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.

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?

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.

Holy Ground

I miss it sometimes,

The shiny-smooth faith of my youth.

Heady with the experience of a near-audible voice, I knew I was God’s and that I was on mission for him.

Everything felt so clear back then.

I prayed for my classmates’ salvation with fiery confidence.

I polished my two-minute elevator pitch for Jesus and wasn’t above invoking a little fire and brimstone when it felt right.

I did my best to avoid every appearance of evil.

Like U2. And spaghetti straps. (A post for another day, my friends… a post for another day.)

It was real, this faith.

And if you asked me then, I would have said with confidence that I knew God as good and faithful.

Because I did.

All my life You have been faithful.

All my life You have been so, so good.

With every breath that I am able,

I will sing of the goodness of God.

I sing these words with gusto this morning, but not with the shiny-smooth faith of my youth. And when I look around, I see the faces and hearts of dear ones with the same kind of well-worn, dog-eared faith. 

The kind of faith that has bumped up against pain and fear and great, unspeakable loss. The sharp points have been rounded, polished by wrestling with real doubts and learning that it’s ok to grow. To know better and do better. To apologize when we realize that we’ve used our elevator pitches for Jesus as weapons.

This faith is not better than the shiny-smooth faith of my youth.

It’s just different.

It’s a faith that has withstood the storms of life and held steady.

It’s holy ground, this.

This messy group of people in various stages of hurt and healing.

Who disagree about a lot of things and choose to keep talking, keep thinking, keep listening to understand.

As we bring our faith… shiny-smooth, well-worn and everything in between

And sing

All my life You have been faithful.

All my life You have been so, so good.

With every breath that I am able,

I will sing of the goodness of God.

Holy ground.

On triggers and grief

Mama, come!

His words sound urgent, but they always do. His mind is in constant motion, so I have no idea what he wants to show me today.

All I know is that we are awake before the sun.

Lights flash outside the window of his newly painted room. An ambulance.

Mama, it’s Ms. Emma!*

My boy has just watched our neighbor be wheeled out of her house on a stretcher.

We’ve been worried about her for a while… trying not to be nosy as we watched her go from feisty independence to the whatever comes next that comes along with hanging around on earth for a long time.

And, for a moment, I cannot anymore. I have to hide under my heaviest blanket for a few minutes. To catch my breath and slow my pulse before I can do anything else.

It’s not the flashing lights that trigger me. He spent his last days at home.

It must be the urgency. The helplessness. The panic of oh, Jesus, no. 

Don’t make my kids see this, feel this.

Don’t make me! No!

It’s been five months since my dad died.

My mom, sister, aunt, uncle and I circled the wagons those last weeks.

Looking back, I am certain that what we did was right.

Watching it, living it through sleepless nights was also traumatic.

At first I shrunk from this word. But it is the right one. The precise one.

Another day I will write about the village that rose to support our family during those horrific weeks. But today, I want to speak how I feel.

Friends, I feel like all of my insides have been scooped out and the exposed skin has been left raw.

I can dissociate, of course. My delightful foray into trauma informed parenting has taught me all about this one. And some days, some moments, it is the best I can do. I curl into denial. Or flash hot into anger.

But in my quest to let myself feel my feelings, most often I hobble around, favoring my raw insides like I would a bum leg. Looking mostly ok. Trying not to complain. Walking tentatively, gingerly. The pain is tolerable until it bumps up against something too familiar. A word. A song. A picture. A memory. An idea. And then I am undone. My raw insides have been pricked and I am not ok.

I hate this for all of us.

For my mom– who lost her true love and safe place of 43 years.

For my big girl– who had to think about wedding dances at 14, whose heart had to process another loss, another leaving too soon.

For my little one– who will never get to show his Papa the fullness of who he is becoming. Who hopes, still, to make him proud.

And for me.

I hate this for me too.

And so.

I lean hard into the God who is near to the broken-hearted.

I say yes to your offers of help even when they make me feel like a charity case.

I crawl out from under my heaviest blanket and will the sun to rise after a night of soaking rain.

And I drag my grumpy little family to church and breathe deep for a minute or two, filling my lungs with the air of just being.

I still my mind for a second and let it all be true.

That my insides have been scraped raw.

That none of us are really ok.

And that is good enough.

*not her real name

To the hidden ones

This goes out to the hidden ones.

To the faithful ones whose service is quiet and unassuming.

To the one who rises before the sun to brew coffee and check sound equipment.

To the one who turns on the lights

And the one who gives to pay the electric bill… not just to causes that involve pleading brown eyes.

To the one who prays as they arrange chairs six feet apart.

To the one who carefully checks tags to make sure that mamas and daddies feel safe leaving their most precious ones.

To the one who runs sound and (bless them), the ones who share space and set up the sound system every single week.

Just to take it down again.

To the one who rocks tinies and changes diapers.

And the one who soothes bigger ones who aren’t yet used to wearing masks.

And the one who includes, who holds the hand of another and notices when the lights are too bright and the music is too loud.

To the one who mulches flowerbeds and shovels snow.

And the one who scrubs toilets.

And the one who sweeps the floor and sanitizes every. single. toy.

To the one who notices when the toilet paper is running low and puts out another roll.

To the husbands and wives and children of the not-so-hidden ones

Who sacrifice their time and sleep and privacy for a calling not their own.

Dear ones, we may not see you.

But He does.

Your quiet, unassuming love matters.

You matter.

You hold the doors of the Kingdom open for mamas and daddies and tinies and bigger ones.

For those of us who hold it all together and for those of us who rush in late, unkempt.

For those of us here mostly for the free childcare. Or the coffee. Or the pretty girl. Or the social expectation.

For all of us, you hold the doors open wide, open for us to experience a Love that transforms.

Your quiet, unassuming love matters.

You matter.

So much, dear ones.

You matter so much.

Thank you.