Broken

We exited the birthday party amidst a flurry of hugs and smiles and prolonged goodbyes, her arms overflowing and her happiness palpable.  She was chattering away, filling me in on all the details of the sleepover, when a splintering sound halted our conversation.  Turning around, I saw her crumpled on the ground, attempting to salvage the pottery piece she had just created with her friends.  Tears sprang into her eyes.  I knelt down beside her, put my arms around her.  "Oh honey..."  Words failed me.  We gathered up the shards as best we could.  Once in the car, she turned her body away from me, attempting to conceal her lingering tears.  I fumbled my way through a stilted conversation about mistakes happening, and that I think I had glue that could hold it together.  I tried to comfort her.  She tried to be comforted.

When we got home I asked her to take her belongings upstairs while I did the dishes,  promising to sit down with her and my strong glue in a few minutes.  Together we would work on piecing it back together.  "What if it never looks the same again?" she asked.  "It won't, honey.  It will never look the same. There will be cracks and lines and glue showing.  But it will still be your mug."  She turned slowly away and trudged up the stairs. I was sad for her.  She spent time with her friends to create this precious masterpiece, carefully choosing the colors, carefully painting the details.  And now it was shattered into pieces. I busied myself with the dishes as I allowed my thoughts to drift to the unfairness and the whys.

Minutes later, I heard sobbing coming from her room.  Drying my hands, I stood outside her door and asked to come in.  She was curled up in a ball, hair shielding her face.  I sat down next to her, put my hand on her back.  "Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Nothing."

Hmmm....this wasn't going to be easy.  She's my tough one, my big feeler but bigger stuffer.  She's the one who cries the hardest at movies, but hates to show it.  I searched my mind for the elusive key that would unlock her words.

"Sweetie, I know you're feeling big feelings right now, and that is okay! It's so good to feel.  When you feel sad, or angry, or frustrated, it's good.  And it makes you a better person to feel those things, because then you know how other people feel.  It gives you compassion, because then when other people feel big feelings, you can help them, because you know what they're feeling."

Silence.

"I know you're feeling sad.  I'm feeling sad too, because you're sad," my voice trailed.

"No, I'm stupid!  I'm so stupid!  I should have let you carry it!  You asked me if you could carry it, and I said no, and I dropped it!  I am so stupid!"

And there it was - the root of the big feelings: Shame.

Deep down, underneath the surface layers of frustration and sadness, was a core belief: I am shameful.  Shame was the source of the hiding, the pretending.  My heart sank.

"No honey.  You made a mistake.  You are not stupid.  You made a mistake."

I held my daughter as she continued to cry softly, allowing me to comfort her.  I honestly cannot remember what I said, but I think the more important thing was to allow her a safe place to grieve, to affirm that emotions are okay, and to sit with her while she worked out her grief.

The mug probably can be fixed, even if it doesn't look exactly the same.  And that is usually how we approach brokenness, isn't it?  We see broken; we need to fix it.  But people aren't easily fixed.  And sometimes, they don't need to be fixed.

What if, instead of trying to fix the brokenness all around us, we instead try to step into it and be present?  What if we wade into the sadness and the shame and the anger and the big feelings, and say, "I'm here." We may not have a polished speech prepared.  It's okay.  We may not have an immediate answer or solution.  It's okay.  We may not know what the heck to do.  It's okay.  We may be scared, frustrated, or sad ourselves.  It's okay.

Maybe we could leave the fixing to the only One who is qualified to do it.  That's why He came.  Our Rescuer, Our Redeemer, Our Healer, Our Fixer.

What we can do: We can ask questions.  We can listen.  We can give a hug.  We can say, "I understand."  We can say, "What do you need?"  We can pray.

And sometimes, I'd venture to say most times, that is enough.

Shaken

“Before adoption, I believed I was a good mom. My confidence was shaken as I was challenged to become a PhD level psychologist/therapeutic parent overnight with the addition of traumatized children to our family.” -Lisa Qualls, from the blog One Thankful Mom

I read these words the other day and it felt like releasing a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding. I have been processing them ever since. Because they are so, so true.

In a typical child with a typical upbringing in a typical home with typical parents, you see typical development. Even if there are medical issues, learning issues, mental health issues, or emotional issues -- there is a typical foundation with which to work through those issues.

Now turn that sentence around to it’s opposite, and take those children out of their culture, place them into typical family but one composed virtually of strangers -- and there is nothing typical about anything anymore.

I am a learner. I am a planner. If I embark on something new, I want to be fully prepared. Before adopting, we read books and blogs and websites, we talked to other adoptive parents, we met with therapists and specialists. And yet nothing prepared us for the journey we have been on over the past two and a half years.

I thought I was a good mom. I thought I understood kids, and even kids with challenges. I taught for three years at a school for kids with special needs -- surely that gave me insight and tools. I was a dynamic babysitter, nursery worker, and Sunday school teacher -- surely my love for kids prepared me. I was a high school small group leader for nine years -- surely that prepared me to parent teens. Heck, I had thee kids of my own, and I was a good mom to them! We are a great family - stable, secure, loving, close, fun, accepting, and with huge hearts and extra bedrooms. And I was armed with an arsenal of information to boot.

Nothing could have prepared me.

As I talk and interact with other adoptive parents with similar stories to our own, there is a common thread, and it’s this: Navigating our new lives can only be done as a crash course, and the classes are very small.

I read this on another blog, and these words also resonated with me:

“It is like going to the school of what really matters. It is a crash course in getting over pleasing other people. If embraced, this new perspective quickly leads to a far less judgmental stance toward others – we are acutely aware that we never truly know what is under the behavior of that screaming child in the grocery store or that teenager who is “acting out”. We are forced to a deeper reliance on and wrestling with God and are wise to submit to a much slower pace of life. We receive a gift of often being able to see beyond the surface into the deep places of life. It is a portal to true joy.” --from the blog In Pursuit of a Tool Box

I am processing a lot right now, and I know I want to begin writing again. I am praying that God gives me wisdom to know how to do that in a way that respects all those involved in our story, while also attempting to be authentic. If you know me, you know I don’t do fake.

Right now I am searching for the ‘portal to joy’, and finding it elusive. I am wrestling with God over the details of our story. It’s especially difficult wading through dark and heavy in this season, when everything is shiny and bright. But this I do know: God is here.

I read these words yesterday for an Advent series I’m doing, and it brought some measure of comfort:
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” says the Lord God, “who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.” Revelation 1:8 ESV

There are times I long for what was, and other times I long for what will be. I feel caught in the middle right now. But God is. God is here, in my present, right in the middle of my mess. He always was. He always will be.