My mother used to joke to people that she had me so I could be her servant. It wasn't much of a joke. It never made me laugh. Because, unbeknownst to most, it wasn't actually a joke. No, she didn't actually give birth to me with the intent of having a servant. However, she certainly took advantage of the situation. From a rather young age, she had me cleaning and serving her alongside my sister as much as possible. In the midst of the mind games she would play between my sister and I, she would have complete control over us, and exercised it at her will. As I grew older, I grew more defiant, and lazy in her eyes. I stopped doing things as soon as she asked, I would do a poor job, or I would claim I forgot. Frankly, I was tired of fighting such a losing battle to her increasing hoarding tendencies. And, as I thought, and still do, "She is a grown woman. Why can't she pick up after herself?" Honestly, the mess and stench were enough to drive anyone to rebellion.
But, in God's own perfect way, the joke was ultimately on her. I love to serve people. I love to be in the background helping everyone achieve their goals. At any other home, I am always the kid who refuses to sit down after dinner until the kitchen has been cleaned up. I am always the kid with eyes peeled, looking for some way to alleviate a chore from the adults. It's why I love my job as a receptionist at the Church. I do not matter at all, and yet I feel as though I help the staff with all the little tasks that must be done so they in turn may serve the community. I am so inconsequential, but always there to help. In my head God has made it clear why serving others is so good. It is a much more fulfilling experience to me than direct mission work or anything like that. I would much rather be able to facilitate someone's coming to Christ than actually personally help that along. That idea in itself terrifies me. I'm a background and grunt work kind of person. I live to serve. I think, in my gratefulness at being free of my mother, I went back to what I knew, but this time I loved it. God took the punishment and yoke of my abuse and neglect and turned it into this heart that wants nothing but to serve Him. And I do. I find so much joy in trying to help others with their tasks and burdens.
I will say that there are limitations to my service. I could never be a server of food. After living with a hoarder who didn't rinse out anything ever and then asked me to clean those with out a garbage disposal, I am done with dealing with other people's left over food. I can do it occasionally at my own home or Ethan's, but it still makes me a little sick. Washing dishes is definitely the area I am weakest at in the area of serving others.
I think the world could really use more people who like to serve. Leaders especially. I am so grateful to God for a heart that finds joy in a most unassuming and easily unnoticed way. I love to find ways to help others. I think we could all use that mindset. The world would be a slightly more pleasant place. I really pray that my daughter has that sort of heart as she grows up. I know her parents have the tools and the love to do it, and I know what a sweet person she can be with them bringing her up. I am really grateful to God for that: the knowledge that it doesn't take an abusive childhood to make a good person. I worried, before I had her. God is so good at easing one's fears. I'm so grateful to Him. I am so excited to spend my life in His service.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Burdens
I will be the first to admit that one of my major flaws is my constant fear of being a burden: to anyone at all at any time in any way whatsoever. It can consume me from time to time, and it can also really hurt my relationships with other people. I would rather be alone and by myself than with people, thinking I am in the way.
This really stems from the fact that I have never truly fit in anywhere. There are anecdotes about me as a child screaming to my mother and sister about how they'll never understand because, I'll quote myself, "I'm not like you people." At the time, in my six or seven year old head in the heat of my melodramatic battle, I blamed this difference on being left-handed, adding to the cuteness of the anecdote, but I did have a point. I was a rather lonely child. Yes, I had my mother, father, and sister for a time, but most of the time my parents fought using my sister as their weapon and largely left me to my own devices, an afterthought, a burden. I knew very early on I was different from them, but I wasn't yet able to see why.
After I left my mother's home, I went to live with my Aunt and Uncle, and once again, did not quite fit in. Obviously, they were and are incredible parents who I know love and care for me, but it could never really be the same as with their own children. Logically, unemotionally speaking, my aunt and uncle weren't actively seeking another mouth to feed and care for, they weren't out in search of a child to take in. They took me in because they felt they were morally obligated to stop the abuse I was suffering at the hands of my mother. I know they love me, but I was undoubtedly a burden. And I could tell. To my biased eyes, where they were somewhat lenient with their own kids about getting jobs and getting out the house or when they got in trouble, they were just harder on me. And Christmases and birthdays were always a bit different for me as well. Whereas it was expected for the kids to get lots of gifts from all over the family, it was a big deal that I got gifts under the tree, too. Because I had not always had gifts under their tree. It was just different. And birthdays were different as well. Gifts were hard for me. I never dared ask for anything very expensive, in fact, I rarely asked for anything at all. I did not want to be a burden to my parents on their holiday budget for the kids, or their budget in general, for that matter.
And now that Ethan's family has also tried to invite me into their home, I am once again feeling burdensome. I really worry I wear their patience thin. I know in my heart I am always welcome at the dinner table, yet my head really tries to convince me otherwise. I am terribly paranoid about being a burden to any of the people God has placed in my life to care about me.
I was so grateful this Christmas when I saw that I, too, had a stocking on Ethan's family's mantel. I was touched. Really and truly touched that these people welcomed me into one of the most sacred of family traditions: Christmas morning. I was over at six to open presents with them, and was so blessed to have gifts under the tree, but once again, the pit of my stomach told me I was being a burden.
Christmas is simply a hard time for me. I love the Christmas season and the lights and the love and the coming together of families, but, this year included, it is just hard for me. It not only reminds me how much of a burdensome parasitic life I have lead, but it is also just one of those rare times when I am sad that I was not meant to have a traditional family on Christmas. I rarely mourn the lack of true mother and father in my life, but Christmas is just one of those. I am also reminded of the Christmases I had growing up, whether it be when my father was alive and he fought with my mother, or when I was with my mother and we had to cancel Christmas because she blew all our money on things we didn't want or need, or with my aunt and uncle, where I was a burden. This Christmas especially irked me, because I was unable to get gifts for anyone. It's not that I am obsessed with the commercial idea of reciprocity, but really that I love giving gifts so much more than getting them. I love excuses to try to show people how much I care for them, and I was unable to do that this year. Christmas is a time of year that reminds me how dirt poor I have been my entire life. Simple as that. Poor monetarily, and poor family-wise as well.
This feeling of being a burden and not belonging is probably a huge reason why I am so eager to marry Ethan. I am ready to have a home where I actually belong, gifts under a Christmas tree that truly belong there, and pictures with me in them hanging on the walls. I am so ready to be done having this feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me how annoying, frustrating, and easily forgotten I am. Because that is the real fear of it all. How easily I could be gotten rid of from all these people who care for me. Their ties to me are not as strong as those forged by mother or father. I have been alone for my entire life, and I look forward to having someone on my team who has pledged to God to never fling me aside no matter what.
Until that time comes where I can get married, I am still an outsider. I have, my whole twenty years on this Earth, been waiting to feel like I belong somewhere. The only place I really truly feel like I am not in the way is when I am alone with God. It's why I like him so much. It is why I would rather be alone than annoy people with my presence. He always cares. He was absolutely right by my side on Christmas morning as I tried to quietly cry into my makeup bag as I got ready for my family's gift exchange. He didn't mind caring for me while I selfishly mourned my silly fears and failings instead of celebrated the coming of His son. With Him, I am never a burden.
This really stems from the fact that I have never truly fit in anywhere. There are anecdotes about me as a child screaming to my mother and sister about how they'll never understand because, I'll quote myself, "I'm not like you people." At the time, in my six or seven year old head in the heat of my melodramatic battle, I blamed this difference on being left-handed, adding to the cuteness of the anecdote, but I did have a point. I was a rather lonely child. Yes, I had my mother, father, and sister for a time, but most of the time my parents fought using my sister as their weapon and largely left me to my own devices, an afterthought, a burden. I knew very early on I was different from them, but I wasn't yet able to see why.
After I left my mother's home, I went to live with my Aunt and Uncle, and once again, did not quite fit in. Obviously, they were and are incredible parents who I know love and care for me, but it could never really be the same as with their own children. Logically, unemotionally speaking, my aunt and uncle weren't actively seeking another mouth to feed and care for, they weren't out in search of a child to take in. They took me in because they felt they were morally obligated to stop the abuse I was suffering at the hands of my mother. I know they love me, but I was undoubtedly a burden. And I could tell. To my biased eyes, where they were somewhat lenient with their own kids about getting jobs and getting out the house or when they got in trouble, they were just harder on me. And Christmases and birthdays were always a bit different for me as well. Whereas it was expected for the kids to get lots of gifts from all over the family, it was a big deal that I got gifts under the tree, too. Because I had not always had gifts under their tree. It was just different. And birthdays were different as well. Gifts were hard for me. I never dared ask for anything very expensive, in fact, I rarely asked for anything at all. I did not want to be a burden to my parents on their holiday budget for the kids, or their budget in general, for that matter.
And now that Ethan's family has also tried to invite me into their home, I am once again feeling burdensome. I really worry I wear their patience thin. I know in my heart I am always welcome at the dinner table, yet my head really tries to convince me otherwise. I am terribly paranoid about being a burden to any of the people God has placed in my life to care about me.
I was so grateful this Christmas when I saw that I, too, had a stocking on Ethan's family's mantel. I was touched. Really and truly touched that these people welcomed me into one of the most sacred of family traditions: Christmas morning. I was over at six to open presents with them, and was so blessed to have gifts under the tree, but once again, the pit of my stomach told me I was being a burden.
Christmas is simply a hard time for me. I love the Christmas season and the lights and the love and the coming together of families, but, this year included, it is just hard for me. It not only reminds me how much of a burdensome parasitic life I have lead, but it is also just one of those rare times when I am sad that I was not meant to have a traditional family on Christmas. I rarely mourn the lack of true mother and father in my life, but Christmas is just one of those. I am also reminded of the Christmases I had growing up, whether it be when my father was alive and he fought with my mother, or when I was with my mother and we had to cancel Christmas because she blew all our money on things we didn't want or need, or with my aunt and uncle, where I was a burden. This Christmas especially irked me, because I was unable to get gifts for anyone. It's not that I am obsessed with the commercial idea of reciprocity, but really that I love giving gifts so much more than getting them. I love excuses to try to show people how much I care for them, and I was unable to do that this year. Christmas is a time of year that reminds me how dirt poor I have been my entire life. Simple as that. Poor monetarily, and poor family-wise as well.
This feeling of being a burden and not belonging is probably a huge reason why I am so eager to marry Ethan. I am ready to have a home where I actually belong, gifts under a Christmas tree that truly belong there, and pictures with me in them hanging on the walls. I am so ready to be done having this feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me how annoying, frustrating, and easily forgotten I am. Because that is the real fear of it all. How easily I could be gotten rid of from all these people who care for me. Their ties to me are not as strong as those forged by mother or father. I have been alone for my entire life, and I look forward to having someone on my team who has pledged to God to never fling me aside no matter what.
Until that time comes where I can get married, I am still an outsider. I have, my whole twenty years on this Earth, been waiting to feel like I belong somewhere. The only place I really truly feel like I am not in the way is when I am alone with God. It's why I like him so much. It is why I would rather be alone than annoy people with my presence. He always cares. He was absolutely right by my side on Christmas morning as I tried to quietly cry into my makeup bag as I got ready for my family's gift exchange. He didn't mind caring for me while I selfishly mourned my silly fears and failings instead of celebrated the coming of His son. With Him, I am never a burden.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Holidays
As I reflect on the holiday I just wrapped up and look forward to the one ahead, I realized that no matter who you are, holidays are a bigger source of stress the older you get. However, as a Birth Mother, I realize that holidays can be harder for specific reasons, for those touched by adoption. I have found that unfailingly, there will always be a family member or acquaintance around that just doesn't get it. By that I mean, there will be someone who asks ignorant or insensitive questions. Always. And I don't blame them for it, specifically, but it does lend some stress to those of us experiencing grief.
There are those who just ask the stupid questions, such as "So how is that baby? Oh that's right, you didn't want her" (which hasn't happened to me, for the record), or "Will they let you talk to her, when she's older?" or "So how did that work, again?". Those aren't the worst, but it can be exhausting after a while. A bad one was someone talking about how "Marriage is FIRST, and then you kids can starting having babies." Whoops.
And then there are those who pretend that I didn't sign away my rights to the child and they still have a relationship with her. My mother is a good example of this. My mom was a source of stress to me in of herself, but the baby didn't help. She really likes to think that she will be allowed to have a relationship with the baby someday, which is as far from reality as it gets. When I see her I am inundated with questions and comments and requests to see pictures, which is okay, I suppose, but I have a hard time remembering she is technically the child's grandmother. I guess after the judge granted official guardianship to my aunt and uncle when I was 17, I officially wrote her off in my head, too. But that's another story for a different day. It just is an awkward situation to find yourself in, being asked by relatives who don't actually care enough to know what it is really like.
After the relatives, there is your own self to deal with. And the relatives closest expressing how much they wish things were different, too. It's hard to see the grandmother of the child you chose to give up talk about how much she wished she were closer with the baby. Honestly it made me realize how glad I am that all my grandparents are already with Jesus. I fear how my own grandmother would have reacted to such a situation. And my grandfather. Yikes, thinking about it gives me chills. I don't think I could handle the passive-aggressive guilt trips or questions or being snubbed by them. I know it's odd to be grateful that loved ones are dead, but it's out of my own selfish fear of their opinions of me changing.
I think that itself is why seeing my family that is still alive is so scary to me: their opinions of me. I'm the youngest in the family, and the first dumb enough to get pregnant. Even though I chose to do "an admirable thing" as everyone tells me I did, I am sure they think differently of me, how could they not? I hope they think better of me in the wake of the adoption, but I doubt they really pay much attention. I really fear what they think of me, as everyone does, really. These people have a lot of embarrassing stories on me, and I just hope they think well of me enough not to spread them to the world. you know? Is that secretly the goal of getting along with relatives? I mean I love them and all, but really, I was an idiot kid.
I love my family. They are...well, my family. The one God gave me. They helped shape who I am, and always guarantee an interesting, if not somewhat stressful holiday meal. Though there are lots of areas of hurt for all of us, laughter is ensured at the table when we gather around it, and that was what I was really grateful for this year: laughter. It is such a great healer. Though it's been a long year, with lots of stressful moments, I always have a weapon to combat that stress, be it a giggle, a snort, or an awful, ugly guffaw. Honestly, I think laughter might be one of God's greatest gifts. At least, it's the one that gets me through the holidays.
There are those who just ask the stupid questions, such as "So how is that baby? Oh that's right, you didn't want her" (which hasn't happened to me, for the record), or "Will they let you talk to her, when she's older?" or "So how did that work, again?". Those aren't the worst, but it can be exhausting after a while. A bad one was someone talking about how "Marriage is FIRST, and then you kids can starting having babies." Whoops.
And then there are those who pretend that I didn't sign away my rights to the child and they still have a relationship with her. My mother is a good example of this. My mom was a source of stress to me in of herself, but the baby didn't help. She really likes to think that she will be allowed to have a relationship with the baby someday, which is as far from reality as it gets. When I see her I am inundated with questions and comments and requests to see pictures, which is okay, I suppose, but I have a hard time remembering she is technically the child's grandmother. I guess after the judge granted official guardianship to my aunt and uncle when I was 17, I officially wrote her off in my head, too. But that's another story for a different day. It just is an awkward situation to find yourself in, being asked by relatives who don't actually care enough to know what it is really like.
After the relatives, there is your own self to deal with. And the relatives closest expressing how much they wish things were different, too. It's hard to see the grandmother of the child you chose to give up talk about how much she wished she were closer with the baby. Honestly it made me realize how glad I am that all my grandparents are already with Jesus. I fear how my own grandmother would have reacted to such a situation. And my grandfather. Yikes, thinking about it gives me chills. I don't think I could handle the passive-aggressive guilt trips or questions or being snubbed by them. I know it's odd to be grateful that loved ones are dead, but it's out of my own selfish fear of their opinions of me changing.
I think that itself is why seeing my family that is still alive is so scary to me: their opinions of me. I'm the youngest in the family, and the first dumb enough to get pregnant. Even though I chose to do "an admirable thing" as everyone tells me I did, I am sure they think differently of me, how could they not? I hope they think better of me in the wake of the adoption, but I doubt they really pay much attention. I really fear what they think of me, as everyone does, really. These people have a lot of embarrassing stories on me, and I just hope they think well of me enough not to spread them to the world. you know? Is that secretly the goal of getting along with relatives? I mean I love them and all, but really, I was an idiot kid.
I love my family. They are...well, my family. The one God gave me. They helped shape who I am, and always guarantee an interesting, if not somewhat stressful holiday meal. Though there are lots of areas of hurt for all of us, laughter is ensured at the table when we gather around it, and that was what I was really grateful for this year: laughter. It is such a great healer. Though it's been a long year, with lots of stressful moments, I always have a weapon to combat that stress, be it a giggle, a snort, or an awful, ugly guffaw. Honestly, I think laughter might be one of God's greatest gifts. At least, it's the one that gets me through the holidays.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Beautiful Things
God is so funny sometimes. He is always so ready and willing to answer your fears and doubts, if you'd just be willing to open your eyes. Over the past few weeks, I've been somewhat mourning my dreams of being an actress, of performing and making beautiful things. It has been a bit painful, too, seeing as that dream consumed me for most of my high school years. And, well, I'm surrounded by people who perform. Constantly, people in my life are getting to showcase their gifts and be recognized for how they've grown and learned. I used to be that way. But now that I am a History Major, no one really asks about how I'm doing, or even what I'm doing or learning about, and let me tell you, I'm doing some pretty neat stuff. However, I know people don't want to see me perform a history lesson or showcase my knowledge of Roman Slavery or something.
Honestly, I'm just vain enough to miss the lights, the makeup, the costumes, the immortal words I would spend months of my life cultivating into something for people to see. And I miss the praise and recognition of my talent. I'm vain enough to think I was pretty good. Also, there is something so therapeutic about stepping out of yourself for a while and putting on someone else's shoes. Don't get me wrong, I am not shutting the door on acting all together. I hope to be involved in a community theatre or something when I can, and I'm still minoring in theatre, but right now my life is just not going in that direction.
Last week on our way back to school, I was finally expressing my fears to Ethan, that I am no longer making anything beautiful with my life, and God was really quick to answer me on that one. As soon as I finished telling him this, I got an email from another birth mother who had found this blog and thanked me for what I had written. BAM! As I cried into my chicken nuggets at McDonald's, I knew that God was with me on this one. It's nice to know that writing down my feelings in a somewhat public forum counts as a beautiful thing. However, that doesn't mean that I don't want to take this a step further. I would really like to be able to write a book, or several, or just keep my eyes peeled for opportunities to talk not only to other birth mothers, but other women of God as well. I'd like to find a bigger platform to speak from. In the mean time, I'm grateful to live in a time where I can express myself here, on a blog. No matter how small I think it is, it means the world to me if it just helps a single person on their walk with God. Lord knows how much this blog has helped me.
Honestly, I'm just vain enough to miss the lights, the makeup, the costumes, the immortal words I would spend months of my life cultivating into something for people to see. And I miss the praise and recognition of my talent. I'm vain enough to think I was pretty good. Also, there is something so therapeutic about stepping out of yourself for a while and putting on someone else's shoes. Don't get me wrong, I am not shutting the door on acting all together. I hope to be involved in a community theatre or something when I can, and I'm still minoring in theatre, but right now my life is just not going in that direction.
Last week on our way back to school, I was finally expressing my fears to Ethan, that I am no longer making anything beautiful with my life, and God was really quick to answer me on that one. As soon as I finished telling him this, I got an email from another birth mother who had found this blog and thanked me for what I had written. BAM! As I cried into my chicken nuggets at McDonald's, I knew that God was with me on this one. It's nice to know that writing down my feelings in a somewhat public forum counts as a beautiful thing. However, that doesn't mean that I don't want to take this a step further. I would really like to be able to write a book, or several, or just keep my eyes peeled for opportunities to talk not only to other birth mothers, but other women of God as well. I'd like to find a bigger platform to speak from. In the mean time, I'm grateful to live in a time where I can express myself here, on a blog. No matter how small I think it is, it means the world to me if it just helps a single person on their walk with God. Lord knows how much this blog has helped me.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Birthday
So today is my little one's birthday. It is such a surreal experience. I found myself unable to sleep last night, haunted by ghosts of labor pain and that old enemy, grief. Birth parents are warned constantly that birthdays, Christmas, mother's day, all those sorts of holidays are going to be hard. And yes, they are (I had a pretty rough Mother's Day), but they're also sort of relieving. I'm honestly a little proud that she is a year old. Perhaps it's because I look so much better now than I did. Maybe it's because I've lasted a whole year with this in my life. It is a bit of a milestone, I suppose. It could be that I am proud that I was able to ensure a life that lasted so long, in that weird base instinct sort of way. Historically, if a child made it past their first year. their mortality rate would get better.
In a strange way, I now realize how much I wish we celebrated mothers on birthdays. I feel like they deserve some recognition. I mean, they did all the work, all the birthday kid did was get born! I labored for so long. Where is my cake? Seriously! People really need to start remembering mothers (and birth mothers) on birthdays. Thank them for working so hard to get them here! They deserve more appreciation. "Hey, thanks for giving birth to me and then cleaning my excrement for several years so I could live this long." How hard is that? I don't have the best relationship with my mother, but that woman was on bed rest with me for seven months. Seven months! She worked so hard to get me here! And then on my birthday she would run around and make sure that I was the one who had a good day, as with all the other mothers in the world. They deserve cake, too!
Okay, birthday, back to that. I found myself sad that I won't be able to kiss my girl today, give her cake at exactly 7:32 this evening, and celebrate with that family over the life of this girl. But logically, it's not my place to be there. Her parents celebrate with her. They're the ones who cultivate her traditions and celebrations. I would feel out of place if I were there, in that private celebration of God's blessings. I should celebrate on my own. I would skip class and rest if I could. Spend my day in a bubble bath relaxing and giving thanks while I read and eat to my heart's content.
I am so grateful that she has been here for a whole year. It's so amazing to me that time has flown by so quickly. I find myself looking forward to when she is even older, running around, talking a million miles a minute, knowing exactly who I am. At the same time, I am sad. But of course I am. It's been a year. I am no longer in charge. I left a hospital empty-handed a year ago. And that is still hard to swallow from time to time. And it will never stop being hard. That is just how it works. However, God, is that awesome signature style of His, has prepared me for this my whole life. I am supposed to feel sad. I am supposed to mourn. I am supposed to not be able to sleep and be haunted by sad thoughts. Especially at regular intervals such as Holidays. He does this because He knows that as soon as I am aware of this, I call him to my side to cradle me like the child I am, in the dark as I have a little cry, a perfect mixture of happy and sad. I will never be able to stop singing His praise, but that was sort of the point, wasn't it? I find myself constantly mentioning the adoption, how it has changed me, the instrumental part God played in it, and I realized recently that this is it: my ministry. I feel uncomfortable talking about God with people, but when it comes to the adoption, I could ramble on for days. I mean, I even blog about it! And then give the address to people who seem interested! It is such a strange thing, this ministry that has bloomed over the past year. I love it with all my heart, though. I am so grateful that I got an easy way to minister to those around me. I don't have to draw on anything but my own experiences. How wonderful is that? I guess what I am getting at is happy birthday to my Ministry for God, as well as my girl. Such a blessed year. Quoting what we said constantly during my pregnancy and immediately after: "Hallelujah. God is so Good."
In a strange way, I now realize how much I wish we celebrated mothers on birthdays. I feel like they deserve some recognition. I mean, they did all the work, all the birthday kid did was get born! I labored for so long. Where is my cake? Seriously! People really need to start remembering mothers (and birth mothers) on birthdays. Thank them for working so hard to get them here! They deserve more appreciation. "Hey, thanks for giving birth to me and then cleaning my excrement for several years so I could live this long." How hard is that? I don't have the best relationship with my mother, but that woman was on bed rest with me for seven months. Seven months! She worked so hard to get me here! And then on my birthday she would run around and make sure that I was the one who had a good day, as with all the other mothers in the world. They deserve cake, too!
Okay, birthday, back to that. I found myself sad that I won't be able to kiss my girl today, give her cake at exactly 7:32 this evening, and celebrate with that family over the life of this girl. But logically, it's not my place to be there. Her parents celebrate with her. They're the ones who cultivate her traditions and celebrations. I would feel out of place if I were there, in that private celebration of God's blessings. I should celebrate on my own. I would skip class and rest if I could. Spend my day in a bubble bath relaxing and giving thanks while I read and eat to my heart's content.
I am so grateful that she has been here for a whole year. It's so amazing to me that time has flown by so quickly. I find myself looking forward to when she is even older, running around, talking a million miles a minute, knowing exactly who I am. At the same time, I am sad. But of course I am. It's been a year. I am no longer in charge. I left a hospital empty-handed a year ago. And that is still hard to swallow from time to time. And it will never stop being hard. That is just how it works. However, God, is that awesome signature style of His, has prepared me for this my whole life. I am supposed to feel sad. I am supposed to mourn. I am supposed to not be able to sleep and be haunted by sad thoughts. Especially at regular intervals such as Holidays. He does this because He knows that as soon as I am aware of this, I call him to my side to cradle me like the child I am, in the dark as I have a little cry, a perfect mixture of happy and sad. I will never be able to stop singing His praise, but that was sort of the point, wasn't it? I find myself constantly mentioning the adoption, how it has changed me, the instrumental part God played in it, and I realized recently that this is it: my ministry. I feel uncomfortable talking about God with people, but when it comes to the adoption, I could ramble on for days. I mean, I even blog about it! And then give the address to people who seem interested! It is such a strange thing, this ministry that has bloomed over the past year. I love it with all my heart, though. I am so grateful that I got an easy way to minister to those around me. I don't have to draw on anything but my own experiences. How wonderful is that? I guess what I am getting at is happy birthday to my Ministry for God, as well as my girl. Such a blessed year. Quoting what we said constantly during my pregnancy and immediately after: "Hallelujah. God is so Good."
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Photographs
I have been quietly struggling lately. It is not a struggle for a birth mother(though, that plays into it), it is a struggle for a person from a broken home. When we first were trying to decide if we wanted to give the baby to the family we did, we of course got the usual book about them, but we also got a baby book for their son. It was written to him, from the point of view of his parents, and it was about how God got him to them. Ethan also brought me one for our girl when he went to see them over the summer. I had been wanting to make her one from Ethan and I's point of view from the very beginning, and God handed me that opportunity with a free Shutterfly book that Ethan won through McDonald's Monopoly. Seriously, it was God. I didn't even have to pay for shipping with that monopoly piece. I was so excited.
I made it for her, it was full of pictures of Ethan and I, and it tried to explain just how much we love her. As I made it though, I became more and more aware of the photographs I encountered. And I came to a realization that broke my heart: there is not a house in the world with my pictures hanging in it. I do not have any school pictures tucked away in anyone's wallet. I have no grandparents to proudly say "that's my granddaughter, isn't she beautiful?" to the other octogenarians around them. Nothing. I might as well be invisible to people outside my family, because there is no photographic trace of me anywhere in my life. I first noticed this right after the baby was born and within days, Ethan's mother had pictures printed of everyone holding the baby. Everyone but me. Even my sister was featured. At first we all laughed, 'how did that happen?' 'you should be grateful, you didn't exactly look your best' and all that. But then I started look around more. Nowhere in my Aunt and Uncle's house am I featured. This doesn't really bug me, there aren't many pictures in the house at all, but it still caught my notice. And in Ethan's house, everyone got new pictures printed and featured, even the one I worked so hard to bring into this world. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't expect Ethan's family to proudly feature me in any of their photographs. I am not part of the family. No matter how much we pretend. I am not married to Ethan, I don't wear his name, and I have no right to think I should be in any pictures. That is not what bugged me. What irked me is that I once again, do not have that. My mother's house, to my knowledge, doesn't bear my face anywhere. My father is gone. His side of the family is far off in California and has never met me, much less felt the need to display my likeness anywhere. And all of my grandparents are gone. I never took senior pictures. There is no one to show me off. And that is kind of hard to swallow. Everyone has pictures somewhere they're embarrassed of, that some relation loves whipping out at every opportunity. Me, I have a singular precious box of pictures from my childhood. And that is about it.
Now, I know God gave me this path for a reason, that he gives me strength at every turn, but that doesn't mean that I am perfect. That I don't sit around and wallow in how much this life has hurt once in a while. Because I do, more often than I care to admit. The reason this is so important to me is that photographs are so important in the American culture. People display the people they love, and care about, to remind themselves to love and care about those people. They are hung to commemorate achievements, celebrate great times, and to mourn the loss of others. They're special. Even people who are dirt poor payed to have photographs in the depression. It was important to them. And as the history major that I am sifts through the photographs of yesterday, I can't help but to remember how small the chances are that a photograph of me will survive to tomorrow. That I will be quickly forgotten, because I don't even exist in material culture today.
I am grateful to God that my girl will never know that twinge of pain that is like a knife to her heart. Her picture was hanging in her house before she was even born. I am so grateful that they take the time to have family pictures taken and printed and disbursed among their loved ones. My family only had it together enough to have one picture taken of all four of us, and I was just a baby.
I guess the point I am trying to make is this: take photographs. Print them. Label them. Display them proudly. Do this for everyone you love and care about. Because as someone who has experienced so much pain, throwing invisibility on top of it all isn't really the best way to assure someone they care. I was ignored so much as a child, I have so many trust issues, and I find it hard to believe people actually care about me. I am always sure they like me as a means to get what they want. Lately I have been hearing the evil whispers in my ears that it was all because of what my uterus held. And this poison has been filling my heart with hurt and anguish. I know this is not true, and I know that God made my story so much bigger than having a baby and giving her up. But sometimes, a little reassurance is nice, you know? Take pictures. Write on the back of them. Tell historians what was happening to whom and when and how old they were. Allow your loved ones to live on in archives of tomorrow. But most of all, put them on display. Be proud to show off your people and their accomplishments and their youth and beauty. I find myself praying this morning that at least God in heaven has a picture of me somewhere. That he is gesturing to my loved ones that are with him, and saying (instead of 'look at what she has done') "Just wait till you see what I've got for her next. I am so very proud of her." I am grateful that at least I never have to doubt His love for me. And, that, above all else, is what brings me comfort in this pain.
I made it for her, it was full of pictures of Ethan and I, and it tried to explain just how much we love her. As I made it though, I became more and more aware of the photographs I encountered. And I came to a realization that broke my heart: there is not a house in the world with my pictures hanging in it. I do not have any school pictures tucked away in anyone's wallet. I have no grandparents to proudly say "that's my granddaughter, isn't she beautiful?" to the other octogenarians around them. Nothing. I might as well be invisible to people outside my family, because there is no photographic trace of me anywhere in my life. I first noticed this right after the baby was born and within days, Ethan's mother had pictures printed of everyone holding the baby. Everyone but me. Even my sister was featured. At first we all laughed, 'how did that happen?' 'you should be grateful, you didn't exactly look your best' and all that. But then I started look around more. Nowhere in my Aunt and Uncle's house am I featured. This doesn't really bug me, there aren't many pictures in the house at all, but it still caught my notice. And in Ethan's house, everyone got new pictures printed and featured, even the one I worked so hard to bring into this world. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't expect Ethan's family to proudly feature me in any of their photographs. I am not part of the family. No matter how much we pretend. I am not married to Ethan, I don't wear his name, and I have no right to think I should be in any pictures. That is not what bugged me. What irked me is that I once again, do not have that. My mother's house, to my knowledge, doesn't bear my face anywhere. My father is gone. His side of the family is far off in California and has never met me, much less felt the need to display my likeness anywhere. And all of my grandparents are gone. I never took senior pictures. There is no one to show me off. And that is kind of hard to swallow. Everyone has pictures somewhere they're embarrassed of, that some relation loves whipping out at every opportunity. Me, I have a singular precious box of pictures from my childhood. And that is about it.
Now, I know God gave me this path for a reason, that he gives me strength at every turn, but that doesn't mean that I am perfect. That I don't sit around and wallow in how much this life has hurt once in a while. Because I do, more often than I care to admit. The reason this is so important to me is that photographs are so important in the American culture. People display the people they love, and care about, to remind themselves to love and care about those people. They are hung to commemorate achievements, celebrate great times, and to mourn the loss of others. They're special. Even people who are dirt poor payed to have photographs in the depression. It was important to them. And as the history major that I am sifts through the photographs of yesterday, I can't help but to remember how small the chances are that a photograph of me will survive to tomorrow. That I will be quickly forgotten, because I don't even exist in material culture today.
I am grateful to God that my girl will never know that twinge of pain that is like a knife to her heart. Her picture was hanging in her house before she was even born. I am so grateful that they take the time to have family pictures taken and printed and disbursed among their loved ones. My family only had it together enough to have one picture taken of all four of us, and I was just a baby.
I guess the point I am trying to make is this: take photographs. Print them. Label them. Display them proudly. Do this for everyone you love and care about. Because as someone who has experienced so much pain, throwing invisibility on top of it all isn't really the best way to assure someone they care. I was ignored so much as a child, I have so many trust issues, and I find it hard to believe people actually care about me. I am always sure they like me as a means to get what they want. Lately I have been hearing the evil whispers in my ears that it was all because of what my uterus held. And this poison has been filling my heart with hurt and anguish. I know this is not true, and I know that God made my story so much bigger than having a baby and giving her up. But sometimes, a little reassurance is nice, you know? Take pictures. Write on the back of them. Tell historians what was happening to whom and when and how old they were. Allow your loved ones to live on in archives of tomorrow. But most of all, put them on display. Be proud to show off your people and their accomplishments and their youth and beauty. I find myself praying this morning that at least God in heaven has a picture of me somewhere. That he is gesturing to my loved ones that are with him, and saying (instead of 'look at what she has done') "Just wait till you see what I've got for her next. I am so very proud of her." I am grateful that at least I never have to doubt His love for me. And, that, above all else, is what brings me comfort in this pain.
A Trip to Texas!
Over the long weekend, Ethan and I got to take a trip to see my favorite family. I must say, it was so wonderful! After the long drive we had, it was so nice to walk into a home where I felt so welcomed and loved. After many hugs, the son was so excited to have people to play with. And trust me, I was excited to play with him again! He is so fun, sweet, and smart!
I was amazed at how non-emotional the weekend was. No tears were shed, no pain was had by any of us (except for a couple of sleepy kids once in a while). I was so genuinely happy to see the family as a whole, not just the one I happened to give birth to. She is a giant! I could not believe how big and smart she is! Although she is not talking quite yet, she has a lot to say. She also zips all over the house, crawling as fast as she can. And she had been able to hold onto something and stand herself up for a while, but she is not walking just yet. It is only a matter of time, I am sure.
As a special treat, the family took us to their favorite seafood place in Galveston. It was pretty tasty, and definitely the freshest fish I've ever had. After that, we took a little walk on the beach, an extra special treat just for me, since they knew how much I desperately love the ocean. Now, I know it was technically the gulf, and I know it was not the prettiest beach that has ever been, but I still treasured it. I have only gotten to see the ocean four times now and I relish in it every time I can. As we walked along, I picked up a perfect little shell to mark the occasion.
I love this seashell. It is so perfect and small. And it really represents the time we had with the family. It was small, entirely too short, but it was perfect. I would not trade it for anything, even if I was totally swamped and exhausted this week. I am so grateful to God for the gift of that family, for their presence in my life.
After the beach, we went around the historic parts of Galveston, which I of course loved. We went to an old fashioned confectionery and ice cream parlor. So fun! One of my favorite parts of the weekend was when we had breakfast together the morning Ethan and I had to leave. We had pumpkin coffee cake with it and the little one tried some. She loved it so much! It made me laugh because my biggest craving while I was pregnant was pumpkin. I wanted it all the time. I was sure that since I wanted it so much while I was pregnant, the baby would not like pumpkin at all once she was born. I was wrong!
After we departed, we stopped for a lovely dinner at Ethan's Aunt's house. It was so fun! And I got to play with some sweet doggies, which I always enjoy.
I am so grateful for my trip to Texas. Even if the drivers there really tried to kill me and Ethan! It was so nice to see people that are so constantly on my mind and my heart. I really hope they come to treasure the visits as much as I do someday. Or at least realize how very much they mean to me. I love them. I love Ethan. And I love God for the gifts he has given me. I am so blessed to live in a time where Open Adoption exists. I do not know what I would do if I had lost my daughter completely, instead of gaining a family I love. I cannot imagine the pain that comes with. I am so blessed.
I was amazed at how non-emotional the weekend was. No tears were shed, no pain was had by any of us (except for a couple of sleepy kids once in a while). I was so genuinely happy to see the family as a whole, not just the one I happened to give birth to. She is a giant! I could not believe how big and smart she is! Although she is not talking quite yet, she has a lot to say. She also zips all over the house, crawling as fast as she can. And she had been able to hold onto something and stand herself up for a while, but she is not walking just yet. It is only a matter of time, I am sure.
As a special treat, the family took us to their favorite seafood place in Galveston. It was pretty tasty, and definitely the freshest fish I've ever had. After that, we took a little walk on the beach, an extra special treat just for me, since they knew how much I desperately love the ocean. Now, I know it was technically the gulf, and I know it was not the prettiest beach that has ever been, but I still treasured it. I have only gotten to see the ocean four times now and I relish in it every time I can. As we walked along, I picked up a perfect little shell to mark the occasion.
After the beach, we went around the historic parts of Galveston, which I of course loved. We went to an old fashioned confectionery and ice cream parlor. So fun! One of my favorite parts of the weekend was when we had breakfast together the morning Ethan and I had to leave. We had pumpkin coffee cake with it and the little one tried some. She loved it so much! It made me laugh because my biggest craving while I was pregnant was pumpkin. I wanted it all the time. I was sure that since I wanted it so much while I was pregnant, the baby would not like pumpkin at all once she was born. I was wrong!
After we departed, we stopped for a lovely dinner at Ethan's Aunt's house. It was so fun! And I got to play with some sweet doggies, which I always enjoy.
I am so grateful for my trip to Texas. Even if the drivers there really tried to kill me and Ethan! It was so nice to see people that are so constantly on my mind and my heart. I really hope they come to treasure the visits as much as I do someday. Or at least realize how very much they mean to me. I love them. I love Ethan. And I love God for the gifts he has given me. I am so blessed to live in a time where Open Adoption exists. I do not know what I would do if I had lost my daughter completely, instead of gaining a family I love. I cannot imagine the pain that comes with. I am so blessed.
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