2020 A.D.

I picture it like one of those movies that grips you with an action scene from the opening seconds that you don’t understand, but you know it’s a pivotal moment between the characters. They are in a precarious position and you don’t know why they’re there or what’s going to happen. And just as the scene climaxes, it freezes and cuts to a scene of one of the men doing something normal, something calm, something easy. And at the bottom of the screen it says, “9 months earlier”.

Now you picture it. There’s a middle aged white man on his back deck (a nicely re-surfaced one with that fancy composite deck board material) with a black youth. But they appear to be in a heated argument. It’s cold and windy like it usually is in late November in Michigan and the sky is gray as it will be for the next 6 months. But they’re underdressed for the weather - the older man in his socks and t-shirt and the young man in bare feet. They’re shouting, but the words are muffled as neither is really hearing the other so the audience gets nothing but muffled words too. The boy has tears streaming down his face, his hands clenched in tight fists of rage. He grabs a bottle of beer that was left out there from Thanksgiving and raises it up in the air. Now the audio clarifies as you hear the young man raise his voice, and the tears reaching his lips coalesce with his spit as it flies through the air and he threatens, “Take one more step and I’ll kill you!”

Freeze. “9 months earlier”...

You see the same middle aged man, he looks fairly relaxed. He’s sitting on a couch with a cup of coffee. The window view behind him is of the same grey sky, and the muted greys and tans of leafless winter trees. The camera zooms out to introduce a similar aged woman across from him, but she’s more beautiful than he deserves (despite her being a bit older than him). Clearly they know each other pretty well. He’s staring off deep in thought, but thinking about the last question she asked. She asks it again as he’s often slow to respond. He apparently prefers to think. “Do you think things might actually be settling down?”, she repeats. “Is it possible for the Minnaars to have a somewhat normal life?” He does a half smile and just keeps staring for a while. She stares too, waiting. She’s used to waiting for him. Finally, he speaks, “I don’t know. Maybe things are starting to settle down a bit? I mean, it’s busy, it’s crazy. I don’t know how we can keep up this pace. But, maybe everyone is finally settling into some routines.” More silence. Staring. Sips of coffee. Woman looks at her phone. “So, what do you think about that virus? Do you think it could really spread over here?”

Cut!

Well, that’s how I remember it anyway. Sometimes our life feels like a movie that’s a bit hard to believe, but it’s well written, so you’re really rooting for the characters. And as you all know, that virus did show up and… wow. I’ll spare you any politics here, but the takeaway is that the covid effect reaches farther than I could have ever imagined. Our family looks pretty different than it did on March 13 when we sat in our living room listening to that “woman from Michigan” and found out that “spring break” was going to be 3 long weeks. Carissa was devastated. Even a week off of school felt darn near impossible. But 2 extra weeks off prior to spring “break”? We had no idea what we were going to do. But we took it a day at a time like everyone else.

I was worried about my new job. I was wrapping up my 12 years in family practice with Sparrow and about to start a new program providing subacute rehab services at a couple area nursing homes. It was a stab at getting back some flexibility and control in my schedule and well, I was ready for something challenging. It was a slow start, but I’ve truly loved the work. It’s been a refreshing new beginning for me and quite honestly, one of the few bright spots for 2020. I’ve had to dig deeper in my brain for some of those medical school lectures I should have been paying closer attention to as the patients on our service are a bit sicker than I’m used to. But, it’s been fun to dust off those unused neurons and put them to good use!

Another bright spot was seeing Noah launch into the world. He completed his first year at LCC and officially moved out with some buddies at the end of the summer. He’ll be starting at Grand Valley this Spring to pursue nursing. It’s bitter-sweet launching your first one. He was a source of a lot of energy around here and truly a best friend to his sister Natalie. When Noah’s around, the mood lightens, the laughter comes easier, home feels homier. It came with a few benefits for the siblings however, as Natalie wasted no time taking over his bedroom and Frankie and Maizy nabbed Natti’s old room for school (it also doubles as their work-out room, craft room, and holds Louisa’s wardrobe). Poor Natalie fell victim to the covid effect as a senior. She lost her track season, lost the musical she landed a decent role in, almost lost her open house (we pulled off a small one in July), and now gets to start college at home on a computer. She's still planning to study special education, seems to have a knack with special kids that leaves the rest of us in awe at times. She keeps her chin up and we’re proud of her.

Francie #22, Maizy #16 (far right)

Frank and Mai have gone all in with volleyball and they managed to have somewhat of a season this fall. One benefit of homeschooling and not belonging to the MHSAA is you don’t have to follow all their rules, so they were still able to play. Heck, they even pulled off a homeschool state championship that was a rather thrilling nailbiter even if you weren’t a proud pop. They’re both somewhere in the middle school years and between homeschooling, the two of them following the same curriculum all these years together, and covid, I’m not sure anyone knows what grade they’re actually in. One of these years, we’ll just start calling it high school I guess.

And what about little Louisa? I’m happy to report only a handful of terrible seizures this year. Sadly, she still has an unsettling number of spike waves in sleep and in the daytime too. We’re hoping to keep working on some attempts to slow those down as it seems her development is stunted and she occasionally "loses moments in time" as her neurologist puts it. We’ll keep trying and otherwise, we appreciate every day we have as a miracle. She sleeps in a big bed in between her two sisters, who dote on her day (and night). She does have a love for books too, though she can’t actually read them. She has quite a few memorized, but her love really goes beyond reading -- actually the books themselves are her comfort objects. She brings a pile to her bed to sleep with at night -- as if they’re a favorite blanket or stuffed animals! She continues to teach us to trust in the Lord.

And then April 15 came around. We were all watching a TV show together that night and Louisa just blurted out nonchalantly some rather disturbing details of her day relating to Donavon. It was hard news for all of us to hear, Donavon included. He lost it and things got really bad -- like call the police bad. For his sake, I’ll leave out the details, but the end result involved one of the most amazing gifts we’ve received outside of Christ himself. You can see here a couple extra characters in our life. That’s Katie and Frank, Carissa’s aunt and uncle who have agreed to host Donavon for now. It was a Red Sea moment for us, we turned to the Lord for deliverance, and He called them to step in. We pray he gives them all they need to nurture D through these tumultuous times. And I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Carissa’s other aunt and uncle, Joella and Lee for selflessly transitioning Donavon from our house to Frank and Katie’s by hosting him pretty much all summer. I wish I could publicly thank everyone by name who helped. Whether it was a couple hours of hanging out or a week, or a weekend, or a meal, or your prayers for us, or your tears with us, it was all appreciated and lifegiving. Donavon seems to be doing pretty well. Frank and Katie are doing an amazing job and his healing process has begun. It isn’t easy to do the math every time you set the table. “How many plates? Let’s see, Noah is gone, D’s gone…”  

And speaking of empty places at the table. Wouldn’t you know that this would be the summer I would say goodbye to my mom. Tired of the covid restrictions getting in the way of his marriage, my dad busted her out of her memory care unit and brought her home so they could be together. He had no idea that he had only 44 more days with her, but they were miraculous and beautiful. Seeing a tragic journey with Alzheimer’s disease end in triumph as she found perfect healing in Christ was truly amazing. I miss her, as I’d already been missing her for a while now, but seeing that empty place at the table at Thanksgiving hit me harder than I thought it would.

Speaking of being hit hard. Covid has hit Kelvin hard. He loved school. It was truly what held him together. Losing school and the dependable routine he felt safe in has proved devastating for him too. He’s really struggled at home and with what little time he’s able to go to school this year, it just isn’t the same and he’s losing it.

Which brings us back to our movie scene on the back deck. The black youth is Kelvin and he has the bottle of beer raised to smash over my head. He’s already thrown some trucks at the window, trying to break it and I convinced him to put the large rock down. But he’s pretty angry now. I did what every hero in the movies does to the bad guy -- I used my best Cobra Kai karate move! That’s right, I lunged for the bottle with my left hand while launching the young man with my powerful right kick (ok, it wasn’t really a kick. I’m dramatizing here for effect -- artistic liberty. It was more of a shove with my knee). This makes for great cinema right? Well, it might, except that young man is Kelvin and he’s my son. He’s my son and I love him. I love him, but I’m physically fighting with him in order to protect him, the rest of the family, and myself. I didn’t do it in anger, I did it out of necessity. But, the fact that I’m having to fight with my son is not right. It’s all wrong -- so terribly and tragically wrong. And so much of this scene isn’t his fault. It’s not his fault that his bio mom struggled with substances when she was pregnant, it’s not his fault that this darn virus came around and they pulled all his support out from under him. It’s not his fault that his brother made a poor choice and now he’s gone from the family. It’s not his fault that his grandmother died of Alzheimer’s disease in the middle of the chaos. It’s not his fault, and yet, he’s the one with a bottle of beer in the air, ready to smash it down on one of the few people left in his life that really and truly loves him.

So about a month ago he qualified for a partial hospitalization program, but the program said he was too aggressive for them so they gave us a letter to bring to the ER. He sat for 12 days in the ER, and then a few days before Christmas found placement in a psychiatric hospital in the Detroit area that has a special program for developmental disabilities. They hope to adjust some medications and help him more appropriately deal with his anger over the course of 7-10 days on average (hmmm, keeping an open mind and low expectations). The poor kid, he just wants to go to school from 8-3 for 5 days in a row! We aren’t sure when we’ll get our Kelvin back (physically and emotionally). We miss him. We long for him to get his universe back on track and we’re praying that he can either learn how to roll with the disruptions of the world, or we can find a stable world where he can be the amazing kid we know he is deep down.

 

Speaking of a stable world -- isn’t that what we’re all longing for? I was thinking about Kelvin a bit more these last few days as I’m spending less time fighting with him and more time missing him. In many ways, he’s doing what all of us are doing in our own maladaptive ways. He just wants a stable and predictable world to live in. True, many of us stop short of smashing bottles of beer on each other’s heads, but have we? Certainly, we’ve wanted to! And in reality, we’ve likely done the equivalent or even worse. The world is a mess, sure. Kelvin is a mess. I’m a mess. The Minnaars are a mess. It was a mess almost from the start. But even when sin began its destructive pursuit, the Lord provided a promise -- that from Eve’s offspring there would come one who would “crush the serpent’s head” (Genesis 3:15). All of history culminated in the coming of that offspring -- our King Jesus, the God-Man who died and rose again. And he rose as the FIRST born of a new generation who will live in a NEW heavens and NEW earth. This is the generation we are longing for. This is the world that 2020 has shown us that we need!

But, the time is not yet. Thank goodness Christmas also reminds us of a second Advent -- that Jesus is coming again. He’s coming to make perfect sense of covid and blown up schedules, of missed sports seasons and too much zoom, of masks and social distancing, of brain damage and half-hearts, of abuses and bad decisions, of mistakes and careless words, of smashed beer bottles and too much beer while pregnant, of dads fighting with their sons. What a glorious day when all the wrongs are made right, when it will all make perfect sense, when the tears stop flowing. Those who are Christ’s will live in the world as it was intended to operate -- on a perfectly perfect schedule for perfectly perfect people worshiping a perfectly perfect Savior, perfectly! Kelvin, for one, is ready. I’m ready. All the Minnaars are ready. I hope you’re ready. Come Lord Jesus! Come again!

Summer camping in Frankfort with cuzzies!

Fall getaway to the Smoky Mountains

New hot tub -- the best [insert your idea of "way too much money"] we ever spent!

Reportedly the best day of 2020 for Frank and Mai

Fighting for Contentment (and joy and hope) - testimony for Wednesday Women's Doctrine Study

Background for those who don't know me: I grew up in this church and in a stable Christian home. I've been married to my high school sweetheart, Nick, for 18 years. 8 years ago, we had 4 healthy, awesome kids, 2 sets of supportive parents, a wonderful church family, Nick had finally finished all of his medical training, got a job as a family physician with Sparrow, and we had just built a new house. Nick and I had spent some time in Romania in college working with orphans, and 12 years later finally felt like things were stable enough in our life that it was time to follow our dream of doing more long term orphan care.

I remember sitting on a blanket in the front yard of our new house with the whole family for a picnic dinner and thinking, this is so great. But I still feel like something is missing. I feel ready to do something hard, to take on a ministry that we know will involve some heartache. We’re mature Christians, we have a stable marriage, we’re pretty good parents, we have an awesome support system, and it’ll be so fun to do a ministry together as a family! So we eagerly entered into the world of foster care.    

We thought we were prepared, but what followed was 3 very difficult years for our family, hard visits with biological family, a heartbreaking termination trial, and 2 little boys who had no idea what was happening to them and why. Trauma, grief, and confusion swirled together into an ugly storm of rages, destruction, bizarre behaviors and verbal assaults. Our entire family was exhausted. At this point in my journey, my mental picture of myself is sitting on the ground "kicking against the goad" as hard as I could. I even looked up the exact meaning of that phrase during those years because it was such a strong picture in my head. It was like I could hear the Lord saying, "Carissa, Carissa, it is hard for you to kick against the goad." And I just thought over and over, ok Lord, I know you are sovereign and this is for your glory and my good. But it’s not right! I wanted to do something hard, something good, and it feels like my family is being torn apart. This is what I get? The horror story adoption? This isn’t actually what I signed up for, to feel rejected and heartbroken, exhausted and worried about EVERY person in my family every single day.

So we thought, maybe if we finish off the family with one more biological kid, it’ll be this amazing bonding experience for the whole family, the boys will just feel folded in. And there will be a cute little baby for everyone to play with and focus on.

This is the part of the story where I want to laugh maniacally for about 5 solid minutes.

Louisa was diagnosed in utero with a severe congenital heart defect called Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome. Many of you know her story fairly intimately, so I’ll try to keep this part short and sweet, which is kind of a joke when it comes to Louisa! The more we learned about it, the more terrifying it all got, especially when we heard them call the 3 open heart surgeries she would have by age 3 “palliative” (pain relieving or extending, but not curative). We stayed at Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor for 4 weeks after she was born dealing with her first open heart surgery, cardiac arrest, a brain bleed, ECMO, chest tubes, feeding tubes, and lots of machines, monitors and medications. We were home for a handful of weeks and then she had some GI bleeding which led to a 7 ½ week admission including another open heart surgery, a blood clot on her central line which led to 3 strokes, more chest tubes, feeding tubes, monitors and medications. Meanwhile, things were getting more difficult and concerning with our older adopted son Donavon and it felt like everything was starting to unravel very quickly. At this point, my mental picture of myself was hanging off the edge of a cliff with my hands slipping on loose gravel and all of my kids are starting to fall so I try to grab one, but as soon as I grab one, another starts falling. I’m the mom, I’m supposed to keep everyone safe and fed and happy and all of a sudden I can’t do my job with anyone! Now I was saying, "Ok, Lord, you are in charge here, but the thing is, I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT DO THIS. I’m not angry with you or saying it’s not fair anymore. But I can’t take care of my family, I can’t do my job. I’m dumbfounded with how to handle this situation you’ve given us." It’s pretty much a complete blur, but I know He got us through that year, with a lot of help from our church and families. Things got to the point with Donavon that he needed a different situation for a while, so right before Louisa’s third heart surgery, a year and a half ago, he started at a Christian boarding school out of state. Shortly after that, our other adopted son Kelvin started having a lot of trouble at school and home and he is now in an emotionally impaired special ed room. We got through Louisa’s surgery, things have stabilized with her heart for now (this is what HLHS parents call the “coasting time” before complications start usually in the teens or 20’s). But last October she started having serious grand mal seizures, which she is still having and are probably a result of her strokes. So now she has a secondary diagnosis of epilepsy. That’s where we are today, things have turned out quite differently for our family than we imagined they would 7 years ago!

I wanted to tell you 4 things I’ve learned in my journey of fighting for contentment, which for me has been mainly a fight for joy and hope, and it is definitely a continuing saga. The 4 things are: I need to identify who my enemy is, know who to turn to when I’m afraid, know that I have people to help me in the fight and tools to fight with, and know that the Lord will sustain me until He delivers me by his grace.

1. Know who your enemy is. My external enemies are seizures, IVs, strokes, death, childhood trauma, boarding school, the smell of purell which can sometimes send me over the edge... But I know that actually my biggest enemies are internal - fighting my unbelief, my fear, my feeling of entitlement for the life that I thought my family should have, and my desperate craving for control.

An example of when I struggle with this is when someone is trying to start an IV on Louisa, which gets harder and harder (for me) as she gets older and begs me to make them stop. I can’t remember a time that it was a smooth start on the first try. Her veins are crap, they don’t cooperate and the IV person usually comes in confident they can do it and it happens again, can’t find a vein, she’s screaming in pain and burning a hole through my soul with her pleading eyes and I’m having a faith crisis. Every time I beg the Lord, PLEASE just let the blood start flowing, please let them find the vein and the right angle, please God, she’s been through so much. What good can this possibly be doing? So my external enemy is that stupid needle, but really I’m fighting to believe that the failed IV is good for Louisa, it’s good for me. That the Lord is still upholding the universe by the word of his power. The blood flows when he tells it to flow. The boys’ rages stop when he tells them to stop. Each one of these trials, no matter how small, is producing for me a weight of glory. He shows me again that I am not in control of any of this. I have no strength, no hope, no joy without him. I am his beloved and he is kindly teaching me to rely on HIM, who raises the dead.

-For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. 1 Corinth 1:8-9

2. Know where to look and who to talk to. I have to keep talking to the Lord, looking to him, bringing him my lament and frustrations and fears, pouring out my heart to him, not grumbling with my back to him. He can handle the truth of how I’m feeling and where I am, I don’t have to worry about how I’m saying something or if I’m being too pessimistic and not hopeful enough. He is the God of hope, I can ask him to give me hope when I have none. He is the God of comfort, He can comfort me when I selfishly feel like no human is comforting me exactly the way I want to be comforted.

David gives us such amazing examples of pouring out our heart to him in the Psalms AND beautiful examples of being sorrowful, yet always rejoicing, which we are called to be. Psalm 13 shows this juxtaposition of severe sorrow and desperation, and then genuine rejoicing.

Verses 1 and 2 say,

"How long, O LORD? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I take counsel in my soul

and have sorrow in my heart all the day?"

It ends with rejoicing. Verses 5 and 6 say,

"But I have trusted in your steadfast love;

my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.

I will sing to the LORD,

because he has dealt bountifully with me."

I love how Horatius Bonar describes it as “mingled joy and grief. The eye is dim with tears, yet, behold, it glistens with joy!”

That quote kind of sums up Louisa’s infancy for me. It was so bizarrely different than any kind of infancy I had ever experienced. Everything was so medicalized, the first 4 weeks of her life felt like we were barely a part of her caregiving, we never had any privacy and oftentimes I saw her as more machine than baby. Even after we took her home, she was very fragile and her medical team told us what to do, sometimes I felt like I was just another member of her team. We had to report her weight gain daily, record every ounce of special formula that went in through her feeding tube at exact intervals around the clock, monitor her oxygen saturation levels and administer over 100 doses of medicine a week. I wasn’t allowed to nurse her because that would take too much energy, which she needed to save for other things. I felt like the special bonding time I should’ve had with her in infancy was taken away and it was a deep grief for me. Sometimes at night after everyone had gone to bed, I would pick her up while she was sleeping and just sit and cry while rocking her. They were tears of grief and joy at the same time. I was so sad about all she had been through and the things we lost, but I was awestruck at the Lord’s great mercy to us in preserving her life and our family. I felt so much relief bringing all those jumbled up feelings to the Lord during those nights.

3.  Know you’re not alone. I can’t fight alone. We speak truth to ourselves, but sometimes I feel like my tongue is having an allergic reaction to the truth and I can’t get it out. I need trusted friends fighting next to me and with me and for me. They can speak truth to me when my tongue and brain are stuck. I was texting with a friend this past week as I was feeling pretty discouraged after our neurology appointment for Louisa. I was saying that she often sleeps with us right now because her seizures primarily happen while she’s sleeping, but that we put her in her little bed which is at the foot of our bed “when we feel like living on the edge” My friend's response was, “the Christian never lives on the edge, dear Carissa, but it can feel like that” It helped me turn from sarcasm and self-pity toward thankfulness and comfort. I can’t tell you how many times a friend or someone I barely know has given me some piece of encouragement or verse or hymn at the perfect time that helped me keep going.

Pain and fear and chaos can make me feel fuzzy and disoriented, but meditating on short scriptures help me to zero in and focus on what is real and what I know. They are the tools that help me to keep moving and fighting when I feel like I can’t think. Sometimes that’s reading or just saying them to myself over and over, sometimes all I can do is listen to my "Baby Louisa" playlist, which is pretty much one of my best friends.

When Louisa arrested and was on ECMO for 4 days, we had our playlist on 24 hours a day, at the top of her bed, for her and for us. All we could do was listen to it, flip through the little book my mom had made us from various Psalms, and read encouraging texts and emails people were sending us.

Louisa arrested on a Friday and that Sunday we were struggling to find hope that we could possibly leave the hospital with our baby. Her medical team basically told us in different words that we were walking through the valley of the shadow of death with her. I started getting texts after church telling us about the congregational prayer Jon Saunders prayed for Louisa and then someone sent us a copy of it and Nick and I just wept as we read it over and over. In fact I still can’t read it without crying. We so strongly felt our church family holding us up when we had no strength left, it felt like we were Moses with Aaron and Hur holding our arms up in the battle. I remember after reading the prayer and all the messages from friends and family that morning I actually felt a flicker of hope for the first time in a while, “maybe He’ll do it, maybe he’ll let her live." God used his people to force hope upon me when I had none.

4. Know what kind of grace you really need. Pray for delivering grace, but don’t scorn sustaining grace. Praise the Lord for both. (I'm so thankful for what the book, The Scars That Have Shaped Me, taught me about this.)

I want delivering grace that dramatically changes my circumstances, heals my baby, makes the boys suddenly trust my love, makes my life easier. Wouldn’t people see those things and give God more glory?? We have prayed and pleaded for deliverance and he has definitely done dramatic things for us and people have praised him with us. But more often, he has given us sustaining grace.

I can’t tell you how many times in the past few years I have said to Nick, "I just can’t do this." When the doctor gave us Louisa’s diagnosis and told us we would have to do everything in Ann Arbor, I actually started laughing and accidentally slammed my head on the desk (which was quite embarrassing) “You don’t know our family, it is impossible for us to leave our kids right now for 2 weeks" (little did we know what was coming).  I have said, “I can’t walk into that bedroom one more time to get him ready for school and have him scream and yell in my face” “I can’t watch her have one more big seizure, it’s so scary, I’m so helpless.” Pretty much for an entire year before her third open heart surgery, I said “I can’t bear to let them take her from me again and wheel her into the OR to crack her chest open and stop her heart, not knowing if we’ll get her back”. Nick likes to remind me, "But you ARE doing it, and you’ve done it everyday for 7 years! He is giving you what you need to do it everyday."

I was checking the results of some blood work Louisa had last week and I noticed it said “result 1 of 728.” She has had 728 tests done on her in her 3 ½ years. My 6 other kids combined have probably had less than 20 tests with blood draws, xrays, etc. Almost every one of those tests for Louisa involved pain for her and/or anxiety for us as her parents. "What is the next echo, lab, EEG, EKG, xray, MRI, going to tell us? What will the plan be? Is she getting better or worse?” I wish we all could have been delivered from having to go through those 728 tests, but instead the Lord sustains us with his grace through one test at a time and he proves he is good again and again with each one we get through.

So, in my fight for contentment, I have learned it’s not about what I have experienced, it is about what I have always known. The Lord in his kindness has shown me what I know more fully and deeply through what he has given me. I know many of you are facing trials or seasons of discontent. If you haven’t yet, you probably will! So, I want to encourage you to know your enemy, know where to look and who to talk to, know you’re not alone, and know that if grace doesn’t deliver you, that same grace will sustain you until perfect deliverance comes, of which we are all promised.

Nick's Sunday Evening Testimony

I’m not exactly sure where this story should begin. It probably started at Urbana in 1996 when a young dating couple signed the card that we were willing to do a short term mission trip. We went to Romania the following summer and Carissa returned for a year in 1998, myself for 6 of those months. We worked with orphans and street kids doing whatever we could in the few hours we spent with them each day for that time. But, it felt painfully weak and impactless. We have a picture of a little girl in the pediatric hospital where abandoned babies were left named Maria. I’m not sure how old she was -- old enough to reach up for us from her crib that she otherwise just sat alone and rocked in, and smile for us when we arrived each day to love those babies with no future. We left her in that crib one day and never came back. We never saw her again.

12 years later, we were married and had 4 healthy and fairly well adjusted kids. We just finished building a beautiful home and figured it was finally time to do what we’d always said we’d do during those Romania days -- bring some “futureless” kids into our home, maybe permanently, and love them. We began foster care and with our first placement received Donavon and Kelvin into our family. 2 years later, the adoption was finalized. And now nearly 7 years later, our life has been completely turned over.

As it turns out, these kids need a lot more than just a few hours of focused attention per day or a week-long VBS (not that those are bad things! Those are wonderful, seed-sowing things). We were naive, but we knew we were naive. We knew it would be hard, we knew it could be potentially dangerous. We also knew the power of the gospel and felt that we had been given much. Honestly, I knew I had a marriage that couldn’t fail, I had parenting skills I’d learned in my “privileged” upbringing. I was a pretty darn good dad -- my “no” meant no (the majority of the time anyway). I had a solid extended family and friends and a church that I knew would be supportive. Essentially, I figured I had all the tools I needed to do this job. And even if it got a little difficult, I figured God would bail me out. My love would be enough to straighten out whatever brokenness these boys came from. After all, I knew the love I’d love them with would be the love of Christ.

And then it got pretty hard. Not just hard for a few days, but for a few years. I couldn’t relax anymore. I started to get nervous to come home after work and my anxiety would rise walking in the door. Carissa was living well beyond her wit’s end and was becoming a shell of the person she used to be by her account. There were certain kinds of tiny foot steps coming into your room in the morning that you looked forward to and others you dreaded. Our family life was getting sour. Even trying to do the right things like family worship became wrestling matches in our living room with kids who appeared demonic. My “sweet and innocent” children were in tears watching their dad fight with a little boy that we’d promised to love. I tried hard, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The “love” that was supposed to fix everything had long since turned to utter exhaustion and confusion, soon turning into bitterness, and finally into hopelessness. And all that led to a deep and abiding shame. We both felt it nearly constantly. What had we done? We did this to ourselves. Who were we to think we could handle this? What a mess we’ve made. We were sure everyone in our life must be dying to say, “I told you so. You’re such a disgrace.”  

Coming to church was a nightmare. It felt like we were on stage for the world to see how lousy of parents we actually were. People must think we’re weak. How could they put up with us? We’re an annoyance on a good day, and a painful tale of warning to anyone considering adoption on every other day. It was getting nearly unbearable to go to church at all, let alone sitting through a sermon and feeling the Lord’s tender affection while your 5 year old is glaring at you and digging his nails into you so that you over-react so that he can make a scene.

And then we had an idea -- let’s have another baby. Maybe that would help. Maybe one of our own creation could help. The boys could feel hemmed in and they’d know they weren’t just a charity case. And the Lord knew that whatever we’d learned so far about self reliance, wasn’t quite enough because he sent us Louisa. I’ll never forget the day we received her diagnosis -- hypoplastic left heart syndrome -- and the doctor told us Carissa would have to deliver in Ann Arbor and she’d have open heart surgery within a few days of birth, and she’d be in the hospital for weeks to months. Carissa said to her, “No, you don’t understand, we CAN’T do that. That’s IMPOSSIBLE. That WON’T work for our family. You have no idea!” And she was right, we couldn’t do it. But it was as if Carissa was saying those very things to God and his response: “But, NOTHING is impossible with God!”

We lived day by day, hour by hour, even minute by minute at times during those first 8 months of Louisa’s life. I still don’t know exactly how we got through those days. They are some of the most bitter and sweetest days of my life. Our family and friends and church rushed to our side -- literally on many occasions to hold us up. You all cared for our challenging family and you prayed for us. You prayed corporately and privately. We received texts and emails about families praying for us. We received cards from young people who were praying for Louisa. It was awe inspiring. I am convinced that the Lord’s means to save Louisa were the prayers of his people. When her heart stopped and they put her on ECMO, our cardiologist told us, “kids who’ve experienced what Louisa has and are put on this machine have a 50% chance of survival. But, there’s only one Louisa -- her actual chances are either 0 or 100% survival. We just have to wait and see.” You all prayed with us and the Lord granted our request and let her live. Thank you.

Now, fast forward to March 3, 2016 where I’m laying in a heap on the floor in a hotel room in Kansas City. You’d think after all I’d seen the Lord do to save my daughter’s life, I’d have faith to last a lifetime. But, I had just dropped my 8 year old son off at boarding school. It was official - I had failed and was feeling as empty as I’ve ever felt. I was undone. I had exhausted everything in me. There was nothing left. All the therapy and medication and “love” had failed. I wish I could tell you that that’s when the Lord gave me a specific scripture, or a vision, or a revelation, or a clear hope. But, he didn’t. Or, probably more accurately, I was too blind, ashamed, afraid, or whatever to listen. I was just tired and done. I knew I had a hope. But, I couldn’t see it, certainly didn’t feel it, and couldn’t imagine it was real.

I have learned a bit about shame. You see, with Louisa, the struggle was an acceptable one, a clean one, a clear one. In a way, you could be proud about that struggle. You could blog about it and ask for prayer about it and talk about it in the church lobby. But the cloud of shame that hung over my head over these boys was something altogether different. We sought help from many places -- medication, therapists, school programs, respite programs through CMH. Those were helpful and I know some of you provide those services in our community and I’m very grateful for you. However, it really was the humbling hand of our church family that provided true help and relief.

I don’t want to name anyone in particular, because I’m afraid I’ll forget someone, but here are a few examples of things you did for us in the name of Christ: Meals -- all kinds of them showing up at our doorstep, and the diaconate organizing months worth of meals, and some random ones too would just show up at perfect times; respite -- whether it was a couple hours on a Saturday or an overnight, or fun activities for the other kids to do to get a break, or time holding Louisa in the hospital so we could visit back home with the others; laundry; cleaning; gift cards for food in Ann Arbor; grocery shopping and transportation help for the kids’ activities while we were gone; financial help for Donavon’s school; buddies for the boys during church services; prayer -- again as families, individuals, groups, corporately, it was amazing; encouraging emails, texts, and interactions in the church lobby -- sometimes from a dear friend, sometimes from an acquaintance, occasionally from someone I hardly knew at all, sometimes brief, sometimes mini sermons of hope! These things were our very life. They sustained us in ways you may never know. They came in moments of utter despair and bolstered us again for another hour or to face the next battle. For all these things, we are so grateful and humbled. Thank you for loving us like this. You may think what you did was small, but you literally saved lives with your faithfulness to us -- not only Louisa’s, but mine and Carissa’s, and all the others. Our marriage and family remain despite some scars and we owe it all to Christ, but through you -- His great provision.

Things are definitely better. We feel there’s some room to breathe again. Donavon is doing well in Missouri, although his progress is slow and we covet your prayers that we could soon bring him home for a fresh start. He’ll be back in August for 10 days for a visit, but we still don’t know when he might be able to come home for good. It’s taken me these 7 years to be humbled. I imagine I’ll need further humbling over whatever years I have left, but I am confident of this: my shame, is no match for the surpassing power of the resurrected Jesus Christ manifested through His body -- the Church, this church, University Reformed Church. And I’m CERTAINLY NOT ashamed to be numbered as one of you! Thanks.

Nick's testimony at Kevin's farewell service

Good evening, I’m Nick Minnaar and I’ve been coming to URC since my Freshman year of high school in 1992. My wife Carissa is one of the lifers here, born and raised by this community of believers. We have 7 kids who are reaping the benefits of the faithfulness of this body to our family.

I’m honored to have this opportunity to say a few words to my pastor before his departure. Clearly, I won’t be able to explain everything his 13 years of ministry have meant to me in the one and a half minutes they’ve allotted me. So, I’ll do my best to summarize and probably borrow a few minutes from whoever is after me. Besides, Kevin has trained us all how to sit for a long time and listen.

I’m saying goodbye to my pastor. It’s possible I’ll have to wait until heaven to see him again. He won’t be part of my life anymore as my pastor. This is hard. We used to get together once a week on Sunday mornings. I rarely missed our meetings and he never did unless he was away for studying or something. He would do all the talking. He never let me interrupt, I just had to sit and listen. But, he ALWAYS had some good things to say and read from the same book every week for the 13 years we’ve been meeting together. It’s pretty obvious he loves that book. He studied it for his education and then decided to make his entire career about that book. He even writes books about that book! And he goes to conferences to tell people about the book. It seems like he wants as many people in the world as possible to know about this book and what it says and what it means and how it has changed the world and people’s lives. I guess that’s ultimately why I’m saying goodbye -- because the Lord is leading him to a new people to talk about his favorite book. I’m glad for that. Sad, but glad.

I liked that book when I met Kevin 13 years ago, but I love that book now and he has a lot to do with that. When he first came to our church, I felt like I’d enrolled in seminary! I was learning Latin and Greek and Hebrew. I was interpreting scripture with scripture. I figured out what the “therefores” were there for! He even threw in English grammar lessons on indicatives and imperatives. Soon, I was seeing connections to Jesus all over the place in that book. It was making sense in a way it never had before. I was beginning to gain a new view of God -- it was an expanding view of God, who was much bigger than I’d ever thought. And my view of sin was expanding too. It was much more repulsive than I’d ever noticed. The more I met with Kevin on Sunday mornings and heard him read that book and talk about it, the more I found myself decreasing and Christ increasing.

Fast forward a few years and I got to see another side of my pastor. Kevin had given me a big view of God and his sovereignty. From Ephesians on week one, to Leviticus, to Revelation, to Mark, to Acts, to Exodus -- it’s obvious that God is in charge, of EVERYTHING. He kept talking about wanting us to be “hugging theologians”, and I was getting the theologian part loud and clear, but hadn’t thought I needed too many “hugs” from my pastor yet. Then, 3 years ago my understanding of the Lord’s sovereignty was put to the test when my daughter Louisa was born with half a heart.

She got really sick after her first heart surgery and her heart stopped when she was 4 days old. We came extremely close to losing her. But the Lord kept her and what followed were weeks of agony in the hospital and back and forth from Ann Arbor to home and a disjointed family life and nothing “normal” at all. But then the “hugs” from my pastor started coming. They came in the form of emails. Even though he was in England for some of those dark days, he kept close watch over his sick and lost sheep. Here’s a few of the email “hugs” from my pastor:

So thankful to hear this good update. You continue to be in our hearts and in our prayers.

I wish I had something more to say, but I guess I can keep saying the same thing. We love you all and are praying for you earnestly. You are completely and utterly in the Father's good hands. He loves you more than you know and loves little Louisa too.

I've been getting the updates today and hearing very good things! What a kind providence. We need to keep praying and hoping. The Lord loves precious little Louisa and has a good plan for her.

Nick and Carissa, it's been absolutely wonderful to read the positive updates on Louisa. How remarkable. The word "miracle" often gets overused, but her life qualifies. I can't wait to meet her.

Oh, the waiting must be so hard, the days must be long, and it must be very difficult to continue to be separated as a family... As it was for Jacob with Rachel may it be for you: that the time seems small because of your great love for her.

Thanks for the update. I can only imagine how nerve wracking these hours and days must be. I’m eager to see you all tomorrow.

Where exactly are you? I’m not sure of the building, floor, room number, or really anything expect that you are in Ann Arbor.

I can’t imagine how overwhelmed you must feel! If the Israelites wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, I guess the Lord can sustain us to plod through all the difficulties of parenting. And you have your share.

And actually, there were quite a few more “hugs” like that (and even some real hugs in person after circling all of UofM’s medical campus for 3 hours in search of a parking spot). So, my theologian pastor knew how to hug me when I was down, lost, scared. He encouraged me to faithfully plod and not despise the days of small things. I’m gonna miss him and I’m gonna miss those hugs.

Louisa was in the ICU for about a month after she almost died. Every night we said goodnight to her and went to our room to sleep. There was nothing we could do. We had to turn her over to the Lord’s expert care and have faith. I knew it was a very real possibility each night when I said goodnight to her that I might not say good morning the next day. So, I figured I’d leave her each night with a blessing I frequently heard from my pastor. He learned it from that book he likes so much.

Numbers 6:24-26 English Standard Version

24 The Lord bless you and keep you;

25 the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you;

26 the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace... Now and forevermore. Amen.

I used to reach around all her tubes and wires and rub her little head and whisper that great big blessing to her, knowing I was leaving her in the very strong arms of her heavenly father. So many times my pastor spread his long Dutch arms up to heaven at the end of our Sunday meetings and at the same time seemed to be wrapping them around me, around all of us. It’s as if he was turning us over to the Lord for the week, knowing he was leaving us in very capable hands.

So, Kevin, Trisha, Ian, Jacob, Elsie, Paul, Mary, Benjamin, and Tabitha, it is our joy to leave you in very capable hands with this same blessing:

The Lord bless you and keep you...