I came across a long-ago written post in my draft folder this morning. I had shared a condensed version on my friend, Amber Haines’, site four years ago, yet something about this longer version caught my eye today.

Maybe it has to do with this current season of global uncertainty we are in. The truth of the matter is that Jesus is right here with us. He is sitting alongside us as we wring our hands, watching the news and looking to projections and experts to tell us what will happen next. He is patiently waiting for us to turn our faces to Him and keep our eyes fixed on the only certainty we can ever hold tight to: His goodness. As my sweet girl taught me all those years ago, He will never leave us. He will carry us home.

Her context of home was this physical place here in NW Arkansas. Yet, I would argue there is greater wisdom behind her words. He will carry us all the way to our Heavenly Home. He will never leave us in this world of trouble and heartache and confusion. He will remain steadfast.

I’m sharing the full post below, written in January of 2016. Long before this pandemic and at the tail end of an intense season of uncertainty for our family. I hope it provides some encouragement.

The staircase conceals its brokenness. At first glance, you may miss how the fourth spindle from the left wobbles and turns. 

Just last night, a friend casually mentioned her affinity toward that broken spindle. I hadn’t considered it before. I had only noted yet another repair. I hadn’t seen the way that spindle, in its brokenness, represented more. I hadn’t appreciated the way it continues to hold steadfast to its anchoring nail regardless of the tugging and twirling of little hands seeking amusement and levity, nor had I seen the way it serves as a reminder to guests in our one-hundred-year-old home that this is a place where we welcome imperfect people into an imperfect space. After all, true, authentic, Kingdom-seeking community can only be forged through the revealing of brokenness.

The last several years have been fraught with storms for our family. Many times, the pulling and tugging of my soul left me weary and depleted. The battle my family unknowingly entered into when we said yes to an abandoned little girl across the sea left us all bruised and battered. Yet, God’s promises remained steadfast.  Even when we lost sight of hope and stumbled toward despair, He was there. Holding on.

Just like that nail at the bottom of the spindle. 

Our brokenness remained anchored securely in Him. He faithfully remained regardless of the yanking and demanding of our own hands, begging to be released from the pain of the desert march.

***

Torn from every familiar thing and placed into our family, my daughter entered into persistent grief and debilitating fear on the day she landed in America and into my arms. That day, the one I had desperately waited for, for 602 seemingly endless days, was mistakenly seen as exclusively celebratory. I cringe at the headlines scarcely able to skim the surface of her tender, raw identity. An orphan no longer! A “rescued” child! A family reunited!  

Although her circumstances were bleak in her home country, it was all she had known. The terror of new people, new sounds, new smells, new food, and a new language was vivid in those early days and months under our roof. We willingly stepped into her brokenness and committed to remain steadfast as we faced the darkness together. 

God’s love poured through us and allowed us to hold on even when our home felt like a trauma ward. Even when the brokenness threatened to overwhelm, we could stand firm on His promises of redemption and restoration. 

***

These days, as we lay side by side singing “Jesus loves me” before bedtime, my daughter often turns to me and shares profound truths in her soft, little raspy voice. She whispers in the dark, “God never left me, momma. He carried me home.”

Oh, baby girl. He will never leave. He will hold on, just like the persistent nail at the bottom of that broken spindle. 

When all is quiet after the littles have gone to bed, I often stand in my kitchen and look around at the toys scattered, the dust bunnies in the corner, the chips in the paint left by flying Matchbox cars, or that broken old spindle, and breathe in immense gratitude. I’m ever grateful for the joy intermingled with sorrow, the laughter echoing in our four walls after an intense season of pain, and the strength of love forged through brokenness and refined by fire. 

The Lord says, “Don’t harden your hearts as Israel did at Meribah, as they did at Massah in the wilderness.” Psalm 95:8

The Israelites were so convinced that God couldn’t deliver them that they simply lost their faith in him. 

How could they possibly lose their faith? They had witnessed the tangible, mighty, magnificent power of God when He rescued them out of slavery in Egypt, spared their lives during the Passover, and then parted a huge body of water in order for them to pass through to safety on the other side. They had physically witnessed His strength and ability to accomplish something human minds could never even imagine.

Even still, they doubted.

They fell into despair. Their desert wanderings led them to believe God had simply looked away or maybe He couldn’t manage this one thing. Yes, He led them out of slavery but somehow He wasn’t capable of now leading them to the safety and abundance of the Promised Land.

This verse, Psalm 96:8, jumped off the page in church on Sunday. As I prayed over a hard relationship – one that I am very careful to share about because it’s so very complicated and hard and personal – I knew God was telling me that I, like the stubborn, messy, broken, human Israelites, had hardened my heart.

If you know our story, you know that God performed some pretty mighty, Red-Sea-parting kind of miracles to bring our daughter home from her birth country where she was essentially being held hostage for two years. See the similarity there? Delivered out of bondage — over a sea — miraculously.

Our story continues to mirror the Israelites in the way we hoped the shores on the other side of that sea would bring rest and abundance and healing. We didn’t expect the desert wanderings. We didn’t expect the bitter aftermath of intense trauma. We didn’t expect the days to turn to months and then to years of wandering. We didn’t expect to walk such a hard road toward wholeness.

And, I certainly didn’t expect to harden my heart.

The hurt and the rejection and attachment setbacks have a way of piling on stone on top of stone. One at a time. Day by day. Prayers and tears and more prayers and more tears. Slowly, discouragement begins to replace hope, and acceptance of brokenness replaces heartfelt prayers for wholeness.

But, God.

We serve a God who refuses anything less than abundant life for His babies. He gathers us like a tender-hearted daddy and points us back toward Himself. He brings a tribe of warrior mommas into our lives to pray relentlessly. He causes a verse to jump off of the page, not to condemn, but to point to truth. A timely, necessary reminder to never allow a hardened heart. A reminder to fight against the lies and doubt. A reminder that He never looks away. A reminder that He never gives up. A reminder of who He is – He always pursues and can turn all things for good.

The thing I love most about God is the way He shows His hand. He wants us to know who wins in the end. He doesn’t want us to doubt. He wants us to love recklessly and fiercely even when that love may feel unwanted and unreturned.

Sometimes, He gives us tangible reminders of His love, His working, His healing, His justice.

Sometimes, those reminders are in the form of an unexpected drawing in response to the question:

What are you most thankful for?  

As we drew our pictures side by side, I leaned over and asked about her drawing. She explained it was a picture of her and I (holding bathing suits and purses;)). I scooped her up and covered her in kisses as my tears freely fell.

I’m framing this one. It’s may look like a simple drawing with crayons, but I see something much more significant. I see a beautiful picture of redemption and hope.

Two days ago, I read right past a sentence inconspicuously tucked into a larger story in scripture. This morning, I was drawn back to that seemingly insignificant line. I glanced at the words and half-heartedly read them, prepared to move on. Then, feeling a stirring, I paused and read them again slowly and then again once more, letting the words seep in.

I sat in the stillness of the morning – listening to the rain softly fall outside of my window, grateful for the quiet of little ones still asleep. I focused on the pitter patter of the rain and prayed for discernment over the words.

Gently, a name came to  mind.

A friend in an intense season of waiting for her adopted daughter to come home. A season of weariness and heaviness, a season I am intimately acquainted with.

I texted her the words, along with an earnest prayer for rest for her weary heart.

She immediately responded with gratitude – this morning had brought fresh grief and anger and frustration. These ancient, Spirit-breathed words were like a balm to her anxious soul.

In no way am I telling this story to somehow lift myself up. I tell this story because I think someone else needs these words, as well. I tell this story because I am once again in awe of the attentiveness of our Savior. He sees us, He meets us, He sends words for us – through scripture, through friends, through music, in unlikely places – He reminds us we are never alone. Even in our exhaustion and weariness, He is there.

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For they said, “You must all be very hungry and tired and thirsty after your long march through the wilderness.”

{2 Samuel 17:29 NLT, emphasis mine}

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In 2 Samuel 17, we find David and his men fleeing Jerusalem after his son, Absalom, had begun a rebellion to overtake the throne. They have been traveling through a literal wilderness and were physically exhausted. When they arrive at the town of Mahanaim, they are shown warm hospitably and are generously supplied with food and water and beds for rest.

May we be like the people of Mahanaim, may we be gracious and generous and kind-hearted to weary souls.

And, may those currently in the midst of their own long walk through the arid, scorching wilderness find comfort in knowing God sees you. He knows you are weary, He knows you are exhausted and parched. I pray you receive a fresh spring of living water this morning, a gentle nudge toward rest. May He abundantly bless you with sustenance today, and tomorrow, and the day after. Until this long march is over, may you find your rest in Him.

Yesterday, I wrote a few words from a place of brokenness. I wanted to record my commitment to release expectations and renew hope in my heart. And, wouldn’t you know, God met me right then and there. After I closed my computer and got on with my day, He gently pulled my eyes upward.

Through one of the sweetest evenings Sylvie and I have shared together in a long time, my Abba reminded me that Hope is most assuredly alive. No matter how many times I have tried to bury it, Hope will always remain. My declaration to search for it, to unveil the light in every dark place, simply opened my eyes to see it once again.

My girl hugged me tightly last night, completely unprompted, and said, “I love you, mommy!” as we snuggled together and read our bedtime story. It was a small, quiet, far-from-flashy, moment. A simple treasure for my heart, tucked away, a reminder of His mercy, His healing hand, His redeeming nature.

Then, for the fourth time in the past week and a half, the boys invited Sylvie to sleep on the mattress they made for her on the floor in their room. This, my friends, is monumental. They invited her into their space; willingly, lovingly.

My tender-hearted boys have a bond stronger than words could ever describe and their worlds were absolutely wrecked when Sylvie came home. They were only four and they had just become big brothers to baby Charlotte eight weeks earlier. They were still adjusting to their new roles, when, with only 48 hours notice, their toddler sister arrived on a plane and walked into our home, disrupting everything and everyone with her terrified, unpredictable behavior. Our home went from a place of security and love to one of chaos. For months, we felt like we were walking in a mine field, never knowing which step would inadvertently set off a land mine buried in the sand.

Ever so slowly, healing has occurred in all of our hearts. We saw so much healing and bonding occur during our time in South Africa for the boys and Sylvie. Oh, how that trip was worth taking, if only for the deep bond the three of our kids now share. There is genuine love and affection where I once questioned if it could ever be so.

And, that my friends, is Mercy.

So, as Lent begins tomorrow, I’m going to keep on releasing my expectations and my frustrations and my disappointments. I’m going to keep on digging up Hope and focusing on where the light shines, no matter how dimly. I’ll keep on seeking out that light and exposing it. That little light will disperse and keep on spreading and spreading until all of our dark corners are lit up with bright, beautiful, shining light.

I spent the weekend purging unwanted items and unworn clothes from my closet shelves and bathroom drawers. I filled seven (seven!) trash bags and three giant totes with “things.” Things that caused me stress and frustration whenever I entered the small, cluttered space. Why have I held onto pants that no longer fit and heels I’ll never wear?  Now, the space is a little more barren and I feel a lot less frazzled upon entering. I feel physically lighter after releasing the things that have gone unused for so long.

As Lent approaches, I find myself drawn to this concept of release.

My soul longs for a season devoted to the release of rushing and anger and frustration and comparison. How I desire to fill that space in my life with intentionality and white space open for spontaneity and gentleness and loving words of affirmation.

A season of contentment.  

Rising fastest to the surface of this murky pool of release: expectations.

I continually find myself striving to find a way to fix my relationship with my daughter. A relationship rooted in brokenness and loss, a foundation in desperate need of security and trust. I’ve read the books and watched the seminars, I’ve attended conferences, and logged hours upon hours in a therapist’s office working on attachment. Yet, still, I feel the shaky ground beneath my feet, ready to give way at any moment.

My expectations for where we should be by now, nearing three years home, are unmet. My expectations for how I should feel, always fall short. My expectations for her behavior, rarely become reality. My expectations for affection and response to strangers and learning … missing the mark.

I’m fed up with the brokenness and the hurting and the mess. I know, I agreed to step into the pain and the hurting, but enough already. I want my comfortable, predictable life back.

Ahh.

The crux of laying down our lives and picking up our cross daily is that we actually have to lay down our life and pick up our cross. We have to release our own expectations based on earthly, temporary things and seek His. Jesus never promised this life would be easy and, in my humanity, I often forget that important detail. I want to read the verses promising good things and light burdens and rest for my weary soul and overlook the ones that remind me that I will face many hardships in this life.

He drew me out of my comfortable, predictable life for a purpose. A purpose He had planned for me long, long ago. A purpose bigger than me and my silly expectations and smily instagram-worthy photos. His healing hand is always at work. He is the author of life and redemption is His finest display of glory. Yet, redemption doesn’t come swiftly or easily.

We want God to do a big thing, while God is planning to do a small thing. We are impressed by the big and loud. God is not. We are in a hurry. God is not. We want God to act fast, but Godspeed is almost always slow.  — Brian Zahnd

This season of Lent will find me daily releasing my expectations (more than likely, this will be a moment by moment release). I’ll spend these forty days digging up hope from the hardened soil where I’ve been slowly burying it, one shovel-full at a time. I will believe God for the impossible once again. I will trust in the abundance of God’s loving kindness. And I will remain absolutely convinced that God can heal and redeem every single bit of brokenness. Not in my time, but in His: slowly, gently, purposefully; Godspeed.

I wanted to write a post about our little family’s Advent traditions this morning. I wanted to share something light and straightforward.

Yet, here I sit, my hands hovering above the keyboard. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I refill my coffee.

I check my Facebook notifications one more time.

I start a load of laundry.

I’m avoiding the words I need to write.

The words pulsing through my head. The ones I can’t quite grasp, the ones just out of reach. I know I need to find them and they need to find their way through these tapping keys. I know because of the long discussions with fellow mommas and the text messages and the email steeped in sorrow I received this very morning.

The thing is, I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to share the hard while still protecting my girl. And, honestly, I wonder why I need to share any of this. No, no…that’s not entirely true.

God keeps whispering, you’re not the only one. 

And, maybe, just maybe, there is one who needs to read these words today and rest in the simple truth that she isn’t alone either.

So, how do I say this? How do I say that my daughter, the one who has been here under my roof and in my care for two and a half years now, still doesn’t understand that I’m her momma?

Yes, she knows the words. Yet, she doesn’t know.

In adoption circles, this term is called attachment. A strong, secure attachment is the pinnacle of achievement for us adoptive mommas. It’s the measuring stick we use to determine our ability to implement “connected parenting.” The style of parenting we studied about at the workshops we’ve attended and in the videos we’ve watched (repeatedly) and in the stacks and stacks of books we’ve read.

A faulty attachment is the equivalent of a faulty parent. <<– You see the lie, of course. It’s clear when typed out in black and white. Yet, when you are living in the lie, you slowly start to believe the whispers of the enemy. You start to believe you aren’t good enough. You start to believe you really and truly cannot do this. You start to believe you heard God wrong. You start to believe that all of the people who have loved and prayed and advocated and donated and sent gifts and cheered at the airport will see through the veneer and find out that you are a fraud.

They’ll see you as you are: a momma who desperately wants her baby to love her back. A momma who tries and tries and tries. A momma who shuffles schedules and bills in order to get her girl the professional help she needs. And, a momma who eventually closes off bits and pieces of her aching, rejected heart. A momma who lets resentment and anger and fear and frustration and heaps of guilt creep in as the days pass into weeks and into months and into years.

I’ve been walking through a process called Chavurah with a small group of dear friends. Chavurah is a Jewish tradition, translated from Hebrew meaning Fellowship. Chavurah is traditionally a small group of like-minded Jews who assemble for the purpose of facilitating prayer services, sharing communal experiences and Jewish learning. In our case, we aren’t Jewish but we are applying the practice of gathering each week to focus intently on the gospel and the working out of the Kingdom come on earth as it is in Heaven in our daily lives.

This week’s practice has us shifting our mindset to one of a rejoice prayer. According to A Guidebook to Prayer: “Rejoice prayer is a prayer of thanksgiving and gratitude. It lifts our eyes to the hills from where our strength comes. It reconnects us with God who delights in our praise. By praying with gratitude we are lifted in spirit and we are given a broader perspective. The Holy Spirit comforts us and reminds us of Jesus’ love. The Holy Spirit gives us wisdom to see beyond trials to the power of the cross to turn on the light in every place of darkness.”

As in life, this post will not have a tidy bow holding it together. I don’t have the answers, I know the brokenness in this world and in our little love’s past is abundant. I also know love is greater than fear. And, I know each day is a new opportunity to practice love and to pray for healing. And, certainly, I know the Holy Spirit gives me wisdom to see beyond these current hard days straight to the power of the cross. I absolutely know He alone can turn on the light in every single dark, desolate corner of her heart and mine.

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. {Lamentations 3:22-23}

There is no one like the God of Israel. He rides across the heavens to help you, across the skies in majestic splendor. The eternal God is your refuge, and his everlasting arms are under you. {Deuteronomy 33:26-27}

Because of God’s tender mercy, the light from Heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to the those who sit in darkness and to in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace. {Luke 1:78-79}