Mary's Easter

In the sixth month, the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man named Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And the angel came to her and said, “Rejoice, favored woman! The Lord is with you.” But she was deeply troubled by this statement, wondering what kind of greeting this could be. Then the angel told her: Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. Now listen: You will conceive and give birth to a son, and you will call His name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give Him the throne of His father David. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and His kingdom will have no end. Mary asked the angel, “How can this be, since I have not been intimate with a man? ” The angel replied to her: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore, the holy One to be born will be called the Son of God. And consider your relative Elizabeth — even she has conceived a son in her old age, and this is the sixth month for her who was called childless. For nothing will be impossible with God.” “I am the Lord’s slave,” said Mary. “May it be done to me according to your word.” Then the angel left her. (Luke 1:26-38 HCSB)

I often wonder about Mary. I wonder about how freaked out she must have been to (1) have an angel visit her, (2) learn that she would get pregnant without actually, well, you know, and (3) know that the child she would carry, birth, and raise would be God in human form. 

I wonder about what went through her mind. Did she even consider saying no?

Ummm... Mr. Gabriel, sir, with all due respect, I think I'll pass on this opportunity. You see, this just seems a little much. I mean, I'll help out in any way I can, but this whole getting pregnant out of wedlock thing is dangerous business around here. Did you know I could be stoned to death for that? And that's only part of it... This will be God that I'm supposed to be raising. I don't know nothing 'bout raising no babies! What if I do it wrong? He's going to know everything... Like... Everything... That's a little overwhelming for me. I know this girl, Sarah, though. She lives down the road. She's engaged to the town's candlestick maker. She has a terrible singing voice, but otherwise she's pretty awesome. Why don't you go visit her??

Even if this went through her head, she didn't say it. She didn't shy away from the danger of a seemingly impossible situation. Instead, she was obedient. And with her act of instant obedience, the terrible beauty of the Easter story began to form.

Fast forward a few years. Jesus has begun predicting his own death. Mary knows it's true. Even though others doubt Him a little bit, shrugging it off thinking that he's probably just being a little over dramatic, she knows. She's heard His teaching for years... Since he could talk, actually. And she knows the implications of the predictions. Her son will die. Her heart skips a beat, wrapped in anxiety and fear, dreading the days to come.

She watches Him with pride, knowing that He will not shy away from the danger of such an impossible situation. Knowing that with each act of obedience to His father, the time of His death draws closer. Her heart is breaking, screaming for everything to stop so that she can once again shelter her little boy, protect Him. But in her mind she knows that God is faithful. He has shown Himself to be worthy of her trust, her faith, her all... He has never failed her before, even when there seemed to be no way.

She watches her baby's blood spill to the ground. She watches Him falter and fall to his knees. She watches as they drive spikes into His hands and feet. Her own knees buckle and give way beneath her as His cross is dropped cruelly into a hole in the ground. Her stomach jolts inside of her as she watches her baby writhe in agony, trying to breathe. And her heart feels as though it is ripped from her chest when she hears His proclamation, "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit," and goes limp as He dies there before her. 

I can only imagine the terror that she experiences as she watches this horror story play out in front of her. The grief that enfolds her, knowing that she has seen her precious son for the last time. That she will never again hold his hand, hug his neck, hear his voice, see his face. I can only imagine the hopelessness that tears at her soul as she prepares him for burial, wondering why God did not intervene to save His son... HER son. I can only imagine the feeling of abandonment that drove its wedge deep into her heart as she heard the stone being rolled into place and the tomb being sealed off.

And then nothing. For three days she walked through life in a haze. Accepting condolences, but never really hearing. Returning hugs and handshakes, but never really feeling. Eating and drinking to nourish herself, but never really tasting. Walking, but neither really knowing nor caring where she was going. 

It. Was. Over. 

And then she heard a familiar voice. A voice etched so deeply into her mind, her heart, her soul... Her son's voice... Jesus's voice. Did she dare turn around? Did she dare believe that it was possible? 

For nothing will be impossible with God.

I can only imagine the joy, the hope, the love, the relief that exploded in her heart at that moment. As she felt his scarred palms, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed her baby's cheeks... As she experienced her moment of salvation, as she wept over her son, her Lord. 

May Mary's Easter be my own. May I feel her horror as our Lord was tortured and crucified. May I know her grief as He was laid in the tomb. And may I experience her joy, hope, and love that He offers as I hold the hands that have conquered death and the grave. 

We serve a risen Savior, my friends. Glory be!!

My Giant

I was headed to a new school in August. A school in which the majority of my freshman class had grown up together since they were knee high to a grasshopper. I, on the other hand, was new. I had made the volleyball team, thankfully. In the summer practices that preceded the beginning of the school year, I kept hearing about this one teacher... Her name was spoken with a mixture of fear, respect, dread, and even a touch of terror. 

Them: "Who do you have for English?"

Me: "Brenda Davis..."

Them: "Yikes! You'll want to be careful in her class. She does NOT play around. Just do your work and stay under the radar, you'll be fine."

So the first day of school arrives and I almost pass out with the dread of going to English class. (Or it could have been the 105 degree heat that day... I grew up in Mobile.) I walk into her room and take a seat, get out my notebook, and sit quietly, waiting for the dreaded teacher from the black lagoon. An immediate, thick silence enveloped the room as she walked in. 

Mrs. Davis, except for her blond hair, was clad from head to foot in black. Black shirt, black skirt, black shoes, and even black fingernail polish... It was like looking at Viola Swamp. My insides quaked as she let the door slam behind her and she started talking. It was obvious she didn't play around. I knew from that first moment that this would be one class that I would absolutely NOT be able to play around in. She demanded respect, that was for sure. And I was bound, bit, and determined to not become a casualty of her (in)famous wrath.

Fast forward a few months, when Mrs. Davis had finally started wearing some colors other than just solid black... 

High school wasn't exactly the best time of my life. I mean, come on... I was the chubby new girl with acne in a school full of skinny, flawless skinned girls. I found myself, already prone to depression, slipping further into a world of loneliness. Cut off from the world around me by my steadily dropping self-esteem, not to mention my inability to express my deepening sense of depression to any living soul. I was smiling on the outside (after all, that's what everyone expected from me), but my insides definitely didn't match the outside image that I portrayed. 

One particularly rough day, Mrs. Davis noticed that something wasn't quite right. I don't remember what the issue was, or the timing of our conversation, but I do remember breaking down and crying to a woman that I was terrified of. She brought me into her room, closed her door, enveloped me in a hug, and held me while I cried my eyeballs out. All of this would have been enough, but when I finally pulled it together and she let go... she was crying, too. This inexplicable act of compassion, of love, sealed the deal... I had just connected with one of the most influential people in my life. Ever. 

Through all four years of high school, I relied on Mrs. Davis for support. She understood me on a level that most people didn't. She was my teacher for three out of my four years there, but our relationship went much deeper than that. She was a friend, a listener, a shoulder to cry on, an encourager, a speaker of life... She was one of my giants of the faith. Her appeal wasn't simply that she was nice to me or that she showed compassion to me in my most vulnerable times... But she exuded the love of Christ. 

She was Jesus with skin on.

{This was a phrase she used frequently while I was in high school. She still uses it today. And I repeat it... Quite a bit, actually.}

I don't get to see Brenda as often as I'd like anymore. I only go to Mobile a few times a year, and even then, our schedules don't always line up. But more often than not, I end up over at her house. Sitting on her kitchen counter while she cooks, or snuggled up in the front bedroom where you can literally feel the presence of God washing over you. She's met almost all of my kiddos and I know that she prays for me regularly. 

She's still my giant. She's still my Jesus with skin on. 

I treasure every hug, every word of encouragement, every prayer. I have tucked away just about every word she's ever said to me, and I try to live by them. I never both open and close a thank you note by saying, "Thank you," and I think of her every time I use "a lot" to describe a quantity of something. (Don't really live by that one, per se, but I do always chuckle to myself when I use it.) My love for this woman is deep. I miss her so much sometimes that it hurts. I miss her bone crushing hugs and sitting in her lap. I miss her laugh. I miss how easily her eyes fill with tears. I miss her words. 

Every girl deserves to have a Brenda in their life. I don't know who I would be without mine...

BD ~ I love you. You mean more to me than you could ever possibly know. I appreciate you. And I thank you. For every word of life you have spoken over me, for every prayer you have uttered on my behalf, for every hug you have given, and for every moment that you have put your own life aside so that you could be my Jesus with skin on. I. Love. You. 

You are so worth it.

Every night we do the same thing...

We snuggle while I whisper over her.

I love you, sweet girl.

You're my favorite girl.

And you are so worth it.

Last night, my voice caught and tears began to form as I said to my little baby love, "You are so worth it."

It made me think about my Jesus. My savior who declared that I was worth it so many years ago as he suffered on the cross.

He still calls out to me, with his scarred hands held out, waiting for me to fall into his arms...

Erin, you were so worth it.

You were worth every hit.

Every drop of blood.

Every thorn.

Every slap.

Every lash.

Every cut.

Every hurt.

Every nail.

You, my sweet daughter, were worth every single bit of pain. 

Your redemption is complete.

You are paid for.

You are whole.

Your heart is mine.

Yet time and time again, I declare myself to be unworthy of such a love. I refuse to believe that it is available to me. I act as if I am unloved and unwanted. 

And in my unwillingness to accept His love, I have nullified the most incredible gift anyone has ever offered me. I have pushed Him away. I have told Him that His sacrifice, His ultimate sacrifice, is not enough for me. 

So now I run back to the cross. 

Back to His sacrifice. 

Back to His love for me. 

Back to His scarred hands and His open arms. 

Back to His voice... His whisper... 

You are so worth it.

6 Months + Forever

Sweet BB,

Six months ago today...

I answered the phone and said YES. 

I sat at Lifeline waiting nervously for hours. 

I brought you home. 

I gave you a bath. 

I cleaned up more spit up than I ever imagined could come out of one so small.

I gave you another bath.

I dressed you in teeny tiny newborn clothes.

I held you while your cried. 

I held you while you slept. 

I rocked you. 

I sang to you. 

I loved you.

Sweet lovey girl, people say that you're lucky to have me. But they're wrong... I'm the lucky one. Last summer, when my heart shattered into a million pieces, I struggled to put them back together. I tried desperately. I just couldn't do it. 

You see, when Jakobe left me, I knew deep down inside that I couldn't have another baby boy for a while. I was too raw. I was hurt too deeply by his absence. It felt like another boy would be trying to replace the one that I missed, hurt and longed for so desperately. 

So I asked for a girl. I'm so glad I did. 

Baby girl, you have rocked my world. I have found that I can love again. Just as deeply and beautifully as I have with your predecessors. Honestly? I was scared that I had been broken... That I didn't have it in me to love like that again... To love without limits knowing fully that my heart will, once again, lie on the altar in shambles when you inevitably leave. 

I have had six amazing months with you. Amazing doesn't even begin to describe my time with you. I owe so much to you. You have been an intrical part in my healing process... You still are. 

But the moments that I dread with all my heart are just around the corner. In two weeks, we go back to court. I don't know if you'll come home with me or not. I hate not knowing. I hate it with all my heart. I hate thinking about the fact that I may come home to an empty house that night. I hate the fact that someone else will get to see your smiles and hear your coos. I hate knowing that you will, in your own little baby way, wonder where I've gone. I hate that you will be distressed when you can't find me...

I hate, more than anything though, the thought of losing you forever... That you will no longer be mine to love on, to talk to, to play with, to snuggle. I just hate this part. Simply the thought of it makes my breath catch in my chest. It makes my eyes sting, my stomach churn. It reminds me that the hardest thing I've ever faced will come crashing down on me once again.

But BB, hear me when I say this... You. Are. So. Worth. It. 

You are worth every tear that I will shed. 

You are worth every cry that will escape my lips from the broken places deep inside of me. 

You are worth every moment of my grief.

You are worth it, baby girl, because you are worth every moment of my love.

I love you so much that it hurts. I will treasure every single moment I get to spend with you, rock you, feed you, talk to you, play with you, bounce you, kiss you, snuggle you, sing to you, be with you.

I love you, sweet girl, now and forever.

Love,

Mama Erin

Little Baby Belle

Baby girl,

Today you are six months old. I fall more in love with you every single day. Your smile, your laugh, your fat little legs. Every single moment with you is a moment I will cherish forever.

Like each of my babies who have been here before you, I truly don't know how much longer I will have you. I dread the day when I get the phone call that starts with, "So... There's a relative who has petitioned for custody..." Each court date creates a knot in the pit of my stomach that sits like lead, gnawing at my heart and emotions until I know for sure what the outcome is. 

That knot, though, doesn't come from a fear that you will be taken away from me and that I will lose you forever. Baby girl, that day will come, and that is a fact. I pray that it brings with it a continued relationship with you and your family. I want more than anything to watch you grow up and become the woman who God has called you to be. 

But instead, that knot comes from not knowing...

Who will take you home one day that you will call mommy? 

Who will braid your hair and teach you your ABCs?

Whose arms will you run to when you scrape your knees and need hugs and kisses to make it better?

Who will kiss you goodnight and tell you over and over again that you are loved and cherished?

Who will hold your hand when you're nervous about your first day of school?

Who will encourage you to follow your dreams and be your best, even when it's hard?

Who will make you change clothes before you go out because those shorts are entirely too short?

Who will clap for you at your graduation?

Who will walk you down the aisle when you meet the man of your dreams?

It won't be me, sweet baby girl. I mourn that fact. I hate that fact. But the truth is... You are someone else's baby. I truly hope that I get to see some of those moments. I hope that when you look at pictures from your first year of life, you know who I am. I hope that this season of your life isn't hidden away from you, but cherished... I know I'll cherish it forever. And I'll love you for always. 

Swamp-Sitting

My friend, Tajuan? She's a survivor. She has seen the dark places and she has survived. Not only has she survived, but she has emerged from slavery as a beautiful creation that speaks God's mercy and saving grace to others who are trapped in those same dark places. She constantly reminds me of what it means to be a child of the King... To remember where you have been, to reach out to others with your story, but to be healed and free from the bondage that your story can bring. 

The other day, she wrote of her struggles to deal with her past. Her tendency to ignore the harder parts of her story so that she doesn't have to face them dead-on. Here are her words, so beautifully written:

Sitting in the swamp...

Earlier this month a "name" was given to some past experiences I have had. It is an ugly, gruesome name. A name I wanted to deny, rebuke and not accept. Yet, the evidence presented to me (through many conversations) MADE me see the truth in the naming of the crime with the evidence presented. With the "new" evidence I had, I knew I would have convicted someone which less evidence. So, how could I deny it anymore?

My former defense mechanisms wanted to kick in. I wanted to run from it or hurt me because I was hurting. But this time those things didn't make sense to me. I did something different. I sat IN THE SWAMP.

The swamp of ugly details.

The swamp of allowing myself to grieve the pain and loss. 

The swamp of crying out to God. 

The swamp of being MAD at God. 

I put a deadline on the swamp-sitting. I wouldn't let it consume me, but I would and did feel it. I allowed myself time to process it in the muck and mire.

Now it's time for me to walk through it with the new beautiful light of God. He shed light on a dark place for healing. I see the details now, when once they were so confused. Because I allowed myself to sit in it. 

What a revelation!! It didn't kill me, as the enemy wanted me to believe. The enemy had told me, "If you revisit this, you will die from the pain." LIAR!

Praising God for giving me the courage to sit in the swamp, process the ugliness and know that at a specific time it would be over and He and I would walk through it again... BUT THIS TIME I WILL WALK ON TOP OF THE SWAMP WATER. With Him. Revisiting and healing more. Amen!!!

{Written by Tajuan McCarty}

When I read this, a giant lightbulb lit up above my head. I put a deadline on the swamp-sitting. And there is the key piece I have been missing!! 

You see, when Jakobe (Eyelashes) left on June 18 of last year, I got stuck in the swamp. It's not that I was mad because of where he went or who he went to... I'm incredibly thankful for them. But the swamp is just where I end up when a child leaves my home. I drop them off at their new home and then I drive to the Bayou and cover myself in mud and slime. It's unavoidable. The grief that comes with a child leaving is brutal. It's something that I wouldn't wish on anyone. And there's no way to get around it... It will happen, for every kid... Because they're worth loving and they're worth grieving. Getting stuck there, though, is where it becomes problematic. 

Guys, I didn't just get stuck in the swamp, I put down roots. I became one of those creepy trees that has moss hanging all over it and alligators lurking at the base, waiting for their next meal to come along. By the time that I realized I was a creepy swamp tree, my roots were too deep to move. And honestly, I didn't really want to move. I kind of liked it in the swamp. 

The swamp of ugly details.

I could wallow in self-pity, mourning the loss of the dreams that I once had for myself, wondering all the while, "What is wrong with me that I'm not good enough?"...

The swamp of allowing myself to grieve the pain and loss.

I could weep in despair for the child that would never be mine. I could drown in the tears of my broken dreams...

The swamp of crying out to God.

I asked why more times than I can count. I cried out in desperation wanting comfort. More than anything, I self-righteously demanded that God answer my prayers, fix my dreams, mend my broken faith.

The swamp of being MAD at God.

And this is where my roots went deepest. I was mad. I couldn't see His goodness because I felt so betrayed. I couldn't feel His love because of my self-righteous anger. I couldn't accept His answer because it wasn't what I wanted to hear.

And there I have been sitting. Alone in the swamp. Rotting from the inside out. And all the while, trying to look like I was rooted in a bed of daisies. 

So the idea of putting a time limit on my swamp-sitting? Brilliant. 

My swamp sitting days are over. I've been here too long. I'm looking forward to fresh water. To clean soil. And to no alligators.

Will I return every once in a while? Yes. There's no getting around that. Being a foster mom means you will visit, even frequent, the swamp. But next time, I will put a time limit on my stay there. I have too much living to do to get stuck again.

Tajuan, thank you for sharing your story, your beauty, your pain, your life. You lead by example and I'm honored to know you and call you friend.

#freemore

The Foster Family's Family

Around this time four years ago, I informed my parents that I would be getting licensed to be a foster mom that spring. They never blinked an eye...

Since that time, I have fostered nine children and the majority of them have spent a good amount of time with my family and extended family. This time with family is incredibly important in the lives of these children. Please bear with me as I explain why you, as a foster family's family, have such a paramount support role in the lives of these children and families.

These children, the majority of the time, have been pulled out of chaos and have been dropped into a foster home. Now let me be clear... This event in their young lives has nothing to do with them. They were powerless in their circumstances, an innocent bystander who was devastated by the poor decisions of others. They have lost everything they know as familiar and find dear. They have been removed and separated from the people and things that they love. They are lost, hurting, and scared. And more than anything, they need a shelter in the storm. They need to feel safe, loved and protected. 

Will they have behaviors that are different than what you would expect out of your own children? Of course!! Just like the kids down the street from you are being raised in a different environment than at your house, these children are coming from a different environment as well. 

And this is where your amazingly exciting role comes in!!

It is no surprise that all children need to see healthy, stable role models. For kids who have come into care out of situations with unhealthy family dynamics, this may be the only opportunity that they have in life to see these healthy dynamics at work around them. They are now able to see how families communicate, appreciate each other, and love each other in a healthy and appropriate manner. They can begin to see that there are families in which a child can trust their family members to not hurt and take advantage of them. They can see what it means for a family to spend quality time together and have fun. In essence, they can see God's design for family at work...

So whether you are a grandparent, aunt, uncle, cousin, or second cousin twice removed to these foster kiddos, you have an incredibly important supporting role in the lives of those who will come through the home of this foster family!

With that being said, I understand that you may think your family members are weird or crazy for fostering. I know that sometimes there will be children who are difficult to deal with. I can sympathize with you if times are tough and your sister's family just took in a sibling set of 4 children, which is just not in your Christmas budget. I also am quite certain that this decision to foster may even make you feel like there's a strain on your relationship because things are just different now. 

But the most important thing that I can express to you is this...

Your family who is fostering? They need you! They need your support. They need your ear. They need your presence. They need your hugs. 

And their foster kiddos? They need you! They need your example. They need your love. They need your acceptance. 

Whether you agree with the decision that your family members made to foster or not, they need you. Even if you feel like they are making choices that will affect their forever kids' lives irreparably, they need you. If you feel like having extra mouths to feed at Thanksgiving or extra presents to buy at Christmas is just too much of a strain, they need you anyway. What foster families need is for you to put your opinion aside, and support them in their ministry, the amazingly brutiful (brutal + beautiful) ministry that God has called them into. 

And as the saying goes, "It takes a village to raise a child." 

BE. THEIR. VILLAGE.

P-Lee and Squeaker watching some tv.