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.
No comments:
Post a Comment