You're Not Even My Real Mom

"I hate living here," he shouted through the bathroom door. "All you think about is YOU. And you're not even my REAL mom."

I knew this day would come. I remember talking about it with Rebekah, months after Ty was born. I was an emotional teenager once who didn't understand why my parents were bent on standing in my way or dousing my love-struck heart with buckets of ice water.

His words still felt like a punch to the heart and arrived a few years earlier than predicted.

He knows me better than any of his siblings. He's thoughtful and perceptive. He rubs my back when he feels tension and sits in the kitchen while I'm cooking, so I don't have to be alone.

He's almost nine and this year has brought more questions than any of the years before.

One notable change is his relationship with Rebekah.

For eight years, Ty loved Rebekah through me. We would talk and visit but his interaction with her was really an overflow from my friendship, not his. This year has been different. After too many low-battery sitter situations, we added a cell phone to our plan to act as our family house phone. Rebekah's number was one of six that we programmed in. Ty started his communication journey with misspelled text messages that ended with heart eyes and poop emojis, but over several months he grew into asking for regular phone call privileges.

At the dinner table, he'll fill us in on all the doings in Colorado and takes great pride in being the first to know. Here and there, I've had hits of sadness that have nothing to do with their conversations, but everything to do with his maturity and independence.

I can't help but think about how different our life would be if we had acted on our fear and distanced Rebekah from our hearts and life. I get teary thinking about it.

When Ty gets a perfect score on a math test and picks up the phone to share his news, my heart doubles in size. When he puts the phone back and tells me he's the luckiest kid on the planet for having two moms, I thank God for guiding us past boundaries.

It's not perfect, but nothing is.

Watching an eight year old process loss and long for people he doesn't see often enough is hard, but unloading eighteen years of pain in a single conversation would be harder.

Having multiple moms is messy business and we each have to work through the pain that passes through our part. While Ty grows into a story so much bigger than he is, there are going to be days of harsh words and accusing questions. Today, it was directed toward me, tomorrow it might be her.

We have to stand together as moms and remember where our confidence lies...certainly not within the capricious hearts of our self-serving children.

I have to fight failure monsters, knowing that many of Ty's outcries are fixed to time that's hard to give in a family of seven. Rebekah's monsters feed on guilt and make her wonder whether or not she deserves his attention at all.

However hairy it may be, we'll never stop wrestling for love. Love for God; love for each other; and love for a little boy that is still discovering both.

Love will win...in time.

Fight for Love

In looking back over my year, there is one question circulating my mind and it doesn't have anything to do with my house or money or body weight.

With what measure did I love?

Fourteen months ago, God violently shook our hearts and asked us to step outside of our plan and bring home baby number five. Only weeks into sleep deprivation and complete chaos, God pulled me in further and asked me to show up for Sweet Mama. This wasn't a gentle calling that lead to a casual check-in. It was more of a walk-into-her-room-and-scatter-the-darkness type of event.

After 30ish years of walking with the Lord, I can boast in my direction following. I wouldn't say that I always see the world through a kingdom lens or that my natural frustrations don't blur the clarity, but when it comes to Sweet Mama, somewhere along the way, God swapped my heart for his, and loving her became instinct. But not easy.

It wouldn't be fair to measure my love for my kids, or my husband, or my closest people. That's too obvious; predictable. Loving them takes very little effort.

The true measurement of love is found in messy relationships with obscure boundaries and complicated outcomes. Sometimes those relationships exist within our families and friendships, but more often they surface, suddenly, in the catastrophes of life. Because these experiences are marked with pain, bias, and inequality, it's easy for justice to strangle our love. We must fight for love.

I have been wrestling God over my relationship with Sweet Mama. He asks for more than I want to give and he never lets me settle within boundaries that make me feel safe. Sweet Mama is a fighter by nature and rules her life with aggression and manipulation.She takes more than she gives and rarely acknowledges our part in her story. It would be easy to cut off our connection and most would find it reasonable - maybe even necessary.

A few weeks ago, Sweet Mama started a social campaign to take her kids back and used pictures I had sent her. In my humanness, I was enraged. For several hours, I let myself think on my own and to those closest to me I ranted. It wasn't her intended threat that angered me (our adoptions are final and legal), it was her disregard for my heart and theirs. To no one in particular, I raised my fist and listed all the ways I had gone beyond. I relived the atrocities she committed and made sure to emphasize words like MY KIDS and MY FAMILY.

Earthly wisdom encouraged me to close accounts, inform police, and take precautions, but thankfully the whisper of the Holy Spirit held more authority. Even in my fury, I knew the answer. She needed love more than ever. Her brokenness leaves her desperate, grasping for pieces she will never be able to put together on her own. I let my frustrations rest and after a few days, let God use me to administer healing to her heart. In the beginning of our conversation, her walls were very dark. Her words were ugly and harsh, but mine were soft and kind. When she spewed, I listened. Twice, I wanted to walk the other way; twice, God, gently, nudged me back. I listened; she cried. And then we broke through.

It took both patience and time for the window of her heart to open long enough for me to slip through. It wasn't as grisly as she let on, but it was full of dents and craters. Family, life, people, men - they've all let her down. The knee-jerk Christian response to this dilemma is to vocalize God's all encompassing, redeeming love...but then walk away.

That isn't gospel. That isn't love.

God uses us to reveal himself to others, but if we refuse to view people the way he does, we will never make impact. On the contrary, when we ignore our impulses and let the love of God turn our hearts toward others, that is where the supernatural magic happens.

Adoption is Ugly

We had the rare privilege of sharing our weekend with Ty's first mama, Rebekah. Our last few visits have been in Colorado, which means this was the first time Rebekah had met all of our kids! Having her in our home at our dinner table made the world right, again. The first few hours, Ty couldn't stop talking. He wanted to share his whole world. Between writing samples and yo-yo tricks, he would ask, "What's your favorite color?" and "How long did we live together?"

My heart soared the heavens watching Ty's love explode at having both of his mamas in one place. I had to push tears to deep places as our conversations traveled varied depths. Apart from the distance, we would say our relationship is ideal. Our love is genuine, our connection runs deep.

But.

The treasure we find in each other came at such a high cost. So high, that it will never be paid in full. Listening to my friend -  my sister - share her heart and the loss that tugs at its corners was almost too much to hear, but it's critical for our relationship. I'm not about meaningless friendships. The real nuggets of gold are unearthed in hard, rocky places and we can't be afraid to visit them.

While my path to adoption was marked with loss, the pain was dulled the first time I held Tyrus in my arms and obliterated by the time I rocked Hunter. I haven't forgotten the start of our story and, easily, slip into the darkness with other friends walking it, but it's not a reality I live with every day. Eight years ago, I begged God to let me mother one...and, today, there are five little people around my table asking for breakfast - simultaneously; at high volumes. That's my reality.

Rebekah's path is different. She gave what most women couldn't and while adoption is packaged pretty and our photos look nice, the violent tearing of Rebekah's heart is kept hidden. Only those that dare to ask, hear the truth. There is not a bandage big enough to cover the hole. She watches another woman mother her son.

As the other woman, I listen to her heart and acknowledge the pain to which there is no cure. The best we can be is honest and share our son without fear, arrogance, or distrust.

As the three of us drove to the airport, Ty and Rebekah sat side-by-side, fitting a year's worth of questions in one sitting. I fought tears when I looked in the mirror and saw Ty fighting them, too. Rebekah shared a lesson with him about anchors and how powerful they are when buried in our heavenly Father. Then she gave him a little anchor keepsake to remember all that she had said. When I told him it was okay to be sad, he sobbed and Rebekah held him. I barely got through a prayer of safe travels before we got out of the car and by the time we stood together on the sidewalk we were a hot mess.

Anyone witnessing the scene would have been teary over the untamed weeping of a seven year old boy, but had they known the truth, we would have been an internet sensation for sure. This was the first goodbye that Rebekah's pain echoed through her son's. I thought he was going to be sick. I'm not sure how long we stood there or how many goodbyes were said, but Ty was in the car ready to buckle and jumped out before I could shut the door, screaming for Rebekah to come back.

We both knelt down and circled him tight. Our words and tears covering our huddle; I'm not even sure who said what, but we told him how supremely special he is. That he has two mothers whose love for him is only second to God's. Rebekah and I, hurriedly, exchanged love, both afraid to look at each other, and Ty cried most of the way home.

As soon as we walked in the house, he ran to Ben and the tears came again. We held him together and let him cry it out. We didn't bother with words.

Adoption is beautiful and redeeming and an ever-reflection of God's love for us, but not tonight. Tonight it's ugly, unfair, and unnatural.

Muting the Sigh

God has been kneading my heart over the last few weeks, stretching and pulling, bringing the knotted, ugly pieces of me to the surface.

I have been wrestling with my apathetic feelings toward Sweet Mama, lately, and arrogance has crept in. The reel of mind conversation loops unkind, but genuine words.

I’ve done enough.

No one else would go this far.

She’ll be pregnant again in four months.

I am done with her; I am done with this.

I don’t care.

We have continued to email back-and-forth from prison. I stick to talking about the kids, because it’s the only conversation that doesn’t frustrate my love for her. Mama will be released in a few short months and her plans are not life-giving. She’s going back. To him. To the familiar. To the only life she knows.

Her resolve is to do better, but she doesn’t see the holes of her plan.

She called me, this week, and in a very abrupt, I-think-I-can-intimidate-you way, asked, “So how is this going to work with my kids when I get out?”

I wanted to slam the phone down and erase her from my memory. I’m pretty sure she has mistaken my kindness for weakness and thinks that somehow, in the end, we’ll co-raise her children together.

I tried a rational approach and expressed my hope that one day she would have a strong, healthy relationship with her kids, but walked her through some of Cisco’s traumatic experiences over the last two years in hopes that she would understand why he’s not ready for a relationship, now.

She didn’t see it.

I did more listening than talking and she released the selfish folds of her heart. Her love for her kids is true and real, but it’s tangled in her childlike focus on what she wants. Her experiences limit her abilities. She has probably never felt the depths of a mother’s love. Never felt sacrifice or cheering or mama bear protection. If she’s never seen it modeled, how is she to know?

We got off the phone and I was angry. I was angry that Sweet Mama couldn’t understand the fragility of Cisco’s heart or the inappropriateness of bringing one of the babies with me on a prison visit. She doesn’t see her relationship with me as a gift and seems to lack social awareness of not only how her words might affect my feelings, but also the usual practice, here.

I spewed my frustration to Ben and in effort to avoid apologies later, I set our conversation and friendship aside for a few days. I didn’t answer her follow-up phone calls or emails.

Instead I prayed.

I prayed for wisdom and asked God for fresh perspective.

His answer came in Galatians 6:9.

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve given up on Sweet Mama – because it’s genuine. This path I’m navigating is not worn with travelers. It’s not usual, natural, or easy. I have to check my emotions at every turn and, continually, ask for a new supply of patience. I am not a born quitter, but the complexities of this challenge have worn me. When it comes down to it, my love for my kids is so much greater than my love for their mother.

But, my love for God is so much greater than my love for all else.

It’s no wonder my spirit is split.

I’ve been chewing on these words for days – do not become weary in doing good – do not become weary in doing good. Do not give up. Do not give up. Do not give up.

This morning, my reading was in Ephesians and I found the comfort I needed to right this flip-flop.

For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good…

I was CREATED to do good.

And I agreed to love like Jesus when I said yes to him and yes to Sweet Mama.

I have to push forward. I have to continue to step well outside natural boundaries. I have to love this woman that is so difficult to love...because it’s in me.

The Jesus in me will erase my disgust, mute the sighs, and try again, today.

I was in Prison and You Came to Visit Me

Over the last several weeks, I have had many well-intended people question my decision to visit Sweet Mama in prison. I know the concern is for the protection of our family. I understand their unease. I, too, have sought the Lord multiple times, this week.

How did we get, here?!?!

With each question, the Holy Spirit would answer with Matthew 25:35-36.

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.

My friend and I made the long drive together. She gripped my hand, tightly, and prayed for God's presence, before I walked in. I didn't have the slightest bubble of nerves.

I had to wait in a holding room for two hours before I could see her. I didn't have my phone or a book. I just sat there and prayed. I listened to the sad stories around me. There were many family members visiting prisoners that day and the mood was heavy.

The air was so thick, I pushed through tears, all afternoon. 

I had called the facility earlier to make sure I would be able to see her after making the long drive. The officer on duty said, "You must be Rebekah? You're the only person on her list."

Those few words broke my heart and set the tone for the hours before our visit.

I made eye contact with her from across the room while I was stopped at the third security station. When I passed the final inspection, I nearly ran to her and grabbed her as tight as I could. She sobbed and hugged me back with all her strength.

She kept apologizing for her tears, but I told her I wasn't in a hurry. She could cry for as long as she needed. She asked me a hundred questions in rapid succession. We started with Cisco and exhausted every topic on all three kids. I was happy to share our life with her, as I can only imagine the loneliness that eats through her days.

She asked me if it was hard to say yes to bringing home another baby when the agency called about Baby Brother. I only know how to be genuine, so I shared my heart and the emotions that came before our "yes".

She interrupted me halfway through and said, "I'm glad you brought this up." 

I didn't.

"This is what I have been wanting to talk to you about."

I braced myself for one of the many questions Ben and I imagined she would ask.

"I would like to have him back...what I mean to say is, I am going to fight to take him back."

[Silence]

I was shocked speechless. We, literally, sat staring at each other for a minute without a word. 

When my life - turned TV movie - started playing, again, a thousand thoughts rushed through my head. I am a confident girl who is not afraid of silence - uncomfortable or otherwise. So, I just sat there. I really didn't know what to say. Mama started in about the attorney she is meeting with, her hopes for a strong case, the brokenness in her heart, and the guilt she fights.

I never took my eyes from her.

After her ten minute monologue she looked at my face and said, "How does this make you feel?"

It took everything in me not to laugh. The humor was not in the seriousness of the conversation. I had to push down the giggles because of all the many questions Ben and I prayed and prepared answers for, THIS WAS NOT ONE OF THEM.

I took a breath and very lovingly and kindly said this. "My mama heart understands exactly why you want to do this and even respects your desire to fight. But, I am his mother, too. And as hard as you are going to fight, I am going to fight harder. Your kids have experienced trauma, but they find security in each other. If you saw the love that exists between them - the rolling, belly laughs that only Edie can get from Baby Brother - you would never try to pursue this."

Tears started streaming her face.

"You asked me to always be honest with you, even if the truth would hurt your heart. Baby Brother's adoption will be final in a few weeks. There is nothing you are going to be able to say or do to have the judge reverse his decision. If you follow your heart on this, you are only giving yourself false hope and I don't want to see you even more devastated on the other side."

I took her through the judge's instructions at the end of the termination trial to help her remember that her decision was irrevocable. That she agreed she was not impaired or coerced in any way to sign over her rights. I asked her if she remembered when the judge told her that "changing your mind" is not grounds for an appeal and that the time for filing an appeal has long since lapsed.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. I just sat, quietly, and waited.

After several minutes, she calmed. With puffy eyes, she said, "Okay. I won't fight. Hearing you say that you would fight harder, reminds me that you love him as much as I do. I won't fight. You can be his mom."

Looking back, I understand that this is EXACTLY the scenario that keeps adoptive parents bound to fear. But, if I gave in to all of the [completely] rational fears I have had over the last several years, I would have limited God's ability to move in my life. I, certainly, wouldn't be mother to five, and I would have been settling for a pretty mediocre supply of blessing.

I want to live in overflow - every day.

There was absolutely a part of me that wanted to get up from our meeting, walk out on Sweet Mama, and never look back. It would be easy (and justifiable) to convince myself that she is not worth the energy.

But....if I had done that....how would I reconcile Matthew 25? How would I make an account that the Lord asked me to go to him in prison, but I was too uncomfortable?

Our [admittedly] crazy conversation strengthened our friendship. If I had turned my back on Mama, I would have missed my reward. I wouldn't have been able to offer her hope or stomp on the lies of the enemy or hear her parting words, when we hugged:

"Thank you....Thank you for being the only person that treats me like a human being."

I hope this challenges you to increase the depth of your love.

Shove your fears into a closest.
Pray for wisdom.
And invite someone in.

Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers or sisters of mine, you did for me.

 - Jesus

Preparing for Prison

Stand Firm.
Let nothing move you. 
Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord 
because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.

[I Corinthians 15:58]

This week, I committed to spending concentrated time in prayer and reading my Bible. On Friday, I will be visiting Sweet Mama in prison for the first time. The closest I've ever been to prison is a juvenile detention center that I used to visit to lead a young women's bible study. I don't expect this visit to be anything like that.

Given her security level, we will be able to speak face to face, but the list of visiting rules is long. I got the shakes reading them because...well... I am a rule follower and will certainly forget that hand touching isn't allowed when tears are trailing her cheeks.

Recently, I gave Sweet Mama my phone number and accepted her call for the first time a few days ago. I happened to be putting Edie to bed, so I switched the phone to speaker when we picked up. As soon as I said, "hello", I could hear the longing in her voice. She is desperate for friendship and desires so much more than I can give. Edie assumed it was Ben on the other side and, immediately, started chatting about her favorite jammies and snuggling her bunny.

I heard the awe before she broke to tears, "Is that...?"

"Yes! We're both, here. I was just putting Edie to bed." I tried to keep it light, "Isn't she a little chatter box?"

Sweet Mama only muffled sniffs. I let Edie talk and listened to Mama cry.

Before our time ran out, I told her that I would be visiting on Friday. The phone went dead before we could say goodbye.

The weight in my heart is not loaded by guilt or charity, but rather genuine compassion. The only difference between the two of us are the families we were born to. Without radical intervention, she doesn't have a fighting chance for a better life. Her world is too narrow and bound by love for a man that has brought her to ruin. 

I fill pages with Truth and encourage her to think big, yet her only dream is to "get out" and find him.

My commitment to prayer, this week, is in effort to squash the natural negatives that flow through my heart and to remember that love always hopes. Every time. In every situation.

Most of my nerves stem from the questions I know are coming. For weeks, Mama has been telling me that she has a few important "things" to discuss with me, but that she must do it in person.

I trust that God will give me the answers when needed, but Ben and I have been discussing one question at length. I am certain she will ask if she can see her kids, again. In prison or otherwise.

I am concerned for her heart after I share mine. Although my kindness may point to wide-open rainbows and ever-after castles of friendship, I am also a protective mama. And happen to be raising traumatized babies. Genuinely, my hope is that one day she and Cisco will both be in healthy, secure places, where a meaningful relationship can really blossom. But we're not there, today. 

After two years, we have finally tipped the scale in the slightest margin and are starting to see real victories with Cisco. Every week, I see new slivers of trust that allow him to inch his toes across the attachment line. I DREAM of the day, he jumps that divider and runs full force into our love. 

Mingling his fragile heart and Sweet Mama's irregular stability is a disaster that we're not willing to risk. And I know that will break her heart. 

I have also discerned an important perception through her last several letters. Sweet Mama questions God for the atrocities she's faced and hates that drugs ravaged her life. But sadly, her reflections are self-focused. She doesn't make the connection that drugs didn't just alter HER life, but nearly broke three little spirits, too. 

My prayer is that I will be able to share difficult truth with her, even though it will be painful to deliver and hear. If she doesn't make the connection between her choices and her kids' sacrifices, she might not ever break the cycle.

Friends, pray for me. 

I am desperate for wisdom as the light and darkness of our worlds are about to collide.

More Than Enough

"Mom. I've been looking at this trophy and thinking...do you think we could get a marker and write Pinchback over my old name?"

Before I could answer, Ty piped in, "Francisco. I don't think it's necessary to do that. This trophy is a reminder of who you used to be. You won it playing basketball as a [previous last name]. Just leave it."

I had to smile and sigh at the same time. Tyrus is more like me than I care to admit. Practicality has a tendency to block sympathy in both of us.

I dismissed Tyrus and told Francisco to bring his trophy closer. My heart filled as I wrote PINCHBACK in big block letters on his cheap-o plaque.

In a few weeks, he will have been with us for two years and the progress to family has been painstakingly slow. 

Three of our kids have really big personalities and another is a constant need-machine due to...well...being a baby. Francisco prefers to fade into the background and that's pretty easy to do around, here, with so much commotion. 

In the beginning of the school year, I was concerned that holding him in Kindergarten was giving him permission to regress. The first several weeks mirrored the last several. He couldn't name anyone in his class and was, purposely, choosing not to invest in relationships.

Everyone, including his teacher, kept encouraging us to just give him time.

Today, I was really struck by a theme.

God's love is always enough.

Every time it is whispered to my heart, fresh tears roll down my face.

Ben and I are purposeful in our love for Francisco and intentionally work at pulling him closer, but we've never been enough. We are exhausted most days and get more frustrated than we prefer. We miss opportunities all the time. We are every day people, striving for God's best, but in the failing moments find a measure of peace that our kids will have few memories of these days. We still have time to get it closer to right.

Despite the holes in our love, a miraculous transformation is in progress. Over the last three months, God has been wooing our tender-hearted, skittish boy and because his love IS enough, small pieces of Francisco's heart are not just peeking out, but remaining exposed.

Things that might make other parents smile, spark waterworks and praise in my heart. 

The first change was at school. Francisco announced that he had a friend. A friend who also happens to be one of five. His confidence continued to build when the rest of the class realized he knew most of his sight words and letters. On Ben's birthday, he was proud to talk about our family's birthday traditions with his teacher, and told me that he thought about chocolate cake all day. 

Right before break, he was sent 5 candy grams from classmates. My heart exploded.

He comes home from church and can re-tell the truths he learned.

He sticks up for himself when his brothers blame him for trouble.

When our knees touch on the couch, he doesn't move away.

His favorite  memory of 2015 was his adoption day.

Watching my sweet boy blossom has been such a lesson in faith for me. I get frustrated by the progress and some days wish that I could manipulate the time line and slap "redeemed" over his wounds, so that we can move on...which is, exactly, why my love isn't enough. It's not perfect or all-knowing. It doesn't operate with all the facts or with selfless ambition. 

What a relief to know that we don't have to have it together. God's love is everything. It's enough for me and it's enough for Francisco. His love is at work, when mine sleeps. His love whispers and pulls and moves Francisco at the right time, in the right moments, and earns genuine results.

And the best part is that God's love isn't exclusive. There is a young woman a couple hundred miles away, crying out for God's rescue. Her days are marked for her and the landscape only changes in her dreams where she can darken the light on the bars that hold her prisoner.

The more letters we exchange, the more conflicted I feel. The Jesus and mama in me tussle often over the direction that this is going. My defenses prickle; he nudges me past. I want to hold back; he asks for more.

I feel like I should be better at pride-swallowing, given the sequence of events that we've walked the last several years, but it still tastes bitter. I don't always want to give all of me. I don't always want to blaze an unknown trail.

But...then I get a nose-smashing, lip-touching kiss from my youngest six year old or see the magic dance behind his eyes when he tells a funny joke and I am, instantly, reminded that knowing him is worth sacrifice.

Whether I ever feel that for his mother or not doesn't matter. God's love is enough for her, too. And, right now, he is using me to show her what that means. Francisco's unfolding has been a timely backdrop. 

Sometimes love requires time and God asks us to remain steadfast while we wait.

"She Wants You"

Why I bother showing up to court on time, I'll never know. An hour went by - still no movement. I made small talk with Baby Brother's family, read some in my book, and listened to background chatter. To most people it was just another day.

I could hear the clanking of chains behind me before I saw her face. I turned, quickly, in hopes to catch her eyes and as soon as they met, tears streamed both our faces. She mouthed "thank you" a dozen times on her way to holding in the jury box. Everything in me wanted to run to her; squeeze her hand. I watched, helplessly, as formalities began. All I could do was meet her gaze and hope she saw love.

Sweet Mama held true to her letter. She stood firm with her rights and forced the case to begin trial. I don't ever want to experience it again. Words will never be able to convey the brutal reality of what happened. Baby Brother's guardian ad litem and attorney hammered her points until the case was nothing but a bloody carcass, wide open for disease and prey. Sweet Mama sobbed on the witness stand and I, barely, held it together. I, literally, stuffed emotion to my toes, willing for it not to come out in distracting heaves.

Given your history with Cisco and [Little Miss], do you really think, it's fair to make Baby Brother wait over a year for permanency?

She held tissues to her face and, quietly sobbed, "no."

If Judge grants you the time that you're asking for AGAIN, what is going to be different when you're released from prison?

She shook her head and shrugged.

I said, "What is going to be different???? Would you say you're OPTIMISTIC that your addiction will be cured? What support do you have? You come from a family of drug addicts - do you expect them to help you? Did they help support you in the past?"

Mama was lost in a sea of pain and panic. The questions came too fast.

The attorney was relentless. I kept waiting for defense to shout "Objection!" but he sat with his head down. He had given up long before we started.

As the questions pressed on, I let go of my heart and let it shatter to the polished floor. Someone pressed tissue in my hand and asked if I was okay. I shook my head.

"Are you, [Baby Brother's] best option, right now?"

I barely heard her whisper..."no."

"I would like to approach the bench."

White noise came on and the attorneys rushed forward. The judge called for recess and asked everyone, but Sweet Mama and security to exit the courtroom, so that she could have some moments of privacy with her attorney.

When we got to the hall, Baby Brother's attorney explained that they didn't want Sweet Mama to have to endure anymore. They recessed to try and convince her to sign over her rights, voluntarily. Apart from the obvious relief from ruthless questioning, a direct release helps Sweet Mama have some footing should she get pregnant, again.

I walked out in silence, I could barely breathe.

Her attorney burst through the doors and pointed at me, "She wants you."

I heard the clerk lock the door behind me and the security guard verified my identity. I walked over to my broken friend and put a hand on her knee. I didn't bother asking if it was allowed.

"Thank you for being such a wonderful mother," she hiccuped between cries, "You are the mother I always intended to be. I don't know what to do. What should I do? I mean... I know what I should do...but I need to fight."

Tears streamed down my face and I took her hands in  mine. "Baby...you need to fight for YOU. Until you fight for you, you're never going to be able to fight for your kids. I love your kids like my own and I will take care of them as my own. It's time to let go. And trust God that good will follow. Look at this time as an opportunity you've never had. You have two years in a place that is going to feed you every day and keep you warm and safe. Get your high school diploma; get clean. God is handing you a fresh beginning. You just have to take it."

I don't know how long we sat there crying; time was still.

After several moments of sniffling silence, she said, "How are you going to do it? It's so many kids!"

I laughed and cried some more. "I know...but we WILL do it because we love you and we love your kids."

She looked down and whispered..."They're your kids, too. Thank you for writing me. I loved the pictures of Cisco and his brothers. It's helping me get through. If I do this, you have to promise me that you won't let anyone take Baby Brother from you. If I can't be his mom, it has to be you. Do you promise?"

I can hardly see to type this...

I told her about the drawing Cisco made, last night, and let her know she could write to him any time. Her attorney interrupted and told her it was time to decide. I hugged her tight and prayed that she'd feel a surge of strength. She couldn't return the squeeze, but she wet my face with her tears and I thanked God for crossing our paths.

An hour later, court returned to session and the adoption representative was present with signed papers in hand. Sweet Mama cried through all of the Judge's questions as he made sure she was not coerced, paid, or under the influence. Every time she looked at me, I saw Little Miss. Their similarities are so striking, I know this day will haunt me every time I see my girl cry.

Sweet Mama was escorted from the courtroom. I managed a quick hand-squeeze as she walked by and told her not to give up. The door closed, firmly, and I wondered if I would ever see her, again.

Baby Brother's attorney walked the court through placement and adoption recommendations. She looked at me and told the judge in all her years of service she had never seen a foster parent express so much compassion. She told him about my letter to prison, my willingness to encourage her during the recess, and somehow had even picked up the story about Cisco's "I love you" picture.

The judge choked up and told me he has a daughter the same age as Mama. He expressed the heartbreak of her story, thanked me for keeping the siblings together, and noted how Mama's love never stood a chance to her addiction and the addiction that tears through the rest of her family. He explained how easy it is for the players in court to be desensitized to such mess and thanked me for showing kindness.

And then it was over.

On the way out, I asked what will happen if no one picks her up on the day she is released. A likely possibility as she is hours from everything familiar.

"Probably a halfway house."

I sat in my car and sobbed until my meter ran out.

Baby Brother comes home on Friday, but the excitement of our next chapter is dulled by the cost.

There was one moment of connection, where Sweet Mama, Foster Mama, and me were all wiping tears and I thought about the preciousness of Baby Brother. Three mothers representing his past, present, and future, sharing in the agony of his story.

That moment in time can never be replicated. The three of us will never meet, again.

And somehow the weight of that is almost too much to bear.

A Letter from Prison

She wrote back!

Going into trial tomorrow, I am so thankful for confirmation that Sweet Mama read my encouraging words. I will, likely, not be able to talk to her as she'll be escorted in chains.

I expect it to be a very difficult day, but I know she knows that I believe in her...and love her.

She opened her letter like this:

Dear Rebekah,

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you so much. You are the best. I can tell Cisco and [Little Miss] are really happy. Thank you for taking such good care of them. I am so happy my kids got you as a mom. I hope you still tell them I love them and miss them...

I have re-read those words a hundred times already. The middle section of her note talked about her court cases, what she's hoping for, and her plans to fight to the end for Baby Brother tomorrow.

As much as I don't want to be witness to a horrific emotional battle, when she realizes it's too late...I understand her fight. I respect it.

Her letter was written from a clear perspective. She talked about working toward her GED, the parenting classes she's in, and the boot camp program she applied for. I prayed through every word, asking God to guide this new, fragile friendship.

Sweet Mama's closing words are haunting.

Thank you for the pictures, I really needed them. Can you plz send more and tell me more about them? I am not a bad person. I really do love them.

Such a jolt to my heart.

At dinner, I told Cisco that his mom wrote back to me, today. I told him many of the things she wrote about and when I was done, he said, "Could I draw her a picture for you to send?"

He started with a huge full-sized paper heart and wrote along the edges, "I love you". Ty asked when I was going to write again and after a few minutes, said, "Mom, maybe when she gets out of jail and is making good choices, again, she could come over for a sleepover. You know, to get to know us?"

I squeezed them so hard for their thoughtfulness.

Cisco's story is a dark monster that could have swallowed him whole if we fed it. Instead, we allowed the light of God to scatter the night and through love, show him how to live open and kind and full of mercy.

I am moved by his unfiltered compassion for a woman who hurt him in so many ways. That is Jesus with skin on - right here at my kitchen table - leaning over a scribbled drawing of hearts and paw prints.

I know this is only the beginning.

Our story just keeps getting better and richer and more lovely.

Walk Into Her Room

Dear Sweet Mama,
I know it’s been a long time since we’ve talked, but I hope it’s okay to write to you. I was in the courtroom, last week, even though we couldn't see each other, and will be there, again, in a couple of weeks. Even though I probably won’t be able to squeeze your hand or give you an update on your kids, I want you to know that I am there. I have so much love in my heart for you and never stop praying that you will feel God’s presence in your time of darkness and that you would know your worth...

I addressed my first letter to the women's prison that houses the mama to three of my babies.

Over the last 18 months, Sweet Mama has been in and out of jail more times than I can count. Several months ago I called the county jail to see what I needed to do to see/write to her. Unfortunately, the restrictions were such that we couldn't communicate without me revealing a lot of personal information that I just wasn't comfortable giving. The permanency of prison, makes letter writing much easier and gives me the freedom to just sign my first name to my letters.

We've been singing a (new to us) song at church, called When You Walk into the Room. The writer is (clearly) speaking of Jesus, but last week, Ben said to me, "That song is so powerful. I feel like we're singing about us and the light our lives are supposed to shine."

All week his thoughts and these lyrics have been the background to the turbulent terms of my heart. Birth mom. Foster mom. Baby Brother.

When You walk into the room
Everything changes
Darkness starts to tremble
At the light that you bring
When you walk into the room
Sickness starts to vanish
Every hopeless situation ceases to exist
And when you walk into the room
The dead begin to rise
'Cause there is resurrection life
In all you do

Two nights after the postponed trial, I laid in bed humming, When you walk into the room...every hopeless situation ceases to exist... The Holy Spirit prompted my heart, "You care for my daughter, when no one else does. Walk into her room."

I sat up and started writing. I opened and closed my letter with personal encouragement, but mostly shared every detail that a mama's heart hangs on...I told her all about her kids. Because the darkness is not dark to Him, I typed out Psalm 139 and sandwiched it between my words and pictures.

For now, I am using the agency as a protective layer. I included a self addressed and stamped envelope with paper in hopes that she'll write back, but my letters won't be contingent on hers.

This isn't just an adoption story because God's care doesn't stop at Baby Brother or our family.

He redeems ALL things and whispers good to the most gruesome detail.

Live open. Heart and hands. Say, yes, every time he calls.

You might find yourself in a garden once hidden.

She Loved a Little Boy

The drive into town always fills my heart with home. It's more than nostalgia.

I remember the hallway I feigned courage in, moments before Rebekah opened the door to our lives for the first time; sitting in the adjacent hospital room, listening to her muffled sobs as she signed her son over; the small cottage we brought Ty "home" to; the doctor's office we visited after nights of sleeplessness (he smiled at our certainty that something was wrong); the Mexican restaurant we ate at for the first time as a family of three; every corner 7-Eleven (we were giddy over our new technology and its ability to find slurpees); the day we said goodbye to our Colorado family, unsure if we'd ever meet, again; and all the hugs and hellos that came with each trip back.

The wonder of the Rockies match the awe in my heart for this incredible adventure.

Every homecoming picks up at the other's end.

And watching Rebekah share in motherhood moments is beyond beautiful.

Our favorite day was a relaxed one at the zoo; we enjoyed mountain views as much as we did petting the giraffes.

I marveled at how happy Rebekah is. She is still the same bubbly, vivacious friend, I've always known, but there is a new joy in her spirit. She has lost a considerable amount of weight, runs a profitable maintenance company with her husband, and is in the beginning stages of launching her own weight loss coaching business.

It means so much to see her, genuinely, happy and living in peace.

I have never met anyone braver. The strength she mustered to push through horrific times is immeasurable. I would have cowered in the corner after the second or third disappointment, but Rebekah just kept on pushing. She pushed and pushed and pushed until she overcame.

Instead of nursing regret, she embraces today and laughs at the days to come (Proverbs 31:25).

No one would blame Rebekah for keeping all of her time with Ty to herself, but she lives in a state of  sacrifice and finds joy in sharing him with her family.

Nearly six years later, Rebekah told me she never regrets her decision. Her words, instead, are always overflowing with thankfulness for our family and the life we've given her Tyrus.

To be honest, I don't understand it.

And if my experience wasn't firsthand, I might not believe it. Second only to the Father's love, her heart for her son is a treasure in my life and I know Ty will one day realize it, too.

Our reunions are special in every way, but I would be lying if I said they didn't come at a cost. When we left, Rebekah later expressed how emotional saying goodbye was and couldn't help but compare it to the day we drove back to Michigan.

The reminder is necessary, but difficult for me to stomach. All the joy and love in the world don't erase the brokenness in our story. Redeemable paths aren't God's intent, but an overflow of his grace.

The tear of separation will always be shadowed in Rebekah's love for Tyrus. A good indicator that natural emotions exist in supernatural connections.

There really aren't enough words in my heart to describe this woman, her family, and the great God that we all serve.

And she loved a little boy very, very much -

even more than she loved herself.

The Giving Tree, Shel Silverstein