On any given day you might find me muttering, “Yep, jars of clay.”
“That’s right, jars of clay.”
[a knowing nod] “Jars of clay.” [a slight shake of the head] “Jars of clay.”
It’s become a statement of understanding where I now know myself and I see the world a little more clearly than I used to.
We have this treasure in jars clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. – 2 Cor 4:7-9
2 Corinthians 4 is so good, all of it. But the jars of clay lines resonate with me as they create a wonderful picture of our place in God’s world. As Christians we know and trust that God has a purpose and plan for our lives (Eph 2:10, Jeremiah 29:11). We also know that God has generously given each of us gifts to use for His glory (Romans 12, 1 Corinthians 12). However, when it comes down to the practical day-to-day application of these gifts, we’re often lost or overwhelmed. Where do we start? What if we mess up? What if we don’t measure up? Will we let down God? Will we let down others? And inevitably, some of us will quit before we’ve even started. Using our gifts feels daunting.
Launching a non-profit ministry is daunting. I’ve discovered deep–and shallow!–layers of perfectionism inside of myself. My list of “shoulds” in order to be a decent human being is absolutely ridiculous. It’s exactly the kind of thing that makes a person want to go back to bed and forget that the rest of the world exists. Enter 2 Corinthians 4 and this current version of myself who wanders around town thinking, “jars of clay!”
The cracks we all bear are not unknown to God. 2 Corinthians 4 makes that very clear: we all have cracks. We are these precious treasures, each sculpted and formed by a Creator who lovingly built us (Isaiah 64:8) and WE HAVE CRACKS. We’re pitchers that are a bit leaky. We’re cereal bowls with a chipped rim. We’re airtight containers that have lost our perfect seals. We’re kintsugi (look it up and check out Makoto Fujimura while you’re at it) and we’re still beautiful, still treasured, still commissioned to use our gifts for God’s vast kingdom.
Jars of clay.
It’s an acknowledgement that we’ve sinned, all of us, and fallen short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). It’s the truth that not even one of us measures up to a list of “shoulds.” It’s the beautiful reminder that while we’re lined with cracks God’s glory through Jesus is shining so brightly that it cannot be dimmed. We are not to lose heart, fellow Christians. Take comfort in your God who is renewing you day by day.
It never stops. It never takes a break. It never fades off my radar. It sticks to me like my skin, like humidity, like the mosquitoes and gnats and biting flies on my back patio on this late August morning. Everything I do, I do it with diabetes.
I’m tired.
If I go for a walk I go as a woman with diabetes. It might be a long walk and I go with diabetes. Short walk, I still go with diabetes. Hot walk in the August air, still diabetes. Treadmill walk in my air-conditioned home, still doing it with diabetes. Walk with one friend, diabetes.
Walk with one friend and five dogs, still diabetes. Walk with my students through the woods, counting each body, making sure no one is left behind? I’m still a woman with diabetes. A walk through a zoo, weaving among the smells and calls of monkeys and macaws and hippos? Still me, still with diabetes. Sitting on the couch for hours, reading and writing, living the sedentary student’s life? It’s me over here. And lo and behold, the diabetes is with me.
I can eat a salad, and I’m mentally weighing the carbs from the dressing (looking suspiciously at you, lemon poppyseed dressing) and I just know those cranberries, as delicious as they are, will wreak havoc on my blood sugars. I can eat a bowl of cereal and watch my blood sugars skyrocket. I can eat nothing at all and drink sugar-free Gatorade all day long, maybe accented by a cup of steaming chicken broth, but I’m still eyeballing my numbers while gulping colonoscopy prep and pounding down the Zofran so nothing comes back up. I’m doing colonoscopies (hello, late 40’s). With diabetes.
I am a parent, waking up at night to change the diaper of my baby. I am a parent with diabetes. I am a gardener, reaching through late season spiderwebs to collect red fruit and I observe, feel proud, collect my treasures–and I’m a gardener with diabetes. I was a bride in white, entirely overwhelmed and entirely joyful to meet my groom, and I did it with diabetes. I’m a deaconess. I’m a lay counselor. I’m a grad student. I’m a teacher. I’m a director of a non-profit. I have diabetes.
I carried my bulky purse into my college cafeteria when most girls were swinging lanyards, their hands and arms empty. I was just a kid with diabetes. I wasn’t confident.
I went to fun parties in San Francisco, balancing on heels, feeling real cute, holding the smallest clutch I could get away with. Streamlining meant one bag of Skittles, my ID, a credit card, a broken down glucose meter, and a promise from my lifelong partner-date-husband to secure sweets for me if my Skittles ran low. Everyone else fully enjoyed the open bar. I downed Diet Pepsi after Diet Pepsi, truly no need for alcohol with my extroverted zeal empowered by everyone else having a good time. I was a diabetic at a party. Normally I’m a diabetic not at a party.
I’ve been both a camper and a camp counselor, surrounded by pines and dry air in the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, absolutely wrecked by altitude sickness. Driving hours in the dark to the closest pharmacy for more of a product I’d only use when ill. My campers were so worried about me. I was worried about me. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. Still, people who loved me were worried. I got better eventually. Diabetes was a constant.
I ate a fairly pink hamburger and lots of onion rings on a drive to a girls’ trip, resulting in some GI situation that wasn’t pretty. Diabetes was the ringer, the star of the show, the reason why we drove 20 minutes east–me with the airbnb trash can in my lap–to a teeny tiny ER for fluids. There’s a bigger story hidden within this blurb that I’m still not ready to tell, but my ever-present situation of diabetes made it all very interesting. I spent the next few days carefully eating bread, talking to God in the starry night of the Kansas prairies. I cried with my friends. I laughed with them. They loved me well.
I’ve turned down opportunities. I’ve said yes. I’ve denied my actual limits while enacting false limitations. I’ve been brave. I’ve been panicked. I’ve been brave and panicked all at once.
The big joke for us diabetics is that we’ve all been told there will be a cure to type 1 IN FIVE YEARS. I was told this factoid in 1994 as a 16 year old. Others have been lied to as well in 2025. The hope of a cure is costly costly costly. Sometimes I hate hope. Yet I am still hopeful.
A life without diabetes clinging to my every move?
Intense winds beat against our house last night and I woke up this morning to yet another branch down on Joe. Say it ain’t so, Joe!
Joe is our pet name for the Kentucky Coffee Tree we lovingly selected and planted in our city’s right of way. (I just googled and learned that this strip of yard has many names. Huh.) The ash borer beetle has made its way to Lincoln, Nebraska, and we didn’t want to wait for the bug to do its work. So we picked Joe as our ash replacement. But personifying a tree can have poor consequences. Just look at my heart after another storm.
Joe is quite exposed to the elements. He doesn’t have another tree nearby and he doesn’t receive shelter from our home either. For years now he has bent and twisted among the prairie winds, but the past year has seen limb after limb broken.
The linden tree to the north of us looks great.
The ornamental cherry to the south is a-okay.
But Joe appears to be following the storyline from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein only… that’s not what we’re asking of you, Joe!
Ugh.
Our entire street was once a parade of ash trees. Apparently developers in the late ‘90s/early aughts were unconcerned with aboreal diversity. Prior to that it was most likely farmland. And prior to *that* it was what all of Nebraska was before white guys showed up. Prairie. Lots of room for wind to blow, for bison to roam, for tribes to live their more-nomadic existences.
So really, why is a Kentucky Coffee Tree even in Nebraska?
We’re a plains state! We favor plants that can survive snowstorms and ice storms and then tolerate summer droughts and sun-baked clay soils. While there is incredible diversity among prairie plants (go visit UNL’s Morrill Hall to learn more), there simply were not a lot of trees around here until fairly recently.
When we moved into our current home there were beautiful twisted river oaks out back in a culvert. I loved them from the get-go, though most have been removed now for safety reasons. Those were the type of trees originally found in low-lying spots. Kentucky Coffee Trees? Not so much.
Did the first pioneer settlers cry over broken trees?
I fell in love with tomato plants in high school. Mr. Golden’s 10th grade biology class to be specific. Ten stars to Mr. Golden and his “Alive and Satisfied” project which encouraged me to grow tomatoes by myself for the first time. My dad always grew tomatoes but this was *my* project and it was for a grade, so somewhere under grow lights off of D Hallway in Lincoln Southeast High School I tried my hand at gardening.
Did my plants produce any fruit? No idea. Did I bring them home after the semester was over? Not a clue. It was the first time, though, that my hands smelled like tomato plants and that was all it took for me to want to grow them again and again.
I am 47 years old now and coming dangerously close to being out of high school for [cough cough] 30 years. Time started moving fast about 10 years ago when our daughter went to middle school and I fully anticipate it will only speed up between now and my first steps into glory. Time is weird like that. Somehow the scent of tomato plants connects all those decades together. It hopscotches among eras and picks up memories from dad’s greenhouse in Augusta, Georgia; Mr. Golden’s warm and very alive classroom; two South 8th Street gardens with tomatoes that sounded like they came from Middle Earth; and now my home garden, planted for the first time among our perennial beds.
Cucumbers are my success story so far this season. I’ve grown them in pots for years and even though I learned something about cucumber sex–sorry, cucumber *fertilization*–with myself and a paintbrush in the role of absent pollinators, pot life was not working out for any of us. This year the death of a climbing rose fortuitously opened up a spot for a vining fruit and, voila, we’ve eaten two cucumbers already.
Math-wise, I’m not certain that my harvests are hugely profitable.
However, numbers cannot determine the quality of one’s life.
I gain copious amounts of joy by gardening. The plants are my babies and I’m obsessed with their health. I had to calm down and quit googling “furling tomato leaves” because I was so concerned with my Romas’ habits. I amended the soul multiple times and eventually told them to go with God. And you know what? There are two green Romas coming along nicely, so… okay then. The cucumbers are trying to overtake the roses, their tender vines sweetly curling around absolutely anything in their paths. And apparently the pollinators, who refused to tend to the pots on my deck, are more than happy to do the cucumber mating dance in a more reasonable location on the ground. My paintbrushes can be retained for their original purposes.
I’m completely certain that my neighbors think I’m insane as I daily, or twice or thrice daily, stand by the front garden, hands on hips, surveying my earthly domain with an admiring and critical eye. Is every home gardener constantly measuring their plants and thinking about how to clip them, divide them, shuffle them, and shift them next year? Is everyone else busting with pride that the black eye susans are finally opening up? Is anyone else wondering if Joe Pye was called a weed because it kind of looks like a weed but then again… THE POLLINATORS. Are other gardeners somewhat horrified that the spireas seem dead set on absolute world domination? Anyone else planning Bunny Soup after re-seeding their zinnias three times? No? Just me?
I buy tomatoes and cucumbers to, yes, fill our bellies. Our yields have become sauce for spaghetti and soup for grilled cheese dipping as well as chili for a burst of summer in the middle of winter. The snappy cucumbers elevate summer sandwiches and are shared with friends. But mostly I fill my arms with vegetable plants as soon as garden centers open up because it makes me happy. It keeps *me* alive and satisfied long after my time in Mr. Golden’s biology class came to a close.
Throughout my entire life Jesus has been my friend. I cannot recall one solitary day in my childhood of thinking Jesus was not for me, not loving me, or not compassionate towards me. Combine that faith in Jesus with a giant creative heap of imagination and you have a version of little Rebecca who was absolutely brokenhearted by passion plays and Good Friday services. Little Rebecca grew into adult Rebecca, but my spirit was just as crushed at such services. I still haven’t seen the Passion of the Christ movie for the same reason I choose not to watch movies with excessive violence towards enslaved Black Americans. I don’t need that in my noggin. My heart is wrenched by such scenes.
I struggle every single year with what we Christians call Holy Week. I don’t like to be forced into imagining the torture of my friend and Savior Jesus. Every year I have an internal–sometimes external–argument where I tell my pretend audience that “you can’t make me repeat all of this again.” You. cannot. make. me. And just to be real clear: we’re all pretending! I mean, this already happened and now we live with a Risen Savior at the right hand of God the Father. I’ve skipped Good Friday services in order to not give in to the deeply sad feelings. Sometimes I simply do not want to cry anymore.
This year we attended a Tenebrae Service and while I did indeed cry, I also felt grateful for the physicality of the memories of Christ’s death. We used our senses to experience dark and light, to listen to mournful music, to witness the Light of Life exiting the building. And I felt camaraderie with my Savior in the depths of despair that life holds. This deep sadness? He knew it. These heartbreaking betrayals? He was there, too. My friend Jesus, the perfect man, knew the same suffering that I know, that my friends know.
Of course the story doesn’t end there. Praise God, THE STORY DOES NOT END THERE. With freedom and perfect abandon we Christians worship a Jesus who did NOT stay dead. He was the Messiah–is the Messiah, the great deliverer–and death couldn’t hold him down. He is the perfect sacrifice and scripture says he died and rose again with our names on his heart and with our sins on his shoulders. His perfect and sinless self for my broken and sinful self. Amen.
All of this believing and remembering (and even present-day pretending during Holy Week) takes faith; I will not say otherwise. I couldn’t buy into it without that leap of faith. I’m here, existing with a faith that ebbs and flows but is always present nonetheless. I’m here, with outstretched hands, receiving daily mercies and grace that come from a Father in heaven who loves me and knows me. I’m here, rejoicing in what I don’t see but what I know deep in my heart until I see our Triune God face to face in glory.
Picture this: excited students on their final day of school before holiday break. They’re hopped up on sugar cookies and dreams of no school for days on end. Popcorn! Movie! Apple cider! Gift exchange! Perler beads (Lord help us all)! Decorate your own sugar cookie! It’s all happening. The time has come for the day to end; the students begin stacking chairs, throwing away trash, breaking down tables, grabbing their things. They head for the exits and then…? A mere table bump turns into a broken-down-table cascade with an APPLE CIDER AVALANCHE. Screams! Panic! Teacher’s gonna teacher, so I grab the Clorox wipes and a giant roll of paper towels and issue orders in a calm voice. Only–as it turns out–the cider avalanche chose to flow downhill onto the finger-sized DIVOTS on the backs of all the tables. Who even knew those divots were there? And what do they even do?? Student who table bumped is extremely embarrassed and keeps muttering the words “failure” under his breath while I pollyanna the situation and encourage my students that “We can do it!” and “No worries!” and “It’s fine!” even though I feel certain there is now apple cider fermenting on spaces previously unknown to man. I have sweat beading in places the sun don’t shine but it’s an interesting finale to an epic semester. We made it. We did it! I finish vacuuming the room, pack up my precious student gifts, head home, take a shower, and Jeremy orders a pizza.
Fast forward 18 hours and picture this: I’m enjoying my first holiday morning by finishing a book on the couch when concerned noises start coming out of my husband in the kitchen. Sink something. Disposal not working. A sweet smell and a powdery residue. Eventually me and my fingers go to check out the situation and I discover that SOMEONE did SOMETHING with wax in the sink and while it smells quite lovely kitchen productions have now come to a screeching halt. This needs management. Put the kettle on, Ma, we need boiling water stat. I use a ⅓ measuring cup to portion out the waxy water that my fingers and a slotted spoon can no longer grab. A pile of paper towels, two tea kettles-full, a gallon and a half of wax-filled water, and distant memories of my calm morning later and the disposal is open but my mind is clogged by WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD SOMEONE DO THIS? Someone is at school and cannot answer for herself. I have less patience with this Someone than the Someone at school yesterday, so it’s probably good the Someone isn’t here.
Ack.
Life is messy.
Learning to be gentle around apple cider is messy.
Figuring out that wax should never go down a sink drain is messy.
Raising children is messy.
People are messy.
I am messy.
There’s no easy fix to messes, but patience, time, and a whole lot of paper towels can cure a number of ills. I don’t know what messes you’re cleaning up this week but you got this, friend. Deep breaths. You’re not alone.
On Sunday, September 17, we said our final goodbyes to our much-beloved baby-old-man dog Shiloh. He was 14 years and 7 months old.
Every year that we marked with him was a year I felt really blessed that he was still around. The dogs in my childhood all came to early and tragic deaths and I had sworn I’d never get a dog again because it was so painful to lose them. I remember crying into my pillow yeeeeeears after these dogs had crossed the rainbow bridge. Tears have never been hard for me to find. Alas, I grew up, got married, and then had a little girl who very badly wanted a puppy. She got one just before her 5th birthday and that was it. I was head over heels for a dog again.
Shiloh’s doggie life paired well with family life, and even now as I go back into my blog archives I can see that he was exactly the same dog through all the years. He always loved to shred tissues. He always wanted to be nearby us, a part of our pack. He loved eating all human food—including veggies, with the exception of undressed lettuce—and was never a snuggly dog. Livia marveled at a few photos of him cuddling with her on the floor of our first home and I assured her that I was very good at snapping photos quickly. He loved his kennel. He loved routine. He understood the pecking order in the house which gave him something of a respectful worship for Jeremy, a loving protective nature toward me, and a sibling relationship to Livia. With me he was equal parts sassy and adorable, and it didn’t help that I found much of his sassiness to be hilarious. I am a far cry from an efficient dog trainer. But with Jeremy’s affinity for structure our Shi was potty trained quickly and was an all-around terrific dog. His enthusiasm for greeting people at the front door was only tempered by hearing loss as he aged. He still surprised us with a few zoomies in these last years. Oh, and he loved to lick. He was a licker. Himself. Others. Obsessed. Kissed the back of Judy Schlarb’s teeth after bible study one day, and one time enjoyed slurping my mouth out when I was laughing so hard I accidentally shut my eyes. That’s not a mistake I made twice.
This week has been the strangest week as we begin to adjust to life without our furry buddy. The tap-tap from his claws has gone silent. No little face appears in my doorway after the guys come over for D&D or Magic. There’s no heavy breathing coming around my side of the bed to see what crumbs have been dropped by the type 1 diabetic mom. No snuffling through the piles in Liv’s room, no nesting on her bed, no staring with rapt attention at the gecko. The morning shift of potty-treat-meds has been traded in for a quiet cup of coffee and time to sit. The evening shift of potty-kennel-treats is no longer necessary. The expenses of an old pup—medicines, dry and wet food, extra vet visits—have been replaced with grief take-out and grief coffees this week. The doorbell draws no barks and no front door scramble. It is quiet uptown… in a canine type of way.
Shiloh ultimately succumbed to congestive heart failure. He lived about 15 months after the condition was diagnosed, which is fairly average I believe. I opted to medicate his little body for all of that time, but his coughing grew worse at the end of last week and his rapid and shallow breathing Sunday morning was not sustainable. I could not ask for more time with him. He had lived so well and so lovingly for so many days. There was truly nothing more to do and enjoy with Shi—we enjoyed each other so fully every day that choosing euthanasia was our final act of kindness for this furry boy who had shared his entire life with us. The emergency vet office here in Lincoln was extremely professional from my explorative phone call around noon to the moment we walked out of their clinic around three hours later. I have been afraid of having to put a pet down for my entire 45 years and in the oddest way possible it felt like a relief to have survived the weight of that event. The vet was incredible. Our boy was so very tired. He very gently and quietly experienced a final rest.
He was the best and I loved him more than words can express.
Shiloh, we love you, bud. I will miss your perfect furry face forever.
Thank you, God, for giving us this precious bit of fluff that brought so much joy and rhythm, hilarity and light to our days. We are grateful. We are sad, but we are grateful, too.
“There’s an opening for a church secretary. Do that!”
“Maybe you should get your counseling degree.”
These are all questions and thoughts I’ve fielded in the past 10 years, so I thought I’d record a few of my thoughts on what I bring to vocational church ministry as a woman.
(Note: this explanation is for those who interpret scripture as limiting preaching and elder roles to men. In short, for those I’ve gone to church with my whole life. Other interpretations open up preaching and eldership to women–and I can understand those viewpoints as well. I’m simply addressing the former perspective in this post.)
I once asked a PCA pastor friend if he thought women could be lower-case P pastors. His response was: of course! What does it mean to pastor someone? What does it mean to be a shepherd? Personally I love the concept of being a shepherdess. It means you teach. You exhort. You encourage. You facilitate. You read, study, and absorb the word of God to better understand it and you take it to people. You create opportunities for learning and for growing. You help build souls. You enter into lives and grieve with others, serve others, connect others, feed and water them.
Preachers preach. And some only preach. In the context of complementarian churches, only men are invited to preach. I’m not arguing with this (at least in this blog post). In complementarian churches, only men are invited to sit on elder boards. And I’m not arguing with this either (at least not in this blog post). Everything else is open to women. Even in complementarian churches.
I already do shepherding tasks. I’ve received training, both in professional contexts and in my denomination’s seminary–and I am eager to work with and for the institutional church. And I want to get paid for it.
That last tidbit is hard for some of my loved ones to swallow. “If you really loved the church why wouldn’t you work for free?”
Ready for this? Because that is unfair. It’s unjust to expect women to work for free when they are gifted, skilled, tested, and have bills to pay.
Women are free to be veterinarians and we know they run fantastic practices. For pay. Women are bankers. Educators. Surgeons. Zookeepers. Women are encouraged to run for office. You vote for them. Women are welcomed into seminary. They are trained. They can get MDivs even in conservative places. But somehow folks want to draw the line at paying a woman to work in a ministry context? No. That is not right.
So, back to “what would you do?”
I’d provide counseling from a pastoral perspective. I’d teach the bible to anyone I’d be allowed to teach. I’d build and develop programs aimed at discipling believers. I’d improve communication between staff and congregants. I’d want to shepherd the sheep the Lord has given us. In short, I would pastor. In this context, I would not preach.
Know what my first real job was when I turned 16? I worked in the church office and I learned from the incredible pastors, elders, deacons, teachers, and youth group leaders that God surrounded me with.
I went to our denominational youth leadership camp for years. (They were training ministry leaders. But now, as a women in her 40’s I’m confused about what opportunities they were actually training us for!)
I began to lead youth group as soon as I graduated from it and it was my absolute JOY to love my middle school girls.
In fact, I adored them so much that I graduated with my bachelors of science in education for middle grades. All the while that I was in college I was focused on ministry as well. An upperclassmen female commended me for speaking up in our youth ministry class as “girls usually don’t speak.” I’ll never forget how surprised I felt that she saw me as brave for raising my hand and asking questions. (This speaks very poorly of how women often feel within our denomination.)
I graduated and immediately went back to working in the church office again. This time, though I continued to provide support at the front desk, I also had the opportunity to receive pay as Children’s Ministry Coordinator. I spent a few years volunteering as co-chair of the Nursery Committee just as we were getting ready to build a brand new nursery. I continued with my youth ministry work for free. And even after the church hired a man to do youth ministry, I worked for free. I finally realized that I was still doing his job and then I exited the program quickly, my sense of inequality only beginning to be developed.
Even after I made the my choice to become at a stay-at-home mom, I worked again administrating the start of a church plant. I got paid for 5 hours a week and sometimes worked twenty. I only stepped away from that position in frustration when it was clear I wasn’t part of the ministry team the way I wanted to be.
My denomination can be a boys club. Scratch that. It *is* a boys club. Much like the old golf courses for men only, the rooms where decisions happen in my denomination is almost always exclusively male.
Elders meetings are for men.
Presbytery meetings are for men. (I’ve both been told “why would you want to come?!” and “you can come sit by me” by pastors when I’ve asked about these regional meetings.)
The country-wide meeting of my denomination is attended by female ministry workers and wives, but you can only vote if you are a man.
See where I’m going with this? We have largely male-dominated spaces because only men can preach and only men can be elders. But guess what? It’s not only men that are called to ministry.
In the spaces I’m in, women have to be invited by a man. Ministry jobs are few and far between, but the doors to that work are opened by men. The job descriptions must be written by men, voted on by men (elders), and then approved by those same men. Women cannot walk into paid ministry work here without an express invitation.
I’ve recently been studying Galatians with a small group of women and I’m more convinced than ever that I have been set free to follow Christ. If I quit following his call on my life–out of fear or out of exhaustion–then I am willingly walking behind prison bars again: It is for freedom that you have been set free!… There is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male or female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.
I am going to minister to others. The Lord has heard my cries, my desires, my hopes. He made me and established his purposes within me to serve him and shepherd his people. I’d love to serve him in a church context, but the best thing is to see what doors he wants to open for me. I’ve been set free–beautifully so–and I will follow my Savior where he leads.
I’m actively posting graduation pictures of my one and only beloved (begotten?) daughter and I have near-constant flashes of school drop-offs in my head. The most challenging ones were in middle school.
So here is my gratitude list for those who helped us through every era and every episode of childrearing.
To those who heard me at my absolute worst, ie, when my middle schooler refused to get out of the car and go to school. Or when she refused to stand up (on E Street, at amusement parks, at the zoo–look, it happened a lot) I was HOT. I said things. Unpretty, ungracious things. You heard me and responded with love and guess what? WE DID IT. We survived. No, scratch that… WE THRIVED.
To those who came and took my kid to school on some mornings. Okay, that was Dad. Thank you, Dad. You and mom and grandma and grandpa deserve so much more than mere words but that’s all I’ve got at present.
To those who literally put my kid in a bathtub and bathed her. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. May your mansions in heaven be filled with every kind of delicious baked good and coffee that never runs out.
To those who hugged my kid and loved her. To those who hugged me and loved me.
To those who took my credit and insurance cards, those who scheduled appointments, those who dealt with canceled appointments and the rare completely-forgot–about-it appointments. Bless you. But even more to those who walked into counseling offices and counseled us, to those who walked into medical offices and gave high fives and cheered her on. You deserve all the stars in the sky for your care for us.
To those who taught. Oh, our dear teachers. Some of you were only okay but some of you were the most stellar people on planet earth. To those who gave tough love. To those who bandaged knees and gave tylenol and provided kotex. To those who listened and reasoned and still persevered and taught new things. I see you and I am you and we needed you at every single turn for the past however many years it took to earn a high school diploma. Some of you have been around that IEP table with us for years and I thank you for your longevity and ability to really see my girl.
To those who simply received this fabulous kid and believed in her from day one. To those who saw her light and didn’t demand she become someone else. To those who encouraged her writing and sculpting and drawing and horseback riding and love of every single animal on God’s green earth. Thank you for the opportunities you’ve given her to grow.
To the aunts and uncles who cheered her on. Biological, adopted, and honorary.
Memories are drifting in and out of my mind while I get ready to host a party to celebrate this moment. You are all a part of our journey and I’m grateful times a thousand for you.
…where two of our foster children came back to us. Our little boys brought a baby brother this time and—in that weird way dreams go—they required a lot of care, as in, all of them were babies with really bad diapers. I was weary in parenting them but also very happy and I remember exclaiming to Jeremy how wonderful it was that I didn’t have a job yet so I could be free to care for them.
I woke up and felt crushed. Crushed with the fact that carrying children in your heart once means you carry them there always. These little boys are my question marks. I’ve tried to figure out where they are and if they’re being cared for, but every avenue pursued for information has been a dead end. I also felt vulnerable, as though Freud himself was examining my dreams and floated out two very big and confusing life issues all in one relatively brief moment of REM.
My life now doesn’t look the way I intended it to. This is quite a theme for me, and sometimes the pain of it will seemingly come out of nowhere and smack me in the face, just like the dream did from last night. As I get older and meet more people, I’m keenly aware that not everyone knows my story. What is obvious about us Tredways is that we have one child. And good grief, sometimes that really kills me. What’s not so obvious is that we said a thousand yeses prior to our four years in foster care and all throughout our time welcoming children in our home. We said yes to adopting children two years before Livia arrived and we haven’t ever closed that door really. We said yes to biological children from the time Livia was one. We loved our peanut baby who is now in heaven, and I went through multiple surgeries and drugs to conceive, all with a no as the final answer. And then we rolled the dice big time and started caring for other people’s children through foster care. We knew reunification was the goal and always cheered on the parents whose lives we were privileged to join for a time. Meanwhile we said yes; yes to all the phone calls for more placements and yes to the children needing a permanent home.
When you say YES all those times and the answer is always NO, you feel confident that God is speaking.
I care too much about what others think. This is a lifelong struggle of mine. But I don’t mind saying out loud that God closed the door to more children.
And then I dreamed again of our little boys.
Oh, this life. It doesn’t always make sense, right? It doesn’t make sense that you could want something very badly and just not get it. It doesn’t make sense how grief works—both in our situation and in your lives, too—and how you might feel fine one moment and feel whammied the next. It doesn’t make sense that the future doesn’t seem crystal clear and that we might have seasons of feeling goal-less and aimless. As much as we fill up our schedules and find ways to be productive and necessary, at the end of the day, what are we doing with ourselves? Where do we find comfort and rest?
I cling to God’s promises in the Bible. I’m completely aware that many of you may not find hope there, but I do. My faith is weak, my vision is poor, my memory is forgetful, and even my dreams sometimes punch me in the gut, but I have faith in a God who is sovereign and who loves me very much. This world has all kinds of trouble, but He is good and He is faithful from the beginning of time to the end.
