for one of her classes. It's for Interpretive Reading and the assignment (as I understand it) involves her compiling a variety of information into an essay-type format and then reading/acting it out for her class.

Kelsey chose to write about Addiction for this one.

Yippee.

I never kept any major secrets from Kelsey and Kris as they grew up - not that I sat them down and brought them up to speed with all the fun-filled antics of my past. But, I always felt it was important to be honest with them about mistakes I've made, which would hopefully impress on them the incredible damage we humans can inflict upon ourselves and others as we go through life. You know, "make good choices!"

By that I mean I filled them in on my teen-aged and early adult years. They know about my excessive drug use and "partying". They know about their father's heroin and cocaine addiction. They know some of what that mess looked like in my relationship with him, and in their early lives, too. And they know how God kept yanking me back from the precipice. I was determined to die - slowly and by any means - He evidently had other plans and ultimately revealed Himself to me.

He saved me.

So, here is my Kelsey away at a Christian University. Interwoven with her academic classes for her Communications/Drama major are classes in Bible and Chapel.

And I get these calls. And we talk.

She's researching the Addiction presentation, and reading Tweaked by Nic Shef. It's his memoir on his descent into Meth addiction. As he put it, "growing up on methamphetamines". Along the way, he tried every other drug he could get his hands on, and talks about how de-humanizing that life is.

"Is that what it was like, Mom?"

"Yep."

"Oh, momma..."

"I know, honey. It was beyond hellish."

"But, look where you are now."

"Oh, I know that, too. Trust me."

But do I? Do I really remember where I am now? Maybe this many years out (it's been almost as long as Kesley's been alive), I get absent-minded about where I was and where I was most definitely headed. Much of who I am today, many of the reasons I care so deeply about my family, my children, is fiercely entangled in who I was when I finally turned to God.

Beyond saving.

I thought so. I was determined to get rid of my pain one way or another. I was racing toward that cliff edge.

He got in the way.

Twenty years out, the intensity of that has faded. I forget from whence I've come. I forget how messed up, how far gone I was.

Meanwhile, I have this daughter discovering God. I'm watching her draw near to Him, listening to her talk about Him - telling me about things I used to know so clearly. Her deepening relationship with God reminds me how much I'm missing, invites me back to the warmth of His fire, offers me a blanket and a place to rest.

Now, will I take that blanket? Am I finally ready to rest?

There's the rub. I don't know if I am. I can see the fire and am drawn to it's heat - I am freezing out here. But something keeps me back. Some stubborn part of me resists the comfort I know I'll find. I'm sitting on a log by myself. Just sitting. In the cold.

What am I waiting for? No clue. Therapist Lisa would tell me to stop wondering what I'm waiting for and just get my butt over to the fire...hummmm I'll have to think about that.

But Today

Sometimes, I am Nazi Mom.
A shrew-like meanie who scares small children
and belongs in a fairy tale, tempting children into her oven using treats.

But Today, I will hug more and yell less.
I will listen to my children more, and avoid them less.
I will be their biggest fan.

Sometimes, I eat too much, sit too much, drink too much wine
and stay up too late watching TV.

But Today, I will be kind to myself. I will not snack.
I will move more, drink less, and put myself to bed
by 11:00.

Sometimes, my brain shifts into overdrive. It gets stuck
in un-winnable one-sided arguments and worthless what-ifs, with
thoughts swirling around like water in a toilet bowl that never finishes flushing.

But Today, I refuse to contribute to my own misery. I will remember
that I am the Captain of my own mind. I will not take anything personally or
make assumptions about anything. I will keep a quiet heart.

Sometimes, I feel overly responsible for other people's feelings. I try to anticipate
how my actions and choices will affect them, and I act
based on that, rather than simply live my life.

But Today, I will allow God to take care of the world.
If He needs me, He knows where I am. I will live in His freedom.
I will live my story. Mine.

Sometimes I go nuts thinking about all the things I want to do
and be and try. I get overwhelmed and end up frozen,
not doing anything at all.

But Today, I will be intentional about my life. I will think
about what my priorities are,
what I really love, what feeds my soul,
and purpose to take baby steps in at least two areas - today.

Sometimes, I feel oppressed and tormented. I feel weary and shell-shocked
and can't believe I have to take another step.

But Today, I will remember that we have an enemy who hates us
beyond all reason and wants to destroy our lives. Today, I will refuse
to give him influence over my heart.

Sometimes, I question God's motives. I wonder,
"If God is so good, why does this happen?" or, "If God REALLY loved me,
He'd (fill in the blank)."

But Today, I will trust Him. I will trust His goodness. I will trust His love for me,
His good intentions toward me, His plans. I will not behave like an infant in my faith, whining about what I can't have or be or do. I will be an adult, today.

Just for Today . . . I will believe.

As always, I love you guys, and thank you for reading.

It's Not About Me

My nineteen-year-old daughter, Kelsey made me cry the other day.

It wasn't out of frustration or anger (though that's happened a couple of times), it wasn't over some sad story she'd come across, or empathetic tears brought on by some major life issue she was dealing with. These were surprise tears, and she was crying, too.

Kelsey and I don't tend to be big criers. Tears are usually a last result, and often the by-product of someone else's pain (Kameron comes immediately to mind), or frustration (you know, how you get so darned p.o.'d that you start to cry?). I do cry more at movies, although she can't claim that she doesn't do that anymore, because now she does from time-to-time.

Since she started going to Northwest University last year she's been crying a lot more. They have all those God things going on all the time like Chapel services and stuff. The Chapel services often have guest speakers. Local pastors like Mark Driscoll and Judah Smith come, former NU students like Natalie Grant (singer), and people who've traveled the world doing mission-type things (getting their hands "dirty" all the way up to their hearts for Christ's sake), as well as current students from time to time.

These services touch her deeply. Beneath her witty, tough-girl exterior beats the heart of a servant. Kelsey's always loved our "special" kids. In fact, she's told me for years that she wants to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby. Future husband, beware.

So, back to how she made me cry.

Apparently they had a guy speak at Chapel on loving others, Jesus-style. You know, in a First Corinthians Thirteen unconditional love everyone truly and from your heart kind of way.

He talked about how easy it is to love those that love us: "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven . . . For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? And if you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? " (Matthew 5: 43-47) and about how the Christian Church has the unfortunate reputation of picking and choosing who to love, like His Church is some sort of private club.

But Jesus was all about finding the people who had no future - "the things that are not" - the prostitutes, the lepers, the ugly folk and the despised. Those are the ones He loved specially. He came to seek and save the lost, not those who think they're found. The Chapel Speaker Guy said it was about loving "all in" because that's the way Jesus is.

This is the place where, in the front seat of our car at Burgermaster, telling me this story over the sound of arguing kids in the back, Kelsey started to lose it, which of course, made me start to lose it. She said, "And I thought, 'That's my mom. That's what so special about her. That's how she loves the kids, that's why my friends and Kris's friends all love her. Because she loves everybody that way'".

You know, that was so not where I thought she was going with that story.

There was more to the conversation, of course. I know I don't love everyone the way Jesus does, and I told her that. It hurts me that I can't be pure love, that I let all kinds of stuff interfere. I'm not the friend I want to be. I'm not the daughter I want to be. I'm not the responsible adult I want to be. I can make lists of all the things I'm not.

But you know, I think that's why God loves me. That's why He loves you. All those broken, imperfect places we have are what He wants us to give to Him. He doesn't want us to try to get all cleaned up before we approach Him:

While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew's house, many tax collectors and "sinners" came and ate with him and his disciples. When the Pharisees saw this, they asked his disciples, "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and 'sinners'?"

On hearing this, Jesus said, "It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. . . for I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners."
Matthew 9: 10 - 13

It's not about being fit for the "Club". It's about knowing how messed up we are and needing Him to take our torn up, bloody, world-weary hearts and gently hold them in His immensely capable hands, forgiving our mistakes and helping us let go of all the hurt we've received.

Maybe that's what Kelsey sees in me. Not super-mom or super-Christian (definitely not), but super-sinner saved by great grace. Luke 7:47 says that one who has been forgiven much loves much (my loose translation). And I have been forgiven much.

He really is the answer. Him, not Christians. Him, not the Church. Him, not even me.

I love you guys - thanks for reading.

How Am I Like Her? Let Me Count The Ways. . .

Another confession from Crazytown


I am a reformed mother-hater.

When I was sixteen (how many good things start with that phrase?) I was in full-fledged rebellion. Actually, rebellion sounds too tame for what I was in. I was in my own terrorist cell. Yep, a suburban domestic terrorist. My only target was my mom. Mainly because she was there.

Dad saw me every other weekend, mostly. My older brother had begun his illustrious career in really dumb illegal activities (he's the guy who shows his ID to a bank teller before robbing her), and was probably incarcerated, and I'm pretty certain I'd alienated most of my friends by this time. It's hard to remember because I lost a lot of brain cells back then, and any surviving cells are starting to petrify.

Ah, but I was in the process of making some really super new friends. Like the twenty-five year old guy from Texas who lived in his car. And smelled like he lived in his car. And there were the totally awesome folks who worked with me at the Renaissance Faire in Novato. Some of them were near my age, some were creepy old guys, and everyone was loaded on something. My mom still doesn't know the nasty junk that happened on those weekends. Heck, I don't know most of it. I believe I mentioned my lack of brain matter. . .

During this "phase", I was one hundred percent convinced that my mom was the stupidest, meanest, most out-of-touch woman on the face of the planet. I cussed her out, I never told the truth when a lie would do, I took off for several extended weekends without calling or letting her know where I was, or if I was even alive, and I skipped most of my sophomore and junior years at high school, finally "escaping" early under an early form of the GED. There's more, but I'm sure you get the drift.

I listened to nothing mom had to say. Not one thing.

Meanwhile, she was freshly divorced from an eighteen year marriage, working two jobs, dealing with my aforementioned brother. . .

Yeah, I was a real peach.

As I've shared in previous posts, I carried this major attitude toward her for years. In fact, I carried it until I was twenty-eight, had an epiphany and God started helping me face myself. Mom became a human, and I started understanding her and her pain - I was able to finally stop acting out of mine.

In any event. One of the perks of our redeemed relationship is all the fun ways I'm now acting like her.

For instance, I find myself admiring white objects: white cars, white drapes, white towels, white trim on walls . . . pretty much anything that is crisp and clean-looking. The first time I noticed this about myself, frankly, I was a bit appalled. I mean, white things are boring. Am I right?

But truly, when you see a fresh load of whites just out of the dryer, or a freshly washed white car, they are SO attractive. Maybe it's the cleanness of them. Maybe when you spend years cleaning up after yourself and other people, anything that looks that good makes your heart go pitty-pat.

Another way I'm becoming my mom is investigating things before I buy them. Back in the day, mom and dad subscribed to Consumer Reports. I thought they were total losers with no sense of adventure or style.

Having wasted untold thousands on purchases better left un-purchased, I am now a firm advocate of www.consumerreports.org, Amazon's ratings, and any other site I can find that provides feedback from people who've bought and used the item I'm considering. Ditto on price comparisons. Often, I'll research something, then go to Craigslist.org or Ebay or Overstock.com to get the best price on it.

But today was a special day in my transformation. I've resisted - for twenty two years as a parent - mending things for my kids. Lame, but true. Well, I did sew on Kris's badges during his short stint in the Cub Scouts.

As for anything else, not so much. Not even replacing buttons. After all, I never can find the needles and thread; forget about finding the missing button or that little spare pack they usually give you.

But the times, they are a-changin'. My daughter Klaryssia lost the button on some brand-new shorts a few weeks back, and I just refused to ditch them. Wearing them without the button wasn't an option, either, because it created a really nice poof and gap right under her belly button. Klaryssia has a hard enough time keeping her shirts over her belly and her pants up. Obviously, I needed to jump in and find a button to sew on. I'll spare you the details of the button search, remembering to buy yet another spool of thread and pack of needles ('cause of course I had no idea where the last set went), and then struggling to thread the darned thing AND sew it on in a helpful way (so that she could actually button the shorts).

I'm happy to report, mission accomplished.

This success led me to set aside one of the boy's button up shirts the other day when I saw it was missing one. Well, to be honest, I probably would have let it slide, but the button missing was the second one down from the chin. You can't just let that one go. It leaves a weird gap.

At this point, it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have some sort of place to put these clothes that await mending. Further, to have a designated spot for the mending tools AND a place just for all those buttons I expect to collect.

But where?

With this thought in the back of my head today, I set out on some errands. Somewhere along the way, I remembered my mom's old button tin. She had two different tins, actually. One was for all the buttons, one was for her mending supplies: pins, thread, needles, etc.

This seemed like the perfect solution, but alas, I had no tins! Ah Ha! I bet our local Goodwill would have some, if anyone would!

Sure enough, the Goodwill store had not one, not two, but THREE shelves full of old cookie tins and cans from liquor gift packs, and heart-shaped chocolate tins. Jackpot!

I found two that I like, a tall cylinder that housed cookies - this will be my button tin; and a flatish rectangular one that says it's from Harrods and has all these English lords and ladies on it. This will be my sewing supply kit.

Now I'm not going to go all crazy and suggest that I will be launching into a whole new era of hemmed and mended garments, but I am definitely going to be able to find a button, needle and thread next time I need them.

And that's pretty sweet. Good job, mom. Good job. Once again, I realize that you were on top of things. And once again, I'm sorry it's taken me all this time to figure it out.

Letting Go - Parte Due

I'm spending the day getting my fridge ready for the person who bought it from me on Craig's List. It's not just any fridge, mind you. It's a french door, stainless steel, 20 cubic foot, Jenn-Air refrigerator extraordinaire.


See what I mean?

We're talking electronic control panel with easy-to-read LEDs of the freezer and fridge temps, an open door alarm, low temp alarm, vacation setting (whatever that is) , inside door purified water, ice maker, easily adjustable shelves, and best of all, enough room for all of the food we eat, and it keeps it all at the temperature it should.

I've had it three years. It's the only big thing I have left from the last house I owned - the one I lost two years ago to foreclosure.

I had a GORGEOUS LG steam washer/dryer pair in Cherry Red at that house, too. Ladies, tell me these aren't sexy. . .


I swear, when I finally got those - after a few years of waiting and wanting - I plopped down in a chair in the laundry area just to watch the washer go. It has these beautiful purple and yellow and green lights around the knobs, and has a special LED readout, and is sooooo quiet. . .

These were the first things to go when I was trying to first save the house, then scrape enough money together to move to a rental. A couple drove down from Canada to pick them up. Like the fridge, my loss is someones gain. And I'm glad about that.

Maybe it seems like these are silly things to grieve over, and yes, I semi-realize that. But, you have to realize that I've been raising children for twenty-two years now (dang, that's like FOREVER), and in that time, I've done A LOT of laundry, and made do with some really nasty fridges. These appliances represented an easier load for me. And a funner one, too! In many ways, they made me feel more normal, more like a "real" person. More mainstream. And hey, loss is loss, right?

Actually, I thought I was over it, but finding the pictures to put in this post kind of stirred up those old feelings. Like running across old wedding pictures years after a divorce, or a love letter you neglected to burn after a bad break up.

Yes, people, I loved and adored my appliances. Don't make me tell you about selling my old saddle. The one I moved three times even though I haven't had a horse in about seven years.

BUT (and this is an important but), I'm finally coming around to being very grateful that I have these nice things to sell when I need to. The washer and dryer brought in enough extra money to make sure we could move to a new home when we were losing the one we had. The saddle and some camera lenses helped, too.

This fridge isn't bringing much money, but it's providing some respite from the squeeze left over from my steadily reducing income over these last eight months, and we have another one that was already here to use. Thank you, Landlady Tosha!

We are also moving again - downsizing, simplifying, cutting back on expenses even more. I've decided that my three kids at home need more of me than they currently get. And I don't mean time, necessarily, because I need time, too. By more of me, I mean more of my presence mentally, more thoughtful mommying. They deserve that. We've all been distracted by so much these last five or six years: Kameron's illness and surgeries, moving three (now four!) times, working different part time and full time jobs,starting college for Kelsey and Elesha, Kris and Kami's wedding, all the big kids moving out. . . while trying to maintain a cohesive, loving, family unit.

Wears me out just thinking about it, and we all lived through it!

So, the big plan is to move over the next two months, spending some real time going through all the stuff we've been carting around since we left Colorado, and downsizing. The less stuff I need to take care of, the better. Hopefully, some of it can go on Craig's List. I might even bite the bullet and have a garage sale. I hate garage sales.

That way, maybe I'll have the mental and emotional space to care for and about the things that really matter. Like my God, my family, myself, my church, and my friends.

Stay tuned.

I love.

Making Eye Contact

I've had to cut my Therapist Lisa visits back to twice a month (due to significant budget constraints). In my last visit with her she had a few challenges for me. Unfortunately, I didn't write them all down. Since my mind is getting full (you realize the older you get the more junk you have in there so it gets much harder to find those little memory files, right?), I don't remember all of them. I'm pretty sure there were three. One was to "continue to feel". This was in response to the yucky grieving over Andrew's leaving.

I still say feeling is highly over-rated.

I can't remember the middle one.

The last one was a challenge to make eye contact with. . . men. There, I've said it. Right here in cyberspace for all to see. Crap.

I don't talk much about the "single" part of the parent thing, do I? Which is kind of crazy since I've been one for nineteen (yes, NINETEEN) years. There are many excuses that could be made here. Busy, busy, busy!! Family to raise!! All the "good" ones are taken!! I don't trust myself!! And so on.

But truthfully, I never wanted to be a single mom. All that bs spouted around about how we are just another type of family is just that: bs. There is nothing fun, glamorous, or romantic about raising children alone. Kids aren't all that keen on it, either (speaking as a person raised by a single parent).

Face it, we are designed to need two parents. We are needy beings and we suck a lot out of one person. Plus, moms are generally the nice ones. It's hard to do both nice and nazi. Confuses the kids and the mom.

Of course, this is a fallen world there are tons of reasons why we end up with only one parent. Some two parent families would do better with only one. And somehow in spite of the statistics, lots of kids from single parent homes grow up pretty well. It still amazes me how awesome my older two are.

BUT (and this is a big but), I personally hate being alone. Not just for all the kid-raising, house maintaining, someone to rub my back reasons, but because I'd like a man to share life with. Someone to listen to who likes listening to me. Someone to hang out with.

This is a place in my heart that I haven't spent much time exploring. I think it's one of those "feeling" areas I'd rather avoid. But if I ever want the situation to change, I probably need to at least take a peek at it, right? Yuck and more yuck.

So the Therapist Lisa challenge is to make eye contact with men.

Something about being available engage in a conversation or something like that. EEEEWWWW. Who the heck thought it would be so tough to just look a man in the eye??

I hate it when I am exposed as a little girly girl. Weak underbelly? Um, YEAH!

I may or may not keep you guys posted on this. Let's see how it goes.

What a wimp.

What to Do? What to Do?

I feel like I've spent years and years trying to decide what to be when I grow up. Which is a little sad, because at my age, I'm not growing up anymore, I'm due to start shrinking. Well, in height, anyway.

But I've never had a distinct sense of direction in my life - with a few exceptions - and now that Andrew is gone, I'm back at the fork in the road. Do I continue to foster extremely high needs children? Do I simplify my life, and stop fostering? Is there a middle ground?

On the one hand, I am very good at helping kids with intense behaviors. On the other, I have three children at home - two who are still very young - and I'd like to spend some time with them. They have needs, too.

But what do I do for income?

And what are some of my longish-term goals? As my children get older and move out, where am I finding that "abundant life" I long for? How much time do I spend even pondering it?

I came across a meme the other day. 101 things to do in 1001 days. It's not new by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, one of the oldest posts I found on the site went back to 2003. But it is new to me, and I love the concept. Check it out.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking and praying about what to do next. I can't seem to get away from these children in distress, so it's doubtful I'll completely stop working with them. But I also need to regroup after losing Andrew. So do my kids.

I will say that everyone who can help a foster child, should. There are so many children in our communities that remain in dangerous and deplorable circumstances because there is nowhere to take them. There is always a shortage of foster homes.

Please consider stepping out of your comfort zone and taking in just one child. You don't even have to be a full time foster parent. You could provide respite for other foster parents. That means taking someone else's foster children for a few days so that the actual foster parent can get a break.

You will be making a difference. It's like throwing a pebble into a still lake. The ripples of your one act of kindness will spread far beyond your reach, far beyond your imagination.

Think about it.

Much love and respect my friends, I'm sure I'll keep you posted as things develop.

K

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's...

Kameron my nine year old, is, to me, a superman. Well, maybe a superboy. It's been awhile since I told his story I think, so I'm going to tell it again - hey, it's my blog, so I can indulge right?

Kam was born Kenny in Denver Colorado on January 1st, 2000. Now, before you ooo and ahhh about how cool that birthday is, I want to warn you that he was born THREE months early. Yes, three months. At birth, he weighed a little over one pound. He had a brain hemorrhage that contributed to the calcification of 45% of his brain. That means almost half his brain was turned essentially into bone. He couldn't eat, his optic nerve was seriously damaged from the hemorrhage, his lungs were unformed...in short, Kenny was a mess.

His mom and dad were encouraged from the get-go to disconnect the life support from little Kenny. They declined. Soon, it became evident that mom and dad were less than stellar parents (I believe they had a fist fight in the NICU), and the courts stepped in with a protective order for him.

Within three months, the hospital declared him well enough to be discharged to a foster home. His first foster mom disagreed. Kenny was supposed to be bottle-fed, yet he wouldn't/couldn't suck; he still had significant breathing difficulties, and was on oxygen, but it didn't seem to be helping. She was concerned about his listlessness, his pallor. It seemed to her that the hospital was trying to discharge him so that he might finally die. She wasn't into that happening on her watch. The social worker must have agreed with the hospital, because she didn't want him back in the hospital, and so Foster Mom #1's agency moved Kenny to another home. Thankfully, this Foster Mom was newly licensed because she'd just left her former career as a NICU nurse.

She took one (okay, maybe two) looks at Kenny and whisked him off to Children's Hospital in Denver. There he was put on a feeding tube and a ventilator. Eventually, he had surgery for his retinopathy (eye problem, not the optic nerve damage though), and was diagnosed as having bronchial malaisa. Basically, his bronchial tubes weren't formed enough for him to breathe.

He stayed at Children's for the next year. He grew, and his lungs matured a bit, but not enough to get off the vent. Parental rights were terminated (his mom and dad stopped visiting shortly after the ventilator was attached to Kenny's throat via a tracheotomy). And Kenny finally stabilized.
Here I come. Crazy Foster Mother to I don't remember how many at that point, and really wanting a baby. Now, I guess that most people, when they think of a baby, don't think of a baby with Kenny's special needs. Actually, I didn't either. But from the moment I saw him in Denver, I knew I wanted him.

Anyway, long story short, Kenny came to live with us. It took many weeks, months maybe, to get the house and us ready. We had to hire a private duty nursing company to take care of his still significant medical needs, occupational, physical, and speech therapists to try to get him functioning at any level he could achieve, a special chair was ordered that would hold both Kenny and his ventilator and two batteries for our trips out of the house. And on and on. We had a ton of prep work for this little boiyo. In the end, it took us a little more than three years to get him off the vent and the feeding tube, and right after that, his lungs were declared healthy enough to be off oxygen completely. He was doing terrific. Better than anyone expected, especially his doctors.

August of 2003, Kenny became Kameron, and an official member of my little brood.

Then, when he was about to turn five, all heck (and I mean the other word) broke loose. It was Halloween, and Kam had been sick all day. It looked like the stomach flu, which made sense, because several of the other kids had been sick. But around dinner time, Kam had a grand mal seizure and I called 911.

Weeks in and out of ICU in Colorado Springs, and no one knew what was wrong with him. Most of the professionals agreed that he'd just begun having a seizure disorder. After all, look at his CT - look at all that brain damage. I disagreed. Kameron had never shown any hint of seizure disorder, and even so, the way he was seizing didn't look to me like a typical disorder.

Eventually, some technician saw a shadow on an MRI, and it was decided he had an Arterio Venous Malformation: an AVM. Some of the symptoms were migraine headaches, seizures, possible hemorrhage, and stroke-like features. We almost lost him several times.

More long story short, some serious brain procedures - like thirty or thirty-five - later, and one brain surgery last August, it looks like maybe the AVMs (turned out to be a ton of them) are shut down and not growing anymore. Yay!

Now nine and about as healthy as he's ever been, Kameron is finally getting a chance to grow and develop. He is in a wheelchair, but can use his legs, and if the medical equipment powers-that-be could hurry up a bit, he will soon have a walker to use. The idea of him standing and walking on his own is beyond thrilling.

Also, this little boy who wasn't supposed to live, then wasn't supposed to ever talk or eat or have any signs of intelligence, not only talks (a LOT), he remembers people and their names, he sings a ton of songs, he remembers scripture verses, loves basketball, and on and on. AND he is learning addition (ask him what 3+5 equals and he will tell you 8), and just the other day I posted a pic from my phone on Facebook showing Kameron reading on the toilet. Now, this wouldn't be extraordinary for most kids, but Kam, with almost half his brain severely damaged and about nine years behind the rest of the pack, was actually reading the words - all of them - in the book. Not bad for being "blind".

I guess the moral of his story is that you just can't count anyone out. No one told Kameron he was supposed to die - many times over by this point. No one told Kameron he couldn't read or learn math. No one let him know he shouldn't be able to dribble and shoot a full sized basket ball. He just keeps on going. Who knows where he'll end up? I can't wait to find out.

As always, thank you so much for reading. I know you have your choice of blogs, and am grateful mine is one of them. Much love.

How do I Detach from This Outcome?

I've been a little quiet the past several days. I'm not sure how many of you've been following my Andrew stories, but to recap, he is my sweet four-year-old foster son. Well, "sweet" may be pushing it a tad. But, I think he's sweet.

Andrew came into our home November 1st of last year. At the time, I was contracting with the YMCA Family and Mental Health Services agency to provide a temporary home for kids who were in crisis and needed more structure and supervision than they could get in their home or in a "regular" foster home - a place to calm down and stabilize. Some of the kids some were having trouble maintaining at home or in a foster placement, some were just out of the hospital; and some should have been hospitalized.

A few of the children that came in fell through cracks in the system. They were children under six, because six in the Washington State foster program is a magic age. That's when kids can be classified as needing significant behavioral support and get more funding. Not quite certain why behaviors they've been having for all the previous years aren't enough...but hey, it's a Governmental bureaucracy. It has to have a few kinks in it (cough, cough).

Because of this rule, some of the littler kids needing intense supports don't have a place to go. Their "families of origin" can't handle them, and none of the treatment facilities will take them without the higher level of funding. My house became kind of a loophole in the system. Our program could provide the higher level of care and services, but only for ninety days.

So, here comes Andrew. At four years old, he's my youngest yet in the program. He'd been in seven placements already. The previous placements were all family members and he'd been abused and neglected in each of them.

He came into our house one ANGRY little guy. Huge behaviors, spitting, kicking, throwing things, hitting, crying, CUSSING like a serious longshoreman. His tantrums - and I use that term loosely, because they were really rages - lasted up to three hours. For real.

This went on for weeks. Every single day, at least once a day. Sometimes, two or three times. It was a bumpy ride for us all. We went past the ninety days, and I changed the classification of my home so that he would not have to move again.

Eventually, we wore him down. Consistently saying what was okay and what wasn't, sticking to easy, clear rules: "We chew with our mouth closed, Andrew" "We stay at the table until we're done, Andrew" "We don't use words like that, Andrew" "We flush and wash, Andrew" and putting some structure into his life helped him feel safe and he started to relax.

It got so that tucking him into bed (which used to be an ordeal lasting a few hours), turned into one of the highlights of our day. He would get his jammies on and brush his teeth, go to his room to pick out a book, and get under the covers to wait for me. We had a whole routine worked out.

Ditto in the morning. We had a getting ready for the big boy's bus schedule. Having consistent things - even "little" things - to look forward to helped make his day (and mine) smoother and more predictable. He loved these things.

Four weeks ago, a judge who's never met Andrew, decided he was ready to go back to his mother. He hasn't lived with her for the last three of his four years. He is scared. He doesn't know her. And as of last Friday morning, he's living with her.

I can't go into the details of the case; not because I'm worried about confidentiality, but because I don't want to, and I don't feel it really matters at this point.

What matters is that Andrew got under my "professional" foster mom skin. What matters is I love that little boy. What matters is that, when I tried to pack his little plastic forks and spoons that he got for having good table manners, he said, "No, leave them here for when I come back". What matters is how hard he hugged my neck when he left, and how hard I cried after I closed the door.

What matters is that I keep listening for the sound of his rattly, plastic Big Wheel tearing up the sidewalk in front of our house; that I keep waiting for the sound of his voice, asking me a thousand whys: "Kath-a-leen, why does Ricky have eyes? Kath-a-leen, why does Klaryssia get mad so much? Kath-a-leen, why is your car that color...?"

What matters is how empty my lap feels sitting here at this computer because he used to, just last week, just a few days ago, come running out here to my office, flat, bare feet slapping on the hardwoods, to push his way up into my lap, to sit with me while I wrote. Always asking me, "Why"?

I don't know why, Andrew. I have no answers for this one.

I love you, little man. You will always be a part of me, and I hope and pray that somewhere in your little man heart, you will remember me, too.

I'm a Tricksy Girl

Here's a quick update on the TV fast. If you recall, I let it slip to Therapist Lisa that I tend to over-watch television. Kind of a turn it on and tune out thing? So, she challenged me to turn it off for SEVEN days. At the same time, in church, I kept hearing about us trying to find comfort from stuff (any stuff - TV, drugs, drink, food, friends, etc.) rather than face our pain and junk and take it to God. So, knowing that I have many many "comfort" things that help me not at all, I agreed to turn it off.

I actually did pretty well with the no TV thing. Only watched one lateish night, started with a DVR'd Law and Order - I do love that darned show - and then watched Marley and Me, which of course had me sobbing.

That was helpful. I need to cry more.

The thing I noticed immediately was my computer time increased. Not so much Facebook or Twitter, which surprised me, but def more time cruising and exploring: reading other people's blogs, looking up random stuff, checking out Italian learning programs and sites. I didn't work on my writing like I wanted to, although I had some more ideas on framing my story. 'Course, ideas don't do diddly if you don't act on them.

But, I also noticed that I have spent more time talking with God and reading His Word. So that's a huge positive. And, I did tackle a big personal project that I've been avoiding. It's not quite finished, but it's about two-thirds of the way done.

I'm really working on recognizing baby steps as positive progress, and not slapping myself around for not "accomplishing" anything because of some nebulous, fictional, grading scale I have that says unless I get it all done - preferably now - I've failed.

“With what shall I come before the Lord,

and bow myself before God on high?
Shall I come before him with burnt offerings, with calves a year old?
Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands of rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?”
He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

- Micah 6:6-8 esv

Okay, I can work on those. Oops. I'm supposed to be "being" more and "doing" less.

See how my mind works? Now I'm stressing about being and doing. UGH!!! Where's that remote??

Love you guys, thanks always for reading...

Steppin' Out at Seward Park

Okay, so I've told you all about the walking program with my little Manager Kimi, right? One of the three out-of-the-house-with-another-person things I'm supposed to do? So, here is an update on that activity.

I mentioned that we are walking at Seward Park, it's a really beautiful place on the south end of Seattle. It's situated on a little penninsula jutting out into Lake Washington. For those of you who don't know, Lake Washington is an amazingly beautiful body of water that curves along the east side of the city of Seattle. It's huge - 22 miles long at one point, and 214 feet at it's deepest. When the sun is even remotely out, the lake is filled with boats, Seados, and brave swimmers along the shore.

The University of Washington butts up against part of the western shore, and their boat house is there, in the shadows of Husky Stadium and Hec Ed Pavillion. In the early morning hours, if you are nearby, you can see the crew racers out practicing. They look like big water skeeters. It seems like they barely touch the surface as they speed along.

Lake Washington and Lake Union (another beautiful body of water, the one with all the houseboats) are connected by the Montlake Cut which runs between Husky Stadium and the Montlake neighborhood, then meanders under the University Bridge. There are tons of waterfront businesses dotted along here, kayaking clubs, little restaurants that you can boat up to and tie up for a meal. Lake Union has GasWorks Park, a very popular - read thousands of people - place to view the fireworks at the Space Needle on July 4th.

These are some of the reasons I love my home. Walking with Manager Kimi at Seward Park is reminding me of these reasons. That's just one of the bonuses. She and I are up to two laps around the park, that's five miles - yay us!

We take it fairly easy, and talk a lot (mostly me, I'm afraid), but we've noticed our time getting better. We are also having fun. There are regulars: Rasta Runner for one. He's there every time we are. He's always wearing his hat and brightly-colored shorts that match. He is VERY thin and musclely. I imagine him running across deserts in Africa. . . he always says hello, every time he passes us. Funny, he is always running opposite of us. Seems like the regulars all go in a regular direction, too.

Manager Kimi has a here-to-fore secret calling: she is a Crow Whisperer.

Did you know such a thing exsisted? Me either. But she is one. I've seen her in action. See, she talks to the cawing crows, and they stop cawing. They seem to know that she has wisdom to impart...kinda creepy, if you ask me, but I still like her.




There are a lot of crows at Seward Park.




We've noticed that our fellow walkers/runners seem nicer on the weekdays. Everyone (really, everyone) says hello and smiles as they pass. Even the ones that are really huffing and puffing. It's awfully nice to have that degree of friendliness within the city.

There are sweet groups of older people, men, women, both together, that stop along the path to chat. They always smile and wave, too. Many many dog walkers - some with up to three - and dog runners. One guy had his dog tied around his waist. They both looked like they were ready for a marathon.

One of the oddest things is the "skirt runners". On any given day, we can be sure to see at least one woman (one day, it was three different women) wearing a skirt. I'm not talking sporty, tennis player-type skirt. I'm talking maxi-length, cotton or cotton-blend type skirt you might wear to church or something. Really a bit odd.

But for me, that is part of the charm. The people we see enjoying Seward Park, are who they are. Most of them aren't there for anyone but themselves, and by that I mean they aren't dressing to impress, or making sure their dog looks good. Well, for the most part.

Bottom line, they are there to enjoy this great space in the middle of our city. That makes me enjoy it, too. Yay for Seattle, I say.

For more Pics from Steppin' Out at Seward Park, see my Picasa album.

Feeling like a Lumberjack

In Matthew chapter 7 verses 1 through 5, Jesus says:

“Judge not, that you be not judged. 2 For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. 3 Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 4 Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye. ESV

I have to say that this passage has been popping into my head a lot lately. I've been working on what originally was to be a memoir, but may be morphing into a series of essays on my perspective of life - kind of reflections on what I think I'm learning and where I've been.

As I'm considering and praying about what I'd like to say, God is showing me some more opportunities for growth (as we Christians like to say). One specific place is in my judgmental heart. Christians tend to bristle and get a little defensive when people say we are hypocrites and judgmental. But see above? Jesus was calling the religious folks of the day hypocrites. And this teaching is preserved in our Bible for those of us who care to hear today. Since I am a follower of Christ - albeit a lame one - that means this message is for me. I really do want to honor Jesus and walk well, so that means I should be listening up here.

I digress. The specific place I'm feeling like a log-toting hypocrite has to do with two of my sons: Kameron and Kristopher.

Kristopher is my first-born. He is now twenty-two, totally gorgeous (I can say that, it's true), and getting married next month. He is an amazing young man, and it blows me away to think I somehow (with a GREAT deal of God's grace poured out on us) raised this guy.

Kameron, as you may know, is one of my unholy terrors. He is one of three little boys I have at home right now. Andrew, the youngest, is a foster son, and due to return to his mom soon. Kameron is nine, and Kobi is nine (today). They are my adopted sons. I've had Kam since he was a year old and on a ventilator. He was born three months early.

Now, at this point in the story, I usually make sure to mention that Kam was born three months early because his biological (what a clinical word) mother was smoking crack on New Year's Day 2000, and Kam came too soon. He was born with a lot of problems, not the least of which was a massive brain hemorrhage and horribly under-developed lungs. The mom was found unfit and the rest is a story for another day.

Okay, here's the log part. When I was pregnant with Kristopher, I was a different person. I in fact, used a variety of street drugs, including crack. All this while working in a stock brokerage firm as licensed assistant to several Vice Presidents. Kind of a double-life. Now, to my credit (if you can call it that), while I was carrying Kris, I backed off drugs, mostly. And I mostly didn't drink. Mostly. Except of course for the little celebrating I did on New Years Day 1987. Crack and Champagne. Kris was born two days later, almost three weeks early, and thankfully, he was okay.

The parallel God's been gently reminding me of though, is that in the eight years I've had Kameron, I've harbored a hugely judgmental, critical, holier-than-though attitude toward his mom.

For this I am sincerely sorry. I don't know any of the circumstances of her life, and really, they don't excuse the choices she made. But, obviously, my choices were pretty wrong and horrible, too. It is only by the grace and mercy of God that my son was spared any catastrophic consequences from my - let's call it like it is - sin. For me to constantly put her down and bring up her failure again and again is wrong.

I also need to ask forgiveness of my son for risking his life when I was carrying him; and God's for my hypocrisy.

Alright folks. This is probably enough honesty for today.

Much love, and thanks as always for reading.

Hearing

Jesus liked to repeat things. I think it was one of His ways of making sure we peeps down here would possibly, hopefully get the messages He was trying to get out. Kind of like we have to do with teenagers. And toddlers. And old folks. Heck, I need to hear things a million times, too. Guess it's just a people thing in general.

So, when Jesus says something a bunch of times, that is supposed to be our clue to pay attention. One of the things He said many times was, "He who has ears to hear, let him hear." It was kind of a tag line at the end of some parables.

I talk a lot in this blog about the stuff in my life, the processes God seems to be guiding me through to help me make some sense of my heart, my head, and my relationship to Him. We've had a bumpy ride, He and I. He's been faithful, I've been running ahead; He's been patient, I want results and I want them NOW; He's been tender, I turn my back and pout. It pains me to admit this stuff, but it's where I'm at - it's like I'm holding Him off at arm's length while wanting Him to never leave.

The "why" part, I don't know. And by that I mean why I'm holding Him off. Maybe I never will. Maybe I just need to keep inching closer and closer to Him until the reasons for my hurt and anger are all just melted away in the heat of His glory, and my frozen heart is again soft and vulnerable in His Hands.

At any rate, I'm feeling like He's stirring all around me and in me and patiently, graciously, waiting for me to once again be open to Him and to all He has waiting for me - which is all of Him.

To come away from all the distractions and cares of this world, and to hear Him. To have ears to hear.

Much love, and thank you for reading.

Ooops.

Well, I think I put my foot in it today. Tuesday morning is Therapist Lisa time. Today, I went with no agenda in mind, just open to what ever God and TL had for me. Big Mistake. Huge.

Somewhere in the convo, I let it slip that one of the things I use as a major distraction is TV. Like enough hours every night that I wouldn't tell her how many. Darn it. Me and my big mouth.

Of course the first thing she does is challenge me to keep it off, yes OFF, for the next seven days. Whoa there! Seven days, cold turkey? I don't think she realizes what she's asking. No television at all? Can't we just taper down or something? I don't know if I can fall asleep in a quiet room.

What will I do with the empty hours? More importantly, what will The Mentalist and So You Think You Can Dance, and NCIS do without me??? Besides, I just discovered Burn Notice and In Plain Sight...

Crud.

Well, we'll see what transpires. I do have a to be read pile that's about two feet thick. And, I am supposed to be writing...and Therapist Lisa says that going to therapy and then going home and spending all that time watching TV is completely counter-productive. More of that distracting avoiding behavior. Blah Blah.

Good thing I didn't mention Mafia Wars.

The Person Formerly Known as Me

I feel like mush lately. A few weeks ago, I saw a Bones episode where the obligatory body (after all, it is a show about a forensic anthropologist crime-solver, bodies abound) was found in a field wrapped inside a black plastic trash bag. The former person had been - no delicate way to put this - run through a wood-chipper. So, the bag was full of mush. Is this too graphic? Probably. I'll hurry along, but the visual I'm going for here is that when I saw that bag, I immediately thought, that's what I feel like! A big black trash bag full of yuck that used to be someone.

With the therapy, books I'm reading, and stuff I'm getting from God, I feel more screwed up than ever. I think it's the undoing of all the layers I've wrapped around me over the course of so many years. Like that bag of yuck is me, and the part of me that I thought was real is the part getting stripped away. Not very appealing. And most definitely not sexy.

Ugh. I feel like I'm way too old to be doing this crap. Why in the world do I have to clean out the rotted putrid gunk? What will be left of me? What IS me? Sigh.

No wonder I surround myself with distractions. This healing stuff is way too complicated and difficult. It probably doesn't help that I am forever in a rush to get things done. I'm looking for a step-by-step program outlining specifically what I need to do in order to "finish" this freakin' project 'cause this ain't no fun, folks.

It's beginning to dawn on me that perhaps:

1. I'm not going to be able to control this process
2. I shouldn't try
3. I need to keep repeating numbers 1 and 2 until they get through my thick skull

Dang. Well, if anyone needs me I'll be right here.
Heaped up in this bag.
Waiting.

"Home" Free Write #1

I'm in a writing class at the University of Washington - Experimental College, but we meet on campus, so I feel like a somebody after all these years. But, as usual, I digress!

The teacher has us doing a lot of free-writing. And since the focus of the class is memoir writing, most of the prompts revolve around our past. Now, I signed up for this, so I should be having "fun", right? However, I don't think my past is fun. I've spent many years trying to avoid it - see any of my previous posts. Therapist Lisa is certain that digging into what comes up is a good thing; that my sadness and detached feelings are due to me continually devising new and more innovative ways to distract myself from reality. She's probably right. Which is a good thing. Someone needs to know what I'm doing.

So. . . memoir class this week had prompts surrounding "Home". I dug into it with a little trepidation, I must confess. One of the reasons for that became clear when we did a cluster map around the word. I spent the entire time remembering all the places I've lived. When we finished, I'd come up with twenty. Twenty homes in roughly forty years. Well, a little over forty. I'm not saying how much over.

It makes sense then, that I am ambivalent over the concept of Home.

Here is the first free-write:

At this stage in my life, home is both a place I've made for my family, and a place I long to be. This home, the home in Seattle, is keeping me from the one I long for: heaven.

Psalm 73:25 says: "Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you. "

That is how I feel, yet conflicted, because the family God and I have created is intensely a part of me, my heart if you will, and I can't imagine leaving them - especially now.

So here I am, my adopted self, in my adopted home town, with my adopted children and adopted dog, living in a borrowed house. Rooted to them, yet a traveler still. Only here a while.

My prayer for them is love and peace and joy and hope. My love for them is beyond words. My peace is in knowing I am where I should be. My joy is deep and quiet. My Hope is waiting for me, for them, for us. Waiting for us to come home.

Thank you for reading, peace be with you all.

Is This Contributing to My Misery?

Therapist Lisa says that I have an "overactive, over-developed sense of responsibility". I think that's a nice way to say I'm co-dependent. Or that I have no life of my own and I've chosen to make it this way - ouch ouch ouch.

I don't like hearing that a lot of the mess I'm in is my own doing. I'd much rather blame someone else - for instance, God. After all, isn't He the Supreme Ruler of the Universe? Do I not belong to Him? Therefore, it stands to reason that He can fix all this junk. . . am I right?

Unfortunately, when God created us as His image-bearers, He forgot to make us mindless, will-less, puppets. He gave us choice. Some old, long-dead theologian called it the terrible gift of free will. The thought is that God wants us to want Him. He doesn't want us to love Him because we have to.

But it's a double-edged sword. That rebellious, stubborn part of us that helps us survive this world, that strong spirit we pride ourselves in, is also the part that keeps us shaking our tiny little fists at the loving One who created us. And if you're me, blaming Him for all manner of consequences I've brought on myself and for not running my life the way I want it run. I also tend to blame Him for the nasty choices others have made that damage me. Basically, I want God to be my sugar daddy (do they still say that?), not my God. Not the One who knows best, sees all and will, eventually, put every yucky thing right.

Humm.

So, in line with me taking responsibility for my side of life, for the choices I can make and the things I can control, Lisa gave me this little thought to think before I make a move: will this contribute to my misery?

It fits right in with detaching from the outcome. If I make good choices - ones that won't contribute to my misery (don't you LOVE that word, misery?), and then detach from the outcome (let God be God - not me), theoretically, life will be easier, more joyful, and carefree.

Okay, that sounds too simplistic, doesn't it? But what if she's right? What if it works? What if God - Who I completely believe in - can be trusted?

Wow. . .what a concept. I have to ponder this awhile.

Love you guys - thanks for working through all this with me.