Eleven Years Later

Recently, an old “note” that I’d written on social media about choosing single motherhood resurfaced, and I decided it was time for a remix.  You can read the original here, but without further ado, here is

What I want you to know… eleven years later.

I want you to know that almost exactly one year after I wrote this, the tiniest baby entered our family bringing with him layers of nuanced birth family relationships that would expand my heart in ways I could never have imagined.  Fostering him broke me open, challenged everything I thought I knew about what was best for kids, and brought me to the end of myself again and again.

I want you to know that after the two-and-a-half year journey to his adoption, I knew in my bones that we were finished.  I closed the door to being a foster parent without any doubt or regret.  I know that this is not true for everyone, and I think that if you’re not sure, you’re not done.  But I knew it.  And the relief that flooded my body after closing that door made me physically sick (on our “adoption-moon.”  In a hotel. With a toddler and his big sister.  It was grand.).

I want you to know that when things got hard, God’s people stepped up.  So many times, I’ve read about cases where church friends are supportive of an adoptive family at the beginning and then disappear when trauma, attachment issues and mental illness start showing up.  And I want to shout from the rooftops that this is not always true.  When the poo hit the fan in our family… and it did, friends… it hit hard… our faith community rallied and supported us in every possible way.  I went to (literal and metaphorical) places as a mom that were the stuff of nightmares.  And God’s people showed up in every single one of those terrifying places.  They walked us through shadows that I honestly wasn’t sure our family could survive.  And I will always, always be grateful that we never walked alone.

I want you to know that my kids are real siblings.  They can fuss and fight and pick on each other all day long, but when the chips are down, they have each other’s backs.  As they’ve gotten older, they’ve started talking about the future and their conversations about “always being your sister/brother” melt me.  I’ve made a rule that I never interrupt them when they are having fun together.  Do they take advantage of this to stay up too late and indulge in too much junk food and screen time?  Absolutely.  Do I care? Not even a little.

I want you to know that no one is allowed to tell us how we are supposed to feel about adoption.  Not me and most definitely not my kids.  Don’t tell me that we’re lucky to have each other. Don’t tell my kids that they should be grateful.  Don’t expect them to act like they’re happy on days that remind them of loss (which, to be honest, could be any day).  Don’t tell us that nature doesn’t matter… that sharing genes and history don’t matter.  They do.  We feel how we feel about adoption.  My kids are always allowed to tell the truth about it.  Even and especially the parts that aren’t rainbows and unicorns.  Always.

I want you to know that the pressure to “be the face” of all the things loosens its chokehold over time.  Therapy helps.  And finding safe spaces to tell the truth.  And knowing other families that look like yours (or, more precisely, that look every which way) where no one questions why you are black and your mom is white or why you don’t have a dad.  I think just plain getting older helps too… life’s too short to worry about appearances.  No one is going to choose not to adopt because we happen to be having a rough day.

And, most of all, friends… I want you to know that we’re ok, our little family.  In some ways, we are better than ever.  We’ve survived toddlerhood, middle school, a global pandemic and losses that took our breath away.  And we’re still here.  Messy, imperfect and not even a little bit like what I could have imagined eleven years ago.  But these kids of mine, they are incredible.  They are fully themselves.  And we are doing just fine.

Choosing Single Motherhood

I am a single mother by choice.  I adopted my daughter from foster care and I’m hoping to bring another child into our family in the next few years.  What do I want you to know?

I want you to know that I don’t need your adulation.  I didn’t adopt to solve the orphan crisis, put feet to my pro-life convictions or make any kind of political or religious statement.  I didn’t adopt because I don’t think enough married couples are doing it.  I am not a hero and my daughter is not “lucky to have me.”

I want you to know that I don’t need your pity.  I didn’t adopt because I’ve given up on marriage or because I needed someone to love and need me.  I’ve never been under the illusion that this would be an easy path.  I am not a victim, and neither is my daughter.  She is one of the most resilient, tenacious people that I know.  Maybe if you are not also a single mom, you “don’t know how I do it.”  But if you knew your child was in foster care, I think you would do everything you could to bring her home, no matter who happened to live (or not live) in that home.

I want you to know that though I am not married, I am not raising my daughter “on my own.”  Unlike many single moms, I had the luxury of making certain before I chose motherhood that my daughter would have strong male and female role models committed to loving and teaching her.  I also have the luxury of tapping into a social support system that continues to provide great advice, encouragement and practical help.

I want you to know that I was scared beyond belief when I first decided to adopt as a single mom.  Not just about raising a child, but also about sharing my decision with many great folks in my life who happen to have very specific views about how a family is supposed to look.  I anticipated resistance, cautions and even hostility.  What I got instead was unconditional love, emotional support and three adoption showers.  After meeting my daughter, no one expressed concern or disapproval about how our family was formed.  In fact, I have felt more loved and supported since I embarked on this journey than ever before in my life.  I want you to know that if you are part of that support network for me or another single mom, you rock.  We need you.

I want you to know that despite this support, I feel tremendous pressure to represent my “single mom by choice” status in new situations.  If my daughter’s hair is a mess or she’s having a meltdown I worry that you’re thinking I never should have chosen to do this alone.  If I’m not smiling and telling you about my wonderful life, I worry that you’re judging my family to be second-best.  I know I shouldn’t care, but I do.

I want you to know that I spend my days playing Candyland, reading stories, folding laundry, trying to model self-control and compassion, loving unconditionally and wondering if it will be enough.  Just like you.

I want you to know that I love my daughter ferociously and I am one hundred percent convinced that we are supposed to be a family.  Though there are plenty of life choices that I regret, choosing single motherhood is not one of them.

Level ground

Four neat lines.

We file forward singing about the Father’s deep love for us even as we hear our own voice scoffing.

Here the ground is level. It doesn’t matter how old you are or how you vote.

All are welcome. The table is wide.

The body and the blood are for us.

Paul and Silas had followed the Holy Spirit to Philippi.

God was preparing to build the church there.

An influential woman.

An exploited demon-possessed slave girl delivered in the name of Jesus. 

A suicidal jailer and his family.

This is the start of the church in Philippi (Acts 16).

Hardly an auspicious beginning. But isn’t that like Jesus?

Using this unlikely crew to spread the gospel in their city and build the church against which the gates of hell could not prevail.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

I’m lucky to have grown up with parents who believed unflinchingly that the table is wide. I remember all kinds of folks finding their way to our living room, often pouring out their hearts and asking tough questions for hours. Missionaries and misfits. Upstanding citizens and not-so-much. Friends of friends and teenagers scared of demons. Hurting families that had been excluded from their church. Mormons in their Sunday best and one guy that we’re pretty sure was an angel. They’d sip iced tea and munch on homemade cookies and many of them would come to faith there. In my living room.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

Using this unlikely crew to spread the gospel in their city and build the church against which the gates of hell could not prevail.

Voices all around tell us to draw lines. To divide people up into us and them. To decide who is in and who is out. But, friends, that’s not Jesus.

Nope.

The ground is level here.

At his feet.

At the cross.

His love is big enough.

All are welcome. The table is wide.

God is ready to use us all to spread the gospel in our cities and build the church upon which the gates of hell will not prevail.

Isn’t that like Jesus?

Doors

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Holy Spirit lately. About the same power that raised Jesus living inside of his people. Walking around in our homes. In our communities. In our schools and churches. Ready to unleash his power when we call on him. Ready to comfort, to speak wisdom, to advocate, to bear witness to the truth of the gospel. And sometimes to keep us from heading where we think we’re supposed to go.

Wait, what? Yep. Paul and Silas had their bags packed and they were ready to go. 

But the Holy Spirit kept them from preaching the word in the province of Asia.

So, they gave it another try.

But the Spirit of Jesus would not allow them to enter Bithynia either. Acts 16:6-7

It doesn’t sound right. Why would the Holy Spirit keep (Greek word = hinder, restrain, forbid) people from preaching the gospel?

Thanks to The Sound of Music, we like to imagine God closing a door and opening a window. Or we try to jam other scriptures into this story and talk about God closing doors that no one can open (Revelation 3:7). True, but spoken in a completely different context.

The short answer, I think, is that we don’t really know. We read on and hear about Lydia, an influential businesswoman, coming to faith in Jesus. We read about a servant girl being delivered from an evil spirit. We see a jailer rescued from suicide and brought (with his entire family) into the kingdom of God. Perhaps this is why the Holy Spirit kept his people from heading in a different direction.

But lest we believe it all to be rainbows and butterflies, Paul and Silas are also beaten and thrown into jail. And the city is rocked with a violent earthquake. Hardly a smooth and happy welcome.

But Paul had seen clearly, intuitively, that he was called toward Macedonia. And he and Silas set off at once.

Side note: I love that God lays it out so plainly in Paul’s dream. A man from Macedonia begging for help. I have dreams like this sometimes. Someone that I know asking me to pray for them. Doesn’t take too much discernment to figure those ones out!

All this to say:

Sometimes the Holy Spirit blocks our way… even when something seems spiritual and good and right.

Maybe it’s not for now.

Maybe it’s someone else’s calling.

Maybe he’s protecting us.

Most likely, we won’t fully know on this side of heaven.

If the door is shut, it doesn’t always mean that we need to bang it down.

And if the call is clear and the obedience is swift, it doesn’t always mean that things will go smoothly.

Maybe there will be beatings and unfair judgment.

Maybe it will feel like the earth is shifting under our feet.

It doesn’t mean that we misheard.

Or that we are doing something wrong.

Maybe we’re planting seeds that will sprout tomorrow. Or long in the future.

Maybe our prayers and worship in impossible situations will cause someone to ask what they must do to be saved. (Acts 16:25-29).

Maybe our story will be just the encouragement that someone else needs. (Acts 16:40).

Most likely, we won’t fully know on this side of heaven.

If the door is open, it doesn’t always mean that the journey will be easy.

But, friends, we have the same power that raised Jesus living inside of us. Ready to unleash his power when we call on him. Ready to comfort, to speak wisdom, to advocate, to bear witness to the truth of the gospel. And sometimes to keep us from heading where we think we’re supposed to go.

On Mothering

I grew up with the best mom ever.

The mom who put on her swimsuit and took her kids out to play in the rain.

The mom who hauled giant snowballs up apartment steps so we could have a snowman on our deck.

The mom who hatched chicks on our kitchen floor and baked a cake when I got a D in calculus because I was always too hard on myself anyway.

The mom who took her church girls to sit at the bedside of a friend dying of AIDS because this too is love. This too is part of life.

The mom who told me a million times that I was beautiful and strong and smart and could do anything in this world that I chose to do. So many times, in fact, that I actually believed her.

The mom who wrapped up a bunch of tiny advent gifts for me in college and when she dropped them off, she had brought enough for my roommate too.

The mom who drove her twenty year old daughter to spend a year in “the most dangerous city in America” because we both absolutely knew I was supposed to be there.

The mom who spent long nights learning how to care for my daughter’s coily hair so that my girl would have a fresh style each week.

The mom who bathed my infant son in the kitchen sink and fell hard for him before either of us knew it was forever.

Nurturing is in her blood. Motherhood seems to fit her perfectly. She is mother to many– not just to my sister and I, but to anyone who needs to be mothered for a season. And I love her for all of it.

It doesn’t feel instinctual to me, but in the last year or so, I have also found deep joy in the practice of mothering. Of paying attention to the ones in my life who need “kind and protective care” (this, google tells me, is the definition of mothering). I’ve known, of course, that a biological connection isn’t a prerequisite for mothering. I love my children more than life and know with certainty that there is no way that I could possibly love a child born from my body any more. But mothering is bigger than this too.

It’s different from the “unconditional positive regard” that teachers have for our students. It’s different from the respect and professionalism that we extend to our coworkers. It’s different from the casual hellos and polite conversations that we have with young adults at church.

It’s a different kind of looking… a heart searching for another heart that craves encouragement and affirmation, someone to have their back, and sometimes a snack or hug or the gentle nagging to make a doctor’s appointment and for the love of God to stop texting and driving. It’s the practice of whispering blessings over your sleeping teenager and rocking your big kid like a baby when he runs through the door screaming.

It’s hard to wrap up in words, but for me mothering is entwined with intuition and discernment and prayer. And, friends, these are things that we can practice. We can slow down enough to hear that still small voice. We can look past what the world sees and listen hard for hearts that need our kind and protective care. And we can lean into the relational nature of prayer. Bringing our people to Jesus and Jesus to our people. Fighting for them on our knees. Asking how we can pray and doing it right then and there.  And a thousand times later too, as they come to mind.

Friends, this practice of mothering is filling my soul in this season. It’s taken me by surprise a little- I was not the girl who always dreamed of being a mom. I’ve had to stretch out the idea of nurture to make it feel comfortable enough to fit. But I’ve found this mothering to be a sacred practice. One that brings deep meaning and contentment that still catches me off guard sometimes. It’s come into my life in all kinds of ways. And I am here for it.

We all need mothering sometimes- even those of us with the best moms ever.  And for those of us who practice it- no matter who we are or what our “actual” title is- this day is for us. Happy Mother’s Day, friends!

Anticipation

I’ve been feeling lately like something is brewing. Like God’s people are hungry. Seeking. And ready to step hard into Jesus’ power and calling on our lives. I look around and believe that ears are being opened and hearts are being inclined to know the love and hear the truth of Jesus. 

I’m trying to wrap my mind around the idea that the same power that resurrected Jesus rests on my life. On our lives. My heart is beating loud to bring freedom to captives and recovery of sight to the blind. To release the oppressed and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

I learned recently that Jehovah Jireh means not just “provider,” but “the God who sees ahead and provides.” The One who went ahead of us and provided a sacrifice, a way out, through the death and resurrection of his Son. The One who already knows what’s coming and has gone ahead to provide. Enough love. Enough courage. Enough faith. Enough wisdom.

What you’re asking for isn’t big enough.

These words have flittered on the edge of my heart and mind for weeks now. I’m not sure how to ask bigger.

And so it is that I walk into my first experience of flowering the cross. I love the beauty. The symbolism. The equal ground at the foot of the cross. I share this sacred moment with a toddler… joyfully stabbing colorful blooms into any empty space he can find.

But it’s the forsythia that I bring to celebrate our Savior- the One who sees ahead and provides. First one stem, then, when we’re invited back for seconds, more and more and more. So many. Each branch a heartbeat of expectation. Each stem a promise to anticipate. To hold my breath. To believe and ask for things, bigger and bigger.

I don’t know what’s coming. But one thing I do know. I know Jehovah Jireh. I know the One who sees ahead and provides.

***

Will you wait with me in anticipation, friends? Will you pay attention this week and reach out to someone who comes to mind? Will you ask a friend or coworker how you can pray for them? Will you speak a word of blessing and encouragement over someone’s life? Will you let me know how you are asking big so that I can ask with you? Will you ask Jesus to unleash his power and expect that he will do it? He’s ready, friends. He’s so ready. Are you?

A Little Prayer Circle

Y’all, I love small group prayer.
It’s a little weird, I think.
Because icebreakers and small talk make me want to run.
But give me a little prayer circle (even with people I don’t know well) where we are talking to Jesus instead of each other, and it’s a different story.
And so it is that I find myself plugging my kid into technology after grabbing him from his class so that I can spend fifteen minutes praying with virtual strangers (plus my pastor– he’s cool). I lap them up like water, these moments. I cannot get enough.

Tucked into this little circle, I am reminded today of Romans 4:2.
It’s your kindness that leads us to repentance.

I’ve been thinking lately of how harsh some of our conversations with each other can be. How we’re quick to judge. How even when we’re sharing truth, it sometimes seems to sprout from duty or fear instead of love.
Here’s the thing, friends. Very few of us need to be reminded that we are sinners.
We know.

We’re not drawn to Jesus because his people tell us that we’re a hot mess.
Or terrify us with stories of eternal fire.
We’re drawn to Jesus because of his love.
And, most often, that means that we’re drawn to Jesus because we see the way that his people love.
Love each other.
Love us.
Love long and without judgment.

Love with chrēstotēs (you know I love my Hebrew/Greek keyword Bible)
The kindness, the grace that pervades the whole nature, mellowing all which would have been harsh and austere.
It doesn’t water down the consequences of sin, though it may well keep its mouth shut and leave that part to God.
It just lets grace pervade its whole nature, rubbing smooth the sharp edges of harshness and legalism.
This, friends, is the kindness that leads to repentance. To mind change and heart change and life change.
It’s the kindness that we’re praying will invade the lives of our dear ones this morning, tucked into this little circle. The kindness that will draw them to the true heart of God, the tender Father running toward them with arms open.
It’s the kindness that we’re praying will pervade our nature too, so that our people aren’t tripped up by our rules or judgement on their way to Jesus.

It matters

Out of the depths I cry to You

In darkest places I will call

It sounds cliche, I think. To say that a pillar of my life crumbled when my dad died. The world kept spinning and I emerged, exhausted, into the dusty disorientation of grief.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve known a few things for sure. And one of them is that the fight for justice is a holy one. That devoting myself to working for God’s kingdom to come on earth matters.

And so, the questions were hard. Not really “Why would God let this happen?” But “Does this work still matter when everything feels so unfair?”

I yelled at God a little, but mostly ignored him. I truly thought the isolation of covid plus this unmooring might mean the deconstruction of my faith. And so I choked on the dust, stumbling awkwardly, and tried hard to hear that it mattered.

Incline Your ear to me anew

And hear my cry for mercy Lord

I wanted it to matter. I wanted to feel normal- like my passion hadn’t been misplaced, wasted. But it was so, so quiet.

And then Jesus spoke from two seats away. We were huddled together, adoptive parents with different stories, holding each other’s  brokenness and soaking up each other’s wisdom.

He read from Matthew 19 and my breath caught in my throat. That’s you, he said to our ragtag little assembly. It’s hard. So hard. But what you are doing matters.

Something in me broke open with those words. And in this week away from everything normal, I felt loved by Jesus in a way that I hadn’t for almost two years.

And so we carry on. Though everything still feels so unfair. I know that if my dad would have lived for 20 or 30 more years, he would have done a lot more good for a lot more people. That still makes me mad. 

But I know too that our faithful God hears my cries for mercy in my barrenness. And I know for sure that even though it’s hard, so hard.

It still matters.

Where I’m from

I am from corned beef and poutine.

From the smells of fresh blackberries and clorox.

From the sounds of hymns and sizzling bacon.

I am from bitter chill and humid fog.

From lacy dress socks and patent leather.

I am from shamrocks and maple leaves.

From sliding on the ice and playing in the rain.

I am from intense thinkers and diligent workers who remind me that smart is cool and that taking care of people matters.

I am a Hicks and I am proud of our story.

Power in the showing up

Without fail, it is a struggle to get here.

Somehow, Sunday is the only day we all want to sleep late. It is too hot, too cold, too rainy. The ice on the car is too thick, the socks are too scratchy and somehow we’re almost out of milk so we fight over who gets to have cereal. Again. Our classes are boring, we have nothing to wear and wait… please go find your other shoe.

And so, it is no small victory that we settle into the back row and catch our breath. I read just this morning that in hard times, we fall back on old habits… the ones that don’t require thinking. Perhaps this is a vestige of my little girl faith that loved those metallic attendance stars, standing proud in an unbroken line. It is Sunday. We go to church.

And if our brave new world has taught me anything, it’s that there is power in the showing up. No, the church is not a building. Yes, God is still at work from six feet and a computer screen away. But being here, together, it’s just different.

Grief feels like all of my insides have been scraped raw. I cover them up and try to let them heal a bit, but then they start itching and I dare to look and they are still. so. raw.

I want a timeline. A flow chart. Some sort of steady progression. Not this stupid anger that flares up and flashes hot again and again.

But here we are. Again. I hum because I cannot bring myself to sing the words today.

While I wait, I will worship

Lord, I’ll worship Your name.

While I wait, I will trust You

Lord, I’ll trust You all the same.

I close my eyes because I cannot lift my hands to say yes. Not even in faith. Not today.

But, friends, I hear you all around me, singing. Your voices rise in the messy melody that carries me today. That worships for me in the waiting. That trusts when I am just too tired. I know I will raise my voice again. I’m not “losing my faith,” just learning that though God never changes, my understanding and experiences of him most certainly can.

I have always loved Jesus. I have a tumultuous relationship with his people. But today? Today I know that I am home. Today I know in my bones that, even with my insides scraped raw, even with anger that flashes hot and burns behind my eyes, there is power here. Power in the showing up.