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.

A Cautionary Tale: Watch Your Words

Let me tell you a story about a little girl. We'll call her "Annie."

Annie was a precocious child. Some said she marched to the beat of her own drummer. Her sense of humor was quite developed for such a young child, and she had a knack for sarcasm that sometimes bordered on inappropriate for her age. She enjoyed playing with friends, but sought out the company of adults more than other kids did. She enjoyed listening to them talk, and even tried to add to the conversation most of the time. At first, Annie considered herself to be a normal kid. Then her self perception started changing, slowly but surely. 

As far back as she can remember, Annie's mom had said the same things to her... "Don't be so annoying." "Annie, don't be obnoxious." "Don't wear out your welcome." "You're being overbearing, you need to tone it down."

Eventually, the words that Annie came to use to describe herself were annoying, obnoxious, and overbearing. Those words came to define her. She always worried about how people were perceiving her. She was always hyper-sensitive to any sort of sign, whether verbal or nonverbal, that she was irritating someone. 

By fourth grade, Annie was struggling with depression. She was incredibly good at hiding this, however. She learned early on that being "sad" wasn't really an option for her, so she learned how to fake a smile with her eyes. The eyes were the dead giveaway for a smile... If you could fake that, then you had it made. So she did. But Annie cried a lot, too. At night, when sleep wouldn't come because all of her failures of the day swirled around in her head, she would cry quietly as she prayed desperately for God to change who she was so that she wasn't so annoying, such a disappointment.

This secret world continued through her middle and high school years. There were two different Annies. The public Annie and the private one. The public Annie smiled and pretended that everything was great. Every now and then, she dropped her armor, only to pick it right back up again while brushing off any concern that the breech may have caused. And the private Annie? Well, she continued to berate herself for being so immature, so annoying, so obnoxious, so overbearing. She struggled to be truly present in her friendships because she was self monitoring so obsessively. 

Now Annie found herself in college. Away from all of those who knew her... A perfect opportunity to reinvent herself. She was determined that she would become a new person. One that people would actually like to be around. This was her chance, but she blew it. She showed her real self, she spoke too loudly, stayed too long, said something annoying, drove people away. Thankfully, she did have a group of friends who stuck by her side, that still do, but that didn't ward off the depression. It began growing and consuming her with a vengeance. Finally, in her junior year, she was brave enough to get some help.

As treatment for her depression began, Annie started seeing little changes in herself. She wasn't so paranoid that people hated her, she didn't think that every laugh was making fun of her, she no longer felt like there was a spotlight shining down on her that aimed to show her every imperfection. The depression no longer controlled her every moment, and she was able to relax and enjoy life a little bit.

But the broken record still played in her head... "Don't be so annoying." "Annie, don't be obnoxious." "Don't wear out your welcome." "You're being overbearing, you need to tone it down."

You see, from her earliest moments in life, someone Annie trusted and loved told her that she was broken. Annie knows that her mom loves her, wants what's best for her, and that she was merely doing what she thought was best in trying to mold and shape Annie into a "good person." But the damage was done. The constant reminders had become how Annie defined herself. How she still defines herself. 

Annie still struggles with her self image. She still worries about how annoying and obnoxious she is. She still pushes people away for fear of being too overbearing and that that would eventually lead to rejection. She continues to hold people at arm's length so that when they decide they don't really like being around her, the hurt won't be quite as intense because she's protected her heart. But the real damage is that Annie is living in semi-isolation, keeping herself from being in true fellowship with others. She longs to have that fellowship, the intimate friendships that she sees others enjoying, but it has been such a "no-no" for so long for her, that she's not even really sure she knows how to form them or keep them. She has essentially become an island. 

Moms and dads, teachers, mentors, counselors, adults in general... 

Let me just remind you of how incredibly important your words are. They will either be life giving, or life breaking. They will either affirm the preciousness of a child, or they will begin shaping them into something broken. What you say to a child now sticks with them for life. 

I encourage you to dig deep into yourself and find the words that your parents gave to you. I encourage you to listen to what you are saying to the children in your life. 

And please, I beg of you, don't set your child up to be an Annie. It's a long, hard road to walk.