Raising Special Needs Children ; Finding Hope In The Sorrow

I'm running from the darkness.  Out of breath.  Frantically looking for an escape.  But the darkness continues to pursue me.  Fast becoming haggard from the chase,  there are times when I want to sit down, out in the open, with my arms raised up to the sky, allowing my enemy to capture me.  I imagine myself screaming:  "Go ahead, throw me into your foul pit, slam the door, and swallow the key.  I don't care anymore!"  Wouldn't I then be free in a curious sort of way?  

But I don't do it.  Though tempted and exhausted, I carry on the race because I believe there is a God.  I question His ways at every turn only to find my faith is as tangible as my legs. Though my head tries to deceive me, my legs keep on moving toward the shadow of the Almighty, where beneath His pinions I will find refuge and strength.  

The enemy's name?  Sorrow.

I've been fighting the good fight for more years than I'd like to admit.  Being a mom to three special needs children is, to be quite honest, much tougher than I'd ever imagined.  It is so much more than a full time job that yields no pay.  It is being on your toes, fully in, at all times, while simultaneously juggling the unyielding scrutiny of others.        

Last night, I found myself sitting all alone on the bed with a very giggly girl.  She turns nine in September, but is the size of a six or seven year old.   And she still can't speak.  After a few minutes of wrestling with "The Tickle Monster", she gently rubbed my hair with her little fingers, gave me a big hug, and finally cuddled up to settle in my lap.  Looking down, I noticed a small bruise on the top center of her forehead and kissed it.  

"Why do you bang your head when you get frustrated?" I asked.

She pursed her lips, and for the one billionth time, melted my heart with those gigantic puppy dog eyes.  

"I want you to talk," I continued, "so I can know all the thoughts in that cute little head....then you won't be frustrated anymore."  I again placed a peck on top of her head.

The one way discussion was going well, or so I thought.  Like a light switching on in the darkness, Hope rose from my lap and shot straight up.  At once she went from a snuggly momma's girl to wide-eyed wild child.  Her eyes darted about the room as she gave out full bursts of belly laughs. 

"Your angels?"  I questioned, allowing my own eyes to follow in the direction of hers.  "Hello angels. Thanks for interrupting,"  My words flat, bearing more than a hint of mockery.  "Why don't you tell your Commander I'd rather He send Hope a few words instead of play mates."

Hope ignored me completely.  The angels probably did too, for all I know, because she continued to laugh out loud and flap her arms all around. 

I felt aggravated.  I felt sorrowful.  I felt like a momma who desperately wants to communicate with her child.

Hope flipped up to her feet, and totally uninhibited, began jumping up and down with abandon.  Giggling and bouncing.  Giggling and bouncing.  Playing with her angels....and no longer playing with me.  Feeling that familiar tinge of jealousy, I decided to enter her world.

Standing up on the King sized bed that had been made with care earlier in the day, I jumped with her, holding her hands.  She forgot the angels and totally engaged with me.  Her eyes on my eyes.  Her laughter directed at me.  And I, too, forgot everything else in life except for her.  

I found Hope in the sorrow.  

In that moment, I'd like to think God saw the two of us as His little girls communicating with the same heart of "JOY", drowning out the sorrow as children often do, with play.  Perhaps He even sent His angels to goad me toward it.  

Hope and I ended our day the way we have many times before, learning the same lesson we've both been taught over and over and over again:  words are not needed when you have an abundance of love.  

Our race is not going to be an easy one.  We will continue to be met with challenges along the course that has been laid out for us.  However, if we'll remember to "come to Him as little children"....to laugh...to faith....and to love....we'll make it.  In fact, I believe we'll MORE than make it!


"I have fought the good fight, I have stayed on course and have finished the race.  And through it all, I have kept believing."
(1 Timothy 4:7)

The Heart Of Worship...Jubilee

"Worship" triggers many responses:

RaIsEd HaNdS... Dancing...   singing...

    TEARs...    Shouts of Joy...  Corporate Prayer...   {PEACE}...

But for Jubilee, a teenage girl with Multiple Sclerosis who attends our special needs church service each week, it means all these things and much more.

Tugging on my arm:  "Ma'am, Ma'am,"  Jubilee always calls me Ma'am, even though I've told her my name dozens of times, "God gave me a new song and I want to sing it for you."

Lydia and I were in the church sanctuary waiting on everyone else to arrive.  The blind teenager who depends upon a walker was already sitting down on the front row.  "Sure, we'd love to hear it,"  I said, just as she began to sing:

"Angels watching over me...."

I couldn't understand all of the words, but I did catch those.  She began softly, but as the song progressed, her intensity grew and grew until she finally grabbed onto her walker, held it tight, and pushed it forward allowing herself to drop to her knees with a loud thump.  Instinctively, Lydia and I leaned forward to steady her, but she had everything under control.  

With Jubilee's head now bowed, and arms raised high, the song continued:  "His angels watch over me....His angels watch over you."  Lydia and I continued to look down upon the girl now kneeling on the floor, completely silent, careful not to do anything to disturb her.  The song became soft again until she, too, fell still and quiet.  She then pushed herself up, holding onto her walker, and said aloud:  "Thank you, Jesus, for giving me that song; it sure is a good song."  

After helping guide her back into her seat, we told her how much we enjoyed her singing.  She grabbed my arm once again and whispered:  "Ma'am, angels watch over Hope.  I'm praying God will help her talk."  (notice, she can remember Hope's name, but not mine.  hahaha!)

I lost my breath.  If the Lord is going to answer anyone's prayers, I thought, surely it is the prayers of Jubilee.  Then I hugged her.  Tight.  

"That really hurt my knees when I went down to sing,"  she said rubbing her knees with a giggle.

Lydia and I cracked up.  In response, Jubilee leaned back in the chair, slapped her leg and laughed out loud with us. 

Pretty soon the rest of our group lingered in, ready for worship to begin.  But I couldn't stop thinking about that brief time with a young girl most of the world looks over without notice each day....how she had a song to sing and sang it.  She didn't wait for the crowd to hear it.  She didn't have a four piece band backing her up.  Most of her words couldn't be understood, she didn't sing in key, and there was no rhythm to her simple song.  But it ranked up as high as all of the most beautiful melodies Lydia and I have ever heard.

Yesterday, Jubilee arrived at our church service extra early again.  This time, she asked if she could babysit Hope for me while we waited for everyone else to get there.  She and I, together, pushed Hope around and around and around the little church.    

"I'm a good babysitter,"  she said, out of breath from all the pushing and walking.

"You're the best,"  I replied, marveling at this girl so eager to serve others.

"I'm still praying that Hope will talk."

After wiping a tear and gathering my composure, I answered:  "And I think He's gonna answer that prayer."

"Me too." 

Oh, Father, give me Jubilee's heart of worship

Meet The "REAL" Jesus In The Special Needs Church

Most ministries begin with a goal; ours began with a purpose.  Unable to find a church home where Hope and Charlie could fit in, our family decided if we were to fellowship with other believers on Sundays, we'd have to step out and begin our own service.  So several months ago, in cooperation with a local church (The Refuge Church), we began a service specifically geared to meet the needs of the special needs community.  I'll be the first to unapologetically admit that we've smacked inclusion in the face, but it works.  

Our mission is simple as we set out to deliberately extend the love of Jesus to all people, regardless of ability or disability, by simply offering an opportunity for whole families to celebrate Him freely, without hindrance.  And the keyword here is "freely".  Can't sit still for 45 minutes?  Need to move around?  No problem.  Is your child non-verbal?  Does he/she make loud noises?  You'll fit right in.  Medically fragile?  Physically handicapped?  Bring it on.  This place is intentional.  No one is going to stare or judge.  Those who show up at this service, with the exception of the few who regularly come to support what we're doing, are walking the same walk.  Each time we meet, I welcome the experience as an escape from real life.

Each service begins with upbeat easy-to-sing-along-with music and closes with a prayer tunnel.  We started utilizing puppets several weeks ago, and were pleasantly surprised with the response.  Last week, a family brought several puppets to share with the group.  One of their sons, who has Autism, socked a dog puppet on his hand and stood up front next to me and my puppet, Rosey, before the service began.  For the sake of privacy, I'll call this little boy 'Smiley'.  'Smiley' has dark wavy hair, chocolate brown eyes, and sweeping eyelashes.  He is a gorgeous boy and is so smart, but he struggles with communication and some behavior issues.   With the puppet on his hand, he walked right over to me to show it off:

"Hey Rosey!"  (It never ceases to amaze me how the kids sometimes forget my name, but they never forget Rosey's) 

My puppet replied:  "Well hello there, what's your name little dog?"  

He quickly answered:  "I'm Ralph!"  (which was such a genius response for a whole other reason)

Rosey told him how happy she was to meet him and how she hoped he'd sing along with her when the music began.  The entire time Rosey spoke, his sweet face lit up like the sunshine.  When Rosey finally took a breath (she is sometimes way too talkative), he pointed above the stage with his free hand while still working the dog puppet with his other hand.  Creating a voice for Ralph, which was very unlike his own voice, he asked me about a sign hanging on the wall behind the stage:  

"What's that?"

The Refuge Church had added a large glowing detour sign to go along with their brand new quarterly sermon series.  I hadn't really paid that much attention to it, but this little guy had not only seen it, but was disturbed by it.  His dad had told me a few minutes earlier Smiley almost didn't walk into the sanctuary because of it...so I was prepared:

"I don't know, looks like a sign to me....a big orange glowing sign....what do you think about it?"  Rosey asked him in her high pitched voice, adding lots of her typical drama.

"It's a sign."  he replied, still working his puppet.

I continued through Rosey:  "It doesn't bother me.  I think that sign is just going to hang out up there on the wall and not bother us at all while we sing.  By the way, will you sing with me today Ralph?"  

"YEH!!"  Smiley replied, shaking the puppets head up and down.  

And he did.  When the music began, Smiley and his puppet remained up front, helping Rosey, me, and the others lead worship with songs.  

At one point, I used my puppet to bend down in front of Hope and Charlie to sing....Rosey kissed their cheeks....Hopey even reached out and hugged Rosey's furry body.  I didn't know "Smiley" was paying such close attention, but he was.  Next thing you know, he took his puppet and bent down to allow it to sing for Hope and Charlie, he then went over to an older gentleman sitting nearby and allowed his puppet to give the gentleman a kiss on his cheek.  The joy never left Smiley's face.  He led worship, openly sharing the love of Jesus.  He was comfortable... endearing...  charismatic... and perfect.

Later in the service, a new visitor raised her hand during prayer requests and asked if she could say something.  I'll call her Jubilee.  This young woman has Multiple Sclerosis, is legally blind and dependent upon a walker.  Though her words and thoughts form easily, delivery is difficult.  I had already watched her letting go of her walker to raise her hands during praise and worship, singing out with her whole heart, so I was anxious to hear what she had to say (this is me trying to remember it all):

"I had MS since I was four.  I went to the doctor because I was in so much pain.  I asked God to take my pain away because it was so bad.  My parents put me in a mental facility and I was there for a lot of years until my aunt and my grandmother got me out.  My time there was very bad.  When I got out I was baptized in February.  He saved me.  I'm still in a lot of pain but I trust Him and I want to tell everybody that Jesus loves me and He loves you too."

A few other people shared and then Jubilee's hand shot up once again.  She had something else to say:

"Can I sing a song for everybody that I wrote?" she asked. 

Well of course we all wanted to hear it.  She made her way up to the front, sat on the edge of the stage and sang a song written from her heart called: "Don't Give Up".  I imagine it had been her battle cry for those years she was shuffled from one treatment center to another.   She sang it again for us during last night's service.  Blind, body wrecked with pain, Jubilee became a minister, leading worship as she openly shared the love of Jesus.  She was comfortable... endearing... charismatic... perfect. 

There's another woman.  She's in her thirties and her disability has never been diagnosed.  I'm going to call her "Ruby" because to me, she has become a treasure.  "Ruby" loves my Charlie.  I mean, she LOVES Charlie.  She can't say his name, so she calls him "C" along with giving the sign for "C".   Each week, when Ruby walks in, she immediately begins to bellow:  "C"...."C"...."C" .   Charlie, sitting in his stroller, is then pushed away from me to go along and sit with Ruby and her momma.  Charlie, at age 5, has a mix of Down syndrome and Autism.  If left to his own devices, he'd be happy to stay in what we call "Charlie's World" most of the time, not interacting with anyone.  

Well, for two hours each Sunday evening, Charlie can count on being yanked out of "Charlie's World" by Ruby.  She dotes on him, pets him, picks at him, gets down in his face and says:  "C"...."C"...."C"  over and over and over again.  She kisses him, hugs him, and pushes him in that stroller through the building.  Ruby absolutely showers the love of Jesus upon my little Charlie every week, and in the process, she ministers to me.  Ruby is comfortable... endearing... charismatic... perfect.

I could tell you more stories..... about a mother who's teenage son was kicked out of school by people who couldn't understand his disability....about how she is teaching him to continue to stand with a heart of forgiveness in the face of adversity and to be strong in the Lord..... 

I could go on for days about the father who patiently dances with his daughter each week because he can't resist how she comes to life with the most infectious laughter you've ever heard when the music begins... I could tell you about how this little girl has impacted my own daughter's life....about how Lydia can't wait to see her each week.

I could share with you about a single mom who has adopted two beautiful girls....about how she sacrifices so they can have all they need...

and I could also tell you about two parents who spend hours teaching their young son to recite scripture so he'll be ready for a world that won't always accept him... and about how they're teaching their daughter to come alongside him as an encourager and helper. 

For me, this is church!  This, I believe, is a place where Jesus might choose to come and worship if He were still physically living among us today.  In my mind's eye, I can see the Savior hoping Smiley would use his dog puppet to give Him a kiss on the cheek.  He'd probably raise His hands and sing along to Jubilee's song:  "Don't Give Up!"  And who knows?  Ruby might nickname him "J".

At one time I wondered if Jesus were to show up, would He put on a big healing service and heal them all?  Would He give Hopey words to speak?  And heal her heart defect?  Would He bring Charlie out of "Charlie's World" for good.... and would He give sight to Jubilee?  A "normal" life to Ruby?  With one big swoop of His outstretched arms, would He bring complete healing to them all?  

I don't believe He would.  That thought doesn't even cross my mind anymore.

Worshipping with these precious ones who have been perfectly and purposely created has taught me they are the true ministers of the gospel.  Through the veil of something society has deemed to be a disability, the Father has imbued these special soldiers with the supernatural gift of being real.  Like Him.  And the truth is, they can be nothing less.  No masks.  No hidden agenda.  No false pretenses.  Uninhibited, they are child-like, free, and present.  

And that's who I want to be.  

If something frightens me or makes me uncomfortable, I want to muster the strength and honesty of Smiley....to find a way to verbalize my fears and insecurities instead of hiding them.  

When God places a song in my heart, I want to have the courage of Jubilee to get up in front of a crowd and sing it with abandon.  And when my heart is overflowing with love for Jesus, I want to have Jubilee's unwavering excitement to raise my hand and share my story. 

And finally, when someone around me is in need, I want to have Ruby's keen perception.  Oh, to have her unwavering compassion, willing to pour myself out for others with nothing to gain from it. 

This is our ministry.  This is our Jesus.  This is our life.  If you are ever in the Nashville area on a Sunday evening, please come meet Smiley, Jubilee, and Ruby for yourself.  Consider this an open invitation to come see Jesus in a brand new way!   

Reactive Attachment Disorder: A Visit With Natalie (Part 5)

Deep breath.

I no longer had to wonder how the parent of a service man feels when his child returns home from battle....or how the parent of a missionary who is ministering oceans away reacts when she sees her child for the first time after months of separation.  When the door opened, I was living it.

"Hey mom," she said.

Your first inclination might be to take that simple greeting for granted.  However, those two words hold an entire story.  Natalie's story completely entwined with me.  And it is remarkable.

This teenage girl who was once an orphan, who has been pushed to and pulled from four different treatment centers over the course of a single year, who has been placed on and off all sorts of medications to ultimately be taken off of it all....the girl who has been made to dissect feelings she couldn't possibly understand, who was asked to dredge up a past she cannot remember....the one forced to confront anger she never intended, and to deal with actions she regrets with every fiber of her being...this teenager who hated me and sought ways to hurt me....in facing me for the first time in eight months was comfortable enough to simply greet me with:  "Hey mom".

The words symbolized home.  They are two words typical, run of the mill, ordinary teenagers use every single day when greeting their moms.  The words are normal.  They are indicative of a fresh start.

My arms opened for a hug:  "Hey Natalie."

She met me half way.  The hug was mutual, not one-sided.

We were given the great room couches to use for our visit.  A beautifully decorated Christmas tree adorned the front window, lights seeming to twinkle with joy for this occasion.  Lydia quickly pulled out her phone to share pictures and video from home.  The pictures of Hope and Charlie helped bring all the tales from home to life.  We laughed.

When was the last time I had seen Natalie laugh?  I couldn't remember.  But it didn't matter.  Here she was, seated beside me, tickled about the funny stories we never would've had if Hope and Charlie were not part of our lives.  Hope and Charlie, the two little ones in our lives who have no words, who have sensory disorders, and who both bear an extra chromosome.  Isn't it funny?  Two who are thought to bring no tangible value to the world are the very ones who brought our family back together that day on a sofa in Missouri.

For a split second, as I sat there, I actually felt the awe and majesty of ONE who sees ahead and provides. Of ONE who knew the adversity Natalie would face when she was still in her birth mother's womb, and in turn, the ONE who saw the trauma our entire family would encounter years after she became part of our own family through adoption.  Only the Masterful Creator of all things would think to use the least of the world...ones like Hope and Charlie....to heal and to restore.

After nearly four hours, when we were standing near the Christmas tree preparing to say our goodbyes, Natalie turned to me.  Chappy and Lydia were still speaking with Mrs. Debbie who had just given us a complete tour of the cozy home that is currently providing therapy and education for 20 teenage girls.  This was a blip in time meant only for Natalie and me.  A blip in time wrapped up as a gift especially for me.  It was appropriate we were near the tree, as if the Almighty Himself planned the whole thing.

She didn't look at the floor and she didn't mumble her words.  Natalie looked directly into my eyes when she spoke:

"If you had not found this place and sent me here, I would be dead.  I had made up my mind that I couldn't live with the pain anymore.  I was going to take my life.  I was going to do it."

Peace washed over me, cleansing me from all doubt and guilt.

"I'm getting better every day.  I'm going to have a good life, I promise I am."

Our goodbyes were full of tears.   But when Lydia, Chappy, and I climbed back into the SUV, returned Natalie's wave, and turned to head back to the hotel, our hearts were full of hope.

The miracle of Christmas is of a Father, who so driven by love for the children who rejected Him, left the comforts of home to enter a foreign place to rescue them.  to love them.  to know them.

The miracle of Christmas for me this year was in my leaving the comforts of home to go to Natalie, the one who had rejected me.  Twelve years ago, I went to her in the foreign land of Russia.  Two weeks ago, I went to her in Missouri.  On this day, she accepted me as her mom.

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on His shoulders. And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.  Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. The zeal of the LORD Almighty will accomplish this." 

Thank you to all who have ordered The Loyalty Lock from Lydia.  She is giving a portion of the proceeds to the therapeutic boarding school where Natalie is residing.  The school is wanting to build a gym for their 20 female residents, and Lydia is determined to help make that happen.  To order your Loyalty Lock, visit:  http://www.loyaltylock.org/  They are $14.99 with a flat $2.00 shipping:

Reactive Attachment Disorder: A Visit With Natalie (Part 4)

Walking through the doors of the market was like taking a step back in time.  A bell, attached to the top of the door, actually rang when we entered.  I couldn't help but think of ZuZu Bailey when I heard it:  "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings."  I needed an angel.

Lydia and I came out of the restroom all washed up and ready to complete the final leg of our journey.  I observed the inventory belonging to this roadside market plunked down on a country road in the middle of nowhere.  It was sparse indicating the place was not accustomed to entertaining large numbers of visitors. The windows in the front of the store nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling, and a fair haired girl with ringlet curls who looked to be three years old pressed her face onto the panes, leaving the print of her nose and mouth behind.  Each time she would pull her face away, she giggled with abandon at the piece of herself left behind on the glass.

She tugged on the shirt of an older gentleman who remained close by her side, even though she could have safely inhabited the entire store with no fear or worries.  Pointing at the disappearing prints, she shined:  "Look Papaw!  It's me on the window!"

He was so kind to her,  patiently standing beside her, laughing out loud along with her.

Near the cash register, stood a woman I guessed to be the girl's mother.  I hadn't noticed her before, but quickly put two and two together and surmised the old gentleman was also her father.  Our eyes met.

"You doin' alright today?"  she asked.

"Yes", then dipping my head toward the window:  "I guess with all this snow and ice, you guys are really feeling the Christmas spirit!"

The twenty something year old, wearing natural beauty in the place of makeup with her hair pulled up into a simple high ponytail said:  "Yep", then looking to the little girl, "especially her."

The one called Papaw was now holding his granddaughter's hand while she carefully hopped from window sill to window sill.  It was her game, and he was happily playing it with a broad smile across his face.

"We don't have much, but we got love.  And that's all that matters this time of year", she continued with a smile.  I could tell she was proud to be the momma of that little giggling bundle of energy.

Then Papaw looked up and spoke to me for the first time.  He had been so in tune to the girl with the ringlet curls, I was unsure he even knew I was nearby.  The dark leathery skin belonging to the man at the center of his granddaughter's affection displayed lines around his eyes proving he had spent many days smiling.  His eyes, though, were deceiving.  They were as blue and as young as those belonging to a teenage boy:

"That's all that matters ANY time of year."

The white haired grandfather then turned back to the frolicking angel.  At the counter, his daughter turned to pour herself another cup of coffee.  And I opened the door, again heard the bell ring, and left.

Chappy had been sitting out in the car waiting.  The car felt warm and comfortable.  The butterflies in my stomach were gone.

When we entered the gates of the "Wings Of Faith Academy", I thought to myself:  "We have love, and that's all that matters."

Chappy parked the car, turned to Lydia and me and announced:  "We are finally here girls.  Let's go have a great visit with Nat-Nat!"

The next thing you know, I was standing on a covered porch, Chappy and Lydia behind me, ringing a doorbell.

The door opened slightly, and we were immediately knocked back by sounds of screaming girls and clapping hands.  At first I couldn't make out what they were saying, probably because I was so surprised by the sound.  But then it became clear:  "We are so proud of you Natalie!  Have a great visit with your family!"

The door continued to open until she appeared.  It was Natalie.

(continued tomorrow)----Thank you to all who have ordered The Loyalty Lock from Lydia.  She is giving a portion of the proceeds to the therapeutic boarding school where Natalie is residing.  The school is wanting to build a gym for their 20 female residents, and Lydia is determined to help make that happen.  To order your Loyalty Lock, visit:  http://www.loyaltylock.org/  They are $14.99 with a flat $2.00 shipping:

    

Reactive Attachment Disorder: A Visit With Natalie (Part 3)

Snow flakes seemed to dance through the air to the Downhere Christmas melody playing on the radio.   So I turned my thoughts to Him.  To the King who gave up His throne for me.  And I wondered about the season called "Christmas" and the adopted Christ child, Jesus.  It was very solemn in the car.  By this time Lydia was nodding in and out of sleep while Chappy focused on following the winding country road that would soon lead to Natalie.  Neither noticed when God wrapped His big arms around me, tenderly tilted my head back onto his chest, and encouraged my mind to once again, take a journey:

"You know, Father, when Joseph adopted Jesus, he didn't get a baby with a lot of problems.  He became the Father of YOUR Son, who by the way, was literally perfect!"

I let the statement settle, making my point.

No answer came, so I considered poor Joseph. His heart must have turned flips when the angel said:  'Joseph, don't be afraid to take Mary as your wife, because the child growing within her was conceived by God....oh, and by the way, He's the promised Messiah.'

AND regardless of the angel's warning to not be afraid, I think it is safe to bet he was very afraid!  Although he grew up well versed in scripture and knew God had spoken to Noah, to Moses, and to Elijah.....the simple carpenter could have never, in his wildest dreams, expected to get a personal call from God.  But there it was.  The Messiah, the long awaited One, would be Joseph's adopted son.    

Hmmmm.  Did Joseph immediately attach to Jesus?  Did he pick the Savior up from the manger, cradle Him in his arms and say:  "My son!"  or did he simply look down upon his tiny face and think:  "You are God's son."

How does one, after all, connect with the Son of God?  What am I asking?  Of course Joseph connected with One who is perfect love, right?  OR....were there issues?

Well at first, when Jesus was just a toddler, things had to be blissful.  Joseph teaching the little fella' to manage His first steps, playing games like peek-a-boo with Him, and encouraging Him to speak His first words:  "Da-Da...go ahead and say it Jesus....I'm your Da-Da".

Oh, well, that might have been awkward. Joseph, knowing the Creator of the Universe sees and hears everything.  He must have felt uncomfortable asking God's son to call him "Da-Da".

(Pause) Why had I never contemplated Jesus' adoption before?

And when did Mary and Joseph tell Jesus He was God's Son?  Surely they did when He was old enough to understand.  How did that earth-saving knowledge impact the relationship between Joseph and Jesus?

Adoption isn't perfect in the very best scenario, so why do I spend time dissecting what I should have done or could have done....when the truth of the matter is I have done my best?  I'm not perfect, so I fit in right with Joseph.

God didn't look for a perfect man to be Jesus' adopted father, because there is no perfect man.  Likewise, God wasn't looking for a perfect mother for Natalie, because there is no perfect female.  In fact, God's proof that He is NOT looking for perfection is the Christmas story.  If human beings were perfect, there would have been no need for the virgin birth.

My head still resting back on Father's chest, He finally spoke with a question:  "Joseph believed.  Do you believe?"

"Do I believe?  I want to believe with everything in my being, Lord.  But I am so afraid.  You know, I have been praying eight years for you to heal Hope's heart, but You haven't.  And you have given neither Hope nor Charlie the ability to talk...and on top of that, they both battle extreme sensory issues.  They are trying so hard to fit into this world You created, but every single day is a monumental struggle for them. People stare at them, feel uncomfortable around them, and reject them.  And it makes my heart hurt so bad.  Then there is Natalie.  I didn't even see Reactive Attachment Disorder coming at me until it had run completely over me. One day my daughter was Natalie, and then the next day she was someone I didn't even recognize.  She was abandoned as a baby, and now she must feel like I have abandoned her too. How can a fifteen year old girl comprehend all she's going through?  Yes, I am doing my best....but my best right now is....."

The car stopped?  When had I dozed off?  I didn't remember feeling sleepy.

"Everybody out.  We are about 20 minutes away and this is the last pit stop before we enter the gates of the Wings Of Faith Academy,"  Chappy said as he unbuckled his seat belt.

I followed his lead, stepped out into the bitter cold, and walked  toward a tiny market alongside a desolate road. There wasn't a car in the parking lot, and not even a single car passed by on the road in front of the market.  Little did I know my chat with God was setting me up for this moment....

(continued tomorrow)----Thank you to all who have ordered The Loyalty Lock from Lydia.  She is giving a portion of the proceeds to the therapeutic boarding school where Natalie is residing.  The school is wanting to build a gym for their 20 female residents, and Lydia is determined to help make that happen.  To order your Loyalty Lock, visit:  http://www.loyaltylock.org/  They are $14.99 with a flat $2.00 shipping:

  

Reactive Attachment Disorder: A Visit With Natalie (Part 2)

Fear.  He is a tormentor, isn't he?  A sort of invisible thief who cruelly swipes all security from his target only to replace it with a terror that literally chokes the freedom from life.

What a quandary.  The enemy of fear loomed heavily, yet there Lydia sat.  I wondered when she had mustered the strength. I questioned where her resolve had come from.  And I hoped she was preparing to face fear and to once and for all put the thief away, outside the bars of her heart.

While Lydia occupied a part of my mind, reflections of Natalie consumed the much larger part.  Oh, how my mind raced with thoughts of Natalie.

The first stop along my remembrance path was at a Russian orphanage when I saw Natalie for the first time. You know, it's funny.....I expected to be drawn to her that first moment.  Looking back on it, I believe I expected a bit of magic.  But the truth is, I wasn't drawn to her at all. Sure, I felt sympathy for her.  Who wouldn't? But I was taken aback by my lack of compassion.  

She entered the room whose light was gifted by bulbs topped with old dusty lampshades hanging from the ceiling and whatever trickle of sunlight could wiggle it's way through the heavy curtains donning the narrow windows.  Chappy and I had been seated upon a 1970's velour couch blossoming with burnt orange, mustard yellow, and muddy brown flowers.  By all accounts, it looked like a very ordinary room.  The walls were painted a hospital color of cream, the floors a laminate grayish brown, and a few toys were lying around alongside a child sized table.  The most noticeable quality was the overwhelming stench of cooked cabbage mixed with urine.  The scent made me queasy.

We were told this was the "adoption room" for new parents, a place set aside for the few lucky children who are being inspected by prospective families.  Natalie would enter the room for the first time this day. She had never seen the room in her three years at the Vidnoye baby orphanage, because she had never been lucky enough for a visit from a prospective family.  She had never had a visitor at all.  Until us.

"Chappy and Melanie, meet your new daughter, Natalia".  The little Russian girl wore a very bulky sweater stuffed beneath denim overalls.  The words of introduction came with a big smile from our beloved Susha, the translator who was with us every day during our three week stay in Russia.

The orphanage worker standing beside Natalie in the doorway gave her a nudge, spoke something in Russian, and called her Natash.

I turned to Susha:  "Is her name Natalia or Natash?"

"Oh, her given name is Natalia, but a common nickname is Natash", she answered.

"What do we call her?"

"Ha! Ha!  She is your daughter now, so you may call her anything you want!"

Chappy and I giggled along with Susha, but this was a bit much for me.  The orphanage was proving to be a quite horrible, and this little girl looked very much like a boy.  In fact, our driver (Vitali) asked if we wanted to inspect her to make sure she was a girl.

"Uhm, no, I think we will just trust that she is a girl."

She walked gingerly up to Chappy, as if every step was a difficult one for her to take, and then she put her hand upon his knee. That was the first touch.  I can still see her little face looking up at him.  It was dirty, but not in the sense that most parents think of as dirty.  She was three years old and had never been bathed. Her face was really really dirty. Her hair had been shaved close to her head and the inside of her ears were black with something crusty. She kept her eyes focused on the floor, head down, until the orphanage worker left the room.  Once she heard the door close, she looked up at Chappy and spoke a single word very softly, almost in a whisper:  "Papa".

My heart literally leapt up into my throat as Chappy answered her with a bright smile:  "Yes, I am your papa."  I think I must have used my hand to shut my mouth; it had dropped wide open.  This was actually happening.

We had brought her a few gifts and immediately began giving them to her.  We played together, laughed together, and made a connection.  When our time was up, the door opened to show the orphanage worker again. She showed no emotion whatsoever and did not speak a word.  She simply opened the door and stood, but her presence permeated the room.  In response, Natalie hastily transformed from a little girl into a solider of sorts.  She gently reached out and gave a dutiful hug to each of us, turned with head down, and marched out of the room.

I was astounded.  And at once, I was full of compassion for this child.

My mind then drifted to how my own feelings for Natalie grew over time.  I recalled our trip home to meet family members and friends, of our teaching her the English language, introducing her to different foods, and tucking her safely into her bed each night. I reminisced about her first splash in the swimming pool, her first glance at a Christmas tree, and the way she cuddled her first teddy bear.

Throughout the stream of memories, however, my accusers continued to invade.  Those are the ones who have, in one way or another, sent the message that I am a terrible mom for sending my daughter away, and that Natalie's issues arose because I had not loved her enough.  Their allegations rumbled as intensely as the butterflies in my stomach.  I considered my own failure and silently spoke to God:  "Forgive me for the times I fell short with Natalie.  Forgive me! For...give... me!"

My introspection meandered away from Russia and settled upon the time a teenage Natalie carved words deep into my dining room table.  She later admitted she had used a knife that day and hoped those words would forever remind me of how much she despised and hated me.  So as the car passed by the sleeping fields dotted with rolled up heaps of hay, I went back to the moment I rubbed my fingers over the jagged edges of the grooves she had left upon the once smooth surface of my dining table and demanded she explain why she had destroyed it. I saw the room, me standing on one side of the table and Natalie on the other with Lydia looking on, wide-eyed, from the hallway.  I remembered how angry I became when she seemed pleased with my exasperation, how I had swiftly grounded her for the behavior, and how she didn't seem to care. My accusers were correct in this instance.  I hadn't shown her love or mercy or grace.  What she saw that day, in her mother, was bitterness.

I then remembered how days later I found the same markings on an end table in the great room.  How when I turned to look at her with disbelief, she quickly said with a grin:  "Oh, that was an accident.  I must have been bearing down too hard with my pencil when I was doing my school work."

"You're going to test me, Natalie? Really?"  I thundered,  "You've made up a lie to see if I will give you a consequence for what you are calling an accident?"

She replied flatly:  "I'm not lying.  It was an accident this time."

I saw myself standing over the end table as I spoke to Natalie who was seated at the table in the kitchen: "The same deep groves with jagged edges, written haphazardly all across this table could not have been caused by your writing too heavily on your notebook paper.  This was caused by a knife or a screwdriver....what did you use? and why did you do it?....again?"

She answered with no emotion:  "I'm not lying.  It was an accident this time."

I knew it wasn't.  It was obvious it wasn't.  It was even obvious that Natalie knew her marks could not be misinterpreted.  So again, my daughter....the one who had been deeply wounded in an orphanage the first three years of her life...found no mercy and no grace from me.  Instead, I judged her and lengthened her time of being grounded.

These incidents were followed by so many others.  The incidents began to occur daily, carefully and strategically plotted and planned by a teenage girl who seemed ever determined to prove she would rather be an orphan than my daughter.  I recounted them all as the SUV rolled ever onward. I have recounted them, every single one, for months.  And as I think of them, the faces of those who have accused me pop into my head.  I see their looks of utter disgust.  I feel the cuts from their daggers of judgment.  And I lie down beneath them, rolled into a ball, and I cry out:  "You are all correct! I have not loved her deeply enough!"

A tear escaped my eye...and then another. I immediately brushed them away, making my best attempt to appear I was scratching a bothersome itch on my face so Chappy and Lydia wouldn't notice.

"Wow, how much further 'til we get there?"  I ask, pursuing a way to re-direct my thoughts to something else.  To anything else.

(continued tomorrow)----Thank you to all who have ordered The Loyalty Lock from Lydia.  She is giving a portion of the proceeds to the therapeutic boarding school where Natalie is residing.  The school is wanting to build a gym for their 20 female residents, and Lydia is determined to help make that happen.  To order your Loyalty Lock, visit:  http://www.loyaltylock.org/  They are $14.99 with a flat $2.00 shipping: