Category: infertility

Happy Sixth Birthday, Sweetie

babe

Today is my daughter’s sixth birthday.  Six-years-old!  It is hard to believe.  She is growing up so fast, but she still embodies the innocence of a little girl.  She is sweet, imaginative, affectionate, and emotional.  She also has a sharp tongue at times, and definitely stands up for herself.  

The other day I was watching another little girl while my daughter was engulfed in her swimming class.  This little one, petite in stature with blonde curly hair, was prancing around her mommy and obeying her every word.  She looked just like Tinkerbell.

I thought about the innocence of little girls.  Perhaps my own life experience came into play when dwelling on this, perhaps not.  I just know that girls have always had a difficult road to walk in life, and in many ways, I’m not so sure that it is getting better for them.

And then, I turned to my daughter in the pool, and I was profoundly moved by the thought that she was meant to be my daughter.  The little girl flopping around in the water, half listening to her coach, and giggling with her friends, is just the kind of daughter that I was destined to raise.

She is fierce.  She is unique.  She is tough.   She doesn’t take no for an answer easily, but she knows how to say no (which is exactly what I want in a daughter). She is sweet, temperamental, knows what she wants, and a little bit of an old soul in a little body.

Tonight as I was tucking her into bed, as usual, she asked me to sing her a song.

“Mommy, I don’t want a birthday song.  I want you to sing Amazing Grace, and I want the whole song, not just a little bit of it.”

Before I could sing out the first words of the song, I got choked up a bit.  This song declared itself to me following a call last week from a birth mother of one of my children.  Tonight, it declared itself again by the request of my daughter.  I sang as much as I could remember:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found;

was blind, but now I see.

‘Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear,

and Grace my fear relieved.

How precious did that Grace appear,

the hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares,

I have already come.

‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far;

and Grace will lead me home.

After I finished singing, I leaned over, kissed her goodnight, and said, “Happy Birthday, Sweetie.  Love You.”

The truth is that Grace led us both home…

to a life filled with ups and downs…

to moments of tears and moments of cheers…

to each other…

to love…

and, to the knowledge that we are incredibly loved by an incredible Savior.

Happy Sixth Birthday, Sweetie.

“Our children are not ours because they share our genes…
they are ours because we have had the audacity to envision them.
That, at the end of the day…or long sleepless night,
is how love really works.”  ~ Unknown

photo 1 (13)

You Shook Me Up a Bit, Birth Mother

You shook me up a bit today, birth mother.  Your call at the last half hour of the work day broke up the busyness of paperwork.  The moment I heard your voice say my name, I knew it was you.  It was good hearing from you.  It is something that I do not mind at all.

I never know when you are going to call, but every time you do, I cannot help but be affected by it.  Life has been a little hectic lately.  In the madness of it all, I have found myself barely stopping to inhale, or even exhale.  There have been moments in the past few months where I have felt overwhelmed by parenting; overwhelmed by the challenge of striving to raise kind, happy, faithful, and disciplined children.

There have been moments where my sole focus has been on what the child we share does not do, versus, what he does do.  Yet, when I told you of his recent accomplishments, his strengths, his talents, and his quirks, you gasped, laughed with joy, and thanked me for giving him opportunities in life.  That…birth mother…that shook me up a bit.

The space between our words was filled with just a bit of silence.  That was okay, though.  The gravity of why we are connected carries much weight.  We are connected by a precious little soul.  We are connected by love.

You shook me up a bit today, birth mother.  Your words speared me right into the heart.  While my heart has been worrying about his day-to-day life, your heart has been carrying emptiness to which I do not know.  You told me about all of the pictures I have sent you through the years, and how they are dispersed throughout your living room, and how you surround yourself with pictures of him.  In some sense, it sounded like you have a shrine devoted to the precious boy we share.  This shook me up.

As our conversation ended, your words began to take a more sincere turn.  You spoke of your eternal love for him.  You spoke of your sadness that is carried around on a daily basis.  You told me about how you felt you had to lose him.  In some ways, you believed it was your choice; yet in other ways, it was a choice you had to make.  You hope for a day that it will not hurt so bad; that the loss of him won’t feel as heavy as it does.

And then, you told me that you love me and my husband.  I wanted so badly to say that I love you, too, but the words just would not come.  That…birth mother…that shook me up a bit and caused my heart to wrench.

Your final words to me are ones that stuck to me as I hung up the phone and drove to get the child that has stirred both of our hearts.

“I love him more than words can ever tell.”  

These words from you resonated deep down.

As I stared at the pink sunset declaring itself to me as I drove, the thought hit me that you were probably staring at the very same sunset. You were probably recalling our conversation, my every word, your every word, and details of the incredible child to which we share.

I teared up a bit.  I tuned into a station on Pandora.  As I stared into the sunset, thinking about you, and thinking about our child, I sang every word to the song that was playing:

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.  I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see.  ‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved;  How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed.”

That…birth mother…that shook me up a bit.  

As I tucked our son into bed tonight, I held on to him just a little bit longer.  I told him that I loved him over and over again.  I stared into his soft brown eyes, examined his face, and kissed him.  I thought of you.

The truth is that I love your son…my son…our son…more than words can ever tell.  

All of my children have come to me through the sacrifice of someone else; through the sacrifice of another Mamma who carried them into the world.  The significance of this is something I do not ever want to take for granted.

You shook me up a bit today, birth mother, and I’m so glad you did.

Real vs. Not Real…?

“Mom, are you my real Mom?” My son asked as I started his bath water.  “I’m sorry, Honey. What did you say?”  I knew his question, but I wanted to hear it again so that I could listen for the slight change in his voice when he said the word “real’.

“Are you my real Mom?” 

I stared at him for a minute, poured the body wash into the running water so that bubbles would emerge, and said, “Why do you ask?”  He went on to explain that a boy on his gymnastics team kept saying to him that I was not his real mom.

“Well, I wonder if he meant biological mom.  If he did, then no, I am not your biological mother, but I am your real mother.  I love you and take care of you, and that is what makes me your real mother.”

“But he said that because I was not with you at birth, then you are not my real mom”, my son said.  “Was I with you at birth?”

“No, you were not, but you came to live with us when you were just a tiny baby, and I am your real mother.”

And just like that, he went on to talking about what happened at school.  Just like that, the conversation was over.

My children know they are adopted.  We have discussed what makes us different that biological families.  We have spoken the words of adoption, birth mommy, birth daddy, two moms, two dads, adoptive mommy and adoptive daddy to them since before they could barely speak.  My husband and I have always felt that our duty as adoptive parents is to only speak truth to our children.

They deserve to know that they are adopted.  They deserve to know that they were weaved in other women’s wombs, and that they have biological parents.

It has not been easy, you know.  I suspect that a lot of adoptive families have experienced random conversations about birth parents and adoption at the most unsuspecting of times.  I chuckle a little bit when I hear that adoptive parents are waiting for the “right time” to answer children’s questions about adoption.

The truth is that there will never be a right time.  The right time is when you are driving to school one day and your child suddenly pops you with a question.  The right time is when you stumble across a movie about an adopted child, and your child compares himself or herself to that character.  The right time just might be when your child is settling into a warm bubble bath.

As my son’s mind lingered off to the antics of bath time, my mind kept swirling around the word, REAL.  Why is it that we focus on that word (real) when we live in a time of a lot of artificial things?  There is artificial sweetener, artificial limbs and organs, and artificial insemination; yet still, when it comes to parenting, we use the word real.

Real or Not Real…?  I guess that is the question.

I do not know why we automatically jump to the terms of “real mom and real dad”, but this is what I do know:

  • If one is not real, then one is imaginary.  My husband, myself, and my children are not an imaginary family.  We are a very REAL family.
  • When it comes to parenting, why does “real” even matter?  Would you ask a parent if the discipline bestowed upon his or her children was real?  What about the sleepless nights with newborns…are they real?  And how about those cupcakes you baked for your child’s birthday? Are they real?  See?  It seems silly to question if discipline, sleepless nights, and cupcakes are real. Why then…Why do we choose the word “real” when it comes to motherhood and fatherhood?
  • The day-to-day tasks of parenting are all very real.  My husband and I are not faking it.  We get up each day, remind our children to brush their teeth (multiple times), get them to school on time, hold them while they are getting shots, comfort them while they are sick, encourage them when they are down, admonish them when they are acting in ways that will not help them, cheer for them when they are trying their hardest, discipline them when they need corrected, cry for them when they are struggling to make sense of their worlds, stand up for them when it seems the world is not, feed them, dress them, love them, and accept them.  This is REAL parenting.

If your children have friends who are adopted, then this is what you might want to teach your children about adoption:

Adoptive families tend to stray away from the word “real”.  Instead, we use biological or birth parents.  Adoptive families are just like other families.  We were just put together a little differently.  We live the same. We cry the same. We love the same.  

If you are wondering how adoptive parenting might be different from parenting biological children, or if you have friends who have adopted, remember this….

We are all fighting the same battles.  We have a separate history to consider, but for the most part, we are dealing with the same frustrations that biological families are dealing with.  We are all struggling with how to be better parents.

We are all yearning to raise children who feel they are the center of our worlds, but not the center of the world.  

We are all working to keep our children healthy. We are all considering the future, and what that will look like.  

We are all pouring our entire beings into the little souls we have been given to raise.  We are just like other families.  

We are all praying for our children, asking for protection upon their lives, and carrying a bit of them each day in our hearts.

We are all very REAL parents.

I suppose my son (and my other two children) may face questions and even ridicule in the future about being adopted.  This breaks my heart to consider, but also challenges me even more to be an intentional parent…to love with intention, live with intention, discipline with intention, and educate others with intention.

Real or Not Real…?  

Seems like a silly question.  After all….

We are all very REAL families.

our very real family
our very real family

a broken jar of clay

While studying the story of Hannah for a project I’m working on, I became a little emotional thinking of her. In some respects, I found myself yearning to be sitting next to her while she cried out to the Lord in her anguish over being barren.

I wanted to put my arm around her, comfort her, and tell her that everything was going to be okay.  Although it may sound odd, I felt a kindred connection to her. Tears flowed from my eyes in reading of her and picturing her during her time of need.

Hannah, a broken jar of clay, sought out the Lord in her greatest need.

She didn’t stray from it.

She didn’t make excuses for it.

She declared it.

I felt an overwhelming sense of joy for Hannah, and the gift of a son, Samuel, that she was given. Her story, her life, and her prayers, are so relevant in this world.

I had the realization that Hannah’s story has been told and read through generations and generations of women throughout the world. The power of one woman and her desperation to be a mother has given hope to so many….countless upon countless women….including me….another broken jar of clay.

This one woman, full of anguish over her barrenness, sought the Lord, trusted Him, and never gave up.  Hannah lived many, many years ago; yet, her life and her story continue to resonate in this very time.

Hannah, a broken jar of clay, sought out the Lord in her greatest need.

She didn’t stray from it.

She didn’t make excuses for it.

She declared it.

Are you full of anguish?  Are you in need of answered prayer, a glimmer of hope, and life beyond the sadness to which you dwell?  Are you a broken jar of clay?

Seek out the Lord in your greatest need.  Do not stray from it.  Do not make excuses for it.  Declare it.

Declare the Lord.

Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk, and said to her, “How long are you going to stay drunk? Put away your wine.” “Not so, my lord,” Hannah replied, “I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”
-1 Samuel 1:13-15

Thank you, Lord, for blessing Hannah in her greatest need. Thank you for her, for her life, and for her example for all of the “Hannah’s” in the world.

Happy Eighth Birthday, Baby

Today is my oldest son’s eighth birthday. Tomorrow, we will celebrate with a gaggle of hyper boys, cake, presents, and fun. Today, though, we spent time as a family.

On each of my children’s birthdays, I always escape back to where I was when they took their first breath of Earthly air.8thbday

For two of my kiddos, I had no idea they were even born into the world until those fateful calls from social workers. I did not meet my son until two days after he was born. I met my daughter about seven weeks after her birth. I knew of the birth of my little one, but I was not present for it.

Do you want to know something? While I have had moments when I wished that I was there to hold them the minute they entered this world, I do not regret our experience. It was an arduous path filled with sorrow, and marked with lots of waiting, praying, and clinging on to that space filled with hope, but it is one that I would walk again if I had to.

Being foster and adoptive parents completed us. It made us so incredibly aware of our own faults, our blessings, our trials in life, and just how rich our lives actually are.

I would not trade our experience for anything in the world.

Today is my son’s eighth birthday. Today, I thought of his birth mother. I thought of the moment I first saw him. I thought of years that have come and gone, and I thought of the years ahead.

I love my son. I love him with every single ounce of my existence. I love him despite my own flaws, his quirks, and our faults left somewhere in between.

8th selfie
Happy Eighth Birthday, Baby. You are such a gift to our lives. You have colored our world with more than we could ever ask for. You are an incredible God-given treasure.

We love you forever.

Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.  -Psalm 127:3

Life in the Wasteland

“When I look at my kids, I think about my life. I think about the wasteland of broken dreams, shallow impulses, thick tears, and sorrowful ache. This is what my life could have and even perhaps should have been consumed by. However, during my walkabout, I found meaning. I found life in the wasteland.”

This is an excerpt from my story that I have been writing for the past few years.  I’m not sure what the Lord wants to do with it, but I’m so hopeful that it will touch the lives of those walking sterile in a non-sterile world.

For many years, I walked around feeling as though I was absent of anything that gave life. I was sterile. I was empty. I was broken.

I was a wasteland.

In my brokenness, the Lord met me. He lifted my head. He reminded me that my life is not a wasteland. It is not devoid of life, or anything that gives life to others.

In His mercy, I became a parent. Through my experience, I have learned that I am a broken vessel, but I am mended. I am mended through the gift of salvation, freedom, and grace.

For my friends who are walking barren, I want you to know that you are not destitute. It may feel like it. The emptiness may feel as though it will swallow your soul, but dear friend, it will not.

You are filled with the very Love that has seized the hearts of many. You sway to the rhythm of Mercy.

You are sculpted with incredible, grace-driven Sacrifice.

I am not a wasteland. We are not wastelands! We are children of the Lord. We are unique. We are not perfect. We are broken…but….

We are Redeemed!

For my friends who are struggling with infertility, whose every breath is filled with the desire to be a Mamma, I encourage you to cling to the Anchor of Hope.

Photo Credit: Ann Conn
Photo Credit: Ann Conn

Through the Lord, we are filled with life.  We able to bloom despite the seemingly insurmountable odds surrounding us.  We are not wastelands.

Adoption is Beautiful

I tortured myself recently.  I read a blog about a birthing story, and found myself crying with joy for the couple.  My tears also held within them a sadness for myself, husband, and parents. You can read the story by clicking on this link, Our Birth Story.  While reading the story, I found myself gasping for air, covering my mouth, and wiping away tears that were flowing down my cheeks.

The mother’s words seemed to punch me in the gut.  On the one hand I felt guilty for reading them, as if I had no business exploring her experience.  On the other, I knew that I needed to visit that part of life that has passed me by.

This is at least the second time I’ve done this.  I recently read a blog post, I want to be a doula, that also brought me to tears.  The words of these new mothers are poignant, and reminded me of what I have missed out on.  I do not know why this is…perhaps it is the knowledge that I was not the first person to hold my children.

Proverbs 30: 15-16

15 … There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say not, It is enough:

16 The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough.

Sitting here on the second birthday of my youngest son, I find myself thinking about his entry into the world.  Honestly, I think about all of my children’s journey from the womb to the Earth, and then I get pissed.  Yep.  I said it.  I get angry that I was not the one to bring them into the world.

I did not labor in pain to birth the very beings who have captured my heart.  In the agony of pain, there are life-declaring moments when the hope of the future and a piece of oneself is born.  In the posts I’ve read, I have recognized the beauty I have missed out on…the moments between husband and wife holding their child…the minute grandparents first laid eyes on their grand-babies…and, the gasp of their breaths when realizing the glory of the child they created.

I did not see any of my babies in their first hour of life after-birth.  I did not hear their first audible exclamation to the world that they have arrived.  I did not hold them, feel their tiny bodies against mine, and gaze at the wonder before me.  So, yes.  I get angry about this.

I could never imagine having any different children than my children.  They are Majestically matched to fit our family.  I would not have it any other way…but…I sure wish that I would have been the one to carry them as they developed, pushed with the incredible God-given strength of a woman, and then rested with babe in arms.

Yes, I think about missing out on the beauty of it all.  I think about the laborious, yet incomparable moments of childbirth…the genesis of new life.

Although blessed to be a mother, I still get caught off guard by the pain of barrenness.

I also wonder if I’m a completely selfish person.  Is it not enough that I am experiencing, raising, and growing my children as they meander their way to the Lord’s purpose in their lives?  I mean…am I being completely self-centered to wish that I would have been the one to bring them into the world?

In barrenness, there is courage and resilience.  It may sound odd to say, but in the rawness of barrenness, there is beauty.  It seems to be carved out of the clinging onto prayers in the lost hours of the night.  Choosing to look into the future without infertility and barrenness requires strength beyond measure.  This is the very depiction of beauty.

But just when I start to become consumed by the loss of the human experience I will never have, I begin to think about my own (and many other’s) beauty after becoming a mom for the first time.  In barrenness and adoption, there is an incredible radiance that is found.  There is a courage like no other….courage to venture into waters where land is not seen.  Determination to seek out options that other’s may never have to consider.

There are also moments of grief…extraordinary grief that seems almost too big for any human to consume.  Gut wrenching.  Soul-darkening.  Pain that is impossible to put into words.  Stillness that seems to go against nature.

Then, there are moments of hope spliced into the loss, faith, and the reality of it all.

There are the times when you look upon your child and see that a piece of yourself has been born….perhaps, you will carry on through your children.  In these moments, you feel hope and peace about the future.

In adoption, there are immeasurable moments between husband and wife holding their child for the first time.  There are memory-searing images of grandparents first laying their eyes on their grand-babies…and, there is that gasp of breaths when the gavel falls and the glorious little one is declared forever a part of the family.

And let’s not forget about the birth mothers to whom our children come from.  Their courage to choose life despite hardship, plan adoption with a level of hope and selflessness that is rarely seen in this world, and carry within them the ability to let go when needed, is perhaps one of the most powerful declarations that life is worth it, hopeful, and beautiful.

The mighty truth is that I won’t miss my children’s birthdays, new friendships, discovery of talents, heartache, heartbreak, frustrations, accomplishments, and growth as children of a loving Father.

Although saddened and brought to a place of envy and anger, I’m thankful to have read the blog posts.  I appreciate glimpsing into the rawness of childbirth, the nude emotions of it, and the humanizing words of the mother’s whose agony of childbirth became stories of beauty.

For all of my sisters of the barren womb, and Mamma’s through adoption, your own birth stories are equally beautiful.

The birthing of your fortitude to seek motherhood, the labor of your endurance that clings to hope, characters of your unfolding life-script, humility to answer far too many questions, and the moment your breath is taken away by the gaze of the child to which your soul is settled by, are powerfully, and beautifully sculpted human experiences.

I will probably read more posts about childbirth, and I may cry at each one.  My tears will surely hold the loss that visits me from time to time, but will also carry the joy of my own birthing experience…one filled with courage, resilience, humility, endurance, and remembrance of the first time I looked upon my children.

Yes, in adoption, there is radiance, and many life-declaring moments.

Adoption is beautiful.

what are you waiting for?

What are you waiting for, my friend? Is it a love that has turned away from you, or a friendship that has become tarnished through the years?  Perhaps, it is a reconciliation long overdue, a wayward son, or a door that never seems to open.

My friend, are you waiting for a child to call your own? Are you dwelling in a place of despair? You know this place well, but others do not understand it at all. I suspect this might just be one of the most painful waits of your life.

For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from Him. Psalm 62:5

Do you read that? Our hope is in Him. Our yearnings, grief, desires, and worries may be carried in silence, but in the silence we are met with the hope of the Lord.

Do you know that, my friend? I know the wait (whatever that looks like for you) can be exhausting, defeating, painful, and lonely. I know there are moments when you feel as though you are adrift in an ocean of despair, or wandering through the wasteland. I know this all too well.

What are you waiting for, my friend? May your wait be met with both a stillness found within His grace, and a steadfastness carried by His hope.

For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from Him. Psalm 62:5

Everyone has a Story

“What’s a testimony without a test?”

This question is one that tends to be a mantra of sorts among the Christian community.  While I understand the meaning behind it, instead, I find myself asking,

“What’s a test without a testimony?”

Imagine for a moment, living in a world where we do not share our pain, disappointment, despair, and gut-wrenching experiences in life.

What if we just walked around holding it all in, always saying that we are fine, and never, for one moment, declaring out loud the things that twist our souls to the bottomless pit of pain?  Like emotionless robots, we encase our feelings in a tomb to which we never open.  What would it be like if we kept our stories imprisoned within our own mortal coils?

I am not even sure what kind of world it would be if we never shed our tears with or for others, or if the stark reality of the collapsing of others’ dreams, the dashing of their hopes, and the witness of their afflicted footsteps, did not affect us.

I have had people say to me,

“I had no idea you have gone through so much.”

What this tells me is that I have done an excellent job at tucking away the daggers of devastation and arrows of apathy that have, at times, pierced my walk in this life with doubt, sorrow, and anger.

Even during the time that I was reluctant to tell my story, I knew that it was meant to be told, and that behind the heartbreak of it all, lay hope in waiting, purpose with a passion, and ultimately, the glimpse of redemption through the mercy of our God.

So, what’s a test without a testimony?  What’s hardship without the harrowing details of survival?

What is more important…that we exclaim our victory?  Or, that we seek to tell the stories that encompass those moments in life where the only lifting of our heads is caused by the hint of something better?

I believe the latter is more important.  While I shout for joy at the victories of others, I celebrate with even more enthusiasm at the telling of overcoming mountains, the witness of evading addictions, and the declaration of holding tight to the life-thread of courage.

I believe that everyone has a story.  

I believe that all of our stories are important, and worthy of being told.  I believe that there is not one moment in a single life lived on Earth that does not matter, and that the Creator of the landscape to which we dwell is the same Creator that fills the spaces in-between our devastation, our tragedies, our heart-breaks, our disappointments, and our yearning for something better in life.

Yes, everyone has a story to be told.

 Share your story.

 Embrace your experience.

Wear it as a badge of endurance.  

You never know how your story can affect someone else going through what you have been through, or how the steps you have painstakingly taken can soften the path to which others are walking on.

Your life’s journey might just lead another soul right to the heart of God.

Your story matters.

Your story is unique.

The story of your life is the cadence to which you heart’s song is being composed.  

What a wonderful world it would be if we shared the stories of our lives, the tests that determined our testimonies, and the painful moments that launched our ministries.

Everyone has a story.  What’s yours?

Come and hear, all you who fear God, and I will tell what he has done for my soul.–Psalm 66:16

 

 

 

mercy has your name written on it

You sit there staring at the image reflected back at you in the mirror.  The mirror lies to you, and yet, you see that reflection as truth.  It exposes your blemishes, and your scars.  The image of your body is one that you would rather never reveal to anyone, except maybe…this vile mirror that has become the reflection of who you think you are.  The bruises, the fat, the lines…whatever errors that have affixed on your skin…shows up greater than anything else.  You wonder, “God, how can You forgive me?  How could anyone love me?  I deserve to be lonely, and to be treated like this.  I am worthless…deserve even worse.  How can there be mercy for someone like me?”

You lay there staring at the bottom of an empty bottle, and your anger is being stirred with a mixture of dependency and despair.  The bottle…the friend you have come to rely on…is empty, and you are left alone.   Alone.  Isolated with your regrets that seem to have burrowed themselves in your soul.  Deep down, you know that the empty bottle symbolizes how you feel about yourself.  Empty.  Broken.  Dry.  You tell yourself, “There is no way God will ever love me.  No one will.  The only friend I have is a bottle.”  You wonder, “God, how can You forgive me?  Is there a way out of this vicious cycle that has taken over?  How can there be mercy for someone like me?”

You stand there, sign in hand, while looking around at the concrete bed that you will be sleeping on tonight, and you think, “When will this ever change?  When will I feel human again?”  You are cold.  You are hungry.  You are confused.  Perhaps, just maybe, if your story of how you became like this was actually scripted onto those cardboard pleads of help, then maybe…just maybe, others might see you as a human being.  You might be valued.  As family filled cars pass you by, you wonder, “God, how can You forgive me?  When will my circumstances change?  I hope for something new each day, but the days seem to turn into months, which seem to turn into years.  How can there be mercy for someone like me?”

You sit there looking around at the empty house that was once filled with the sounds of the life of a family.  You stare at the living room, you glance at the spot where your wife once slept, and you dwell on the empty chairs at the dinner table.  You think about the life you once all danced to.  You remember the Christmas mornings, birthdays, nights spent around a ball game, or playing outdoors. You think, “I deserve this.  I deserted them.  I was selfish.  God, how can You forgive me?  How can there be mercy for someone like me?”

You are staring at the negative sign on the pregnancy test you just took.  As the sadness starts to fill up your heart, you begin to say the same mantra that you have said for years….“I deserve this.  God must think I would make a horrible mother.  This will never happen.  I will never be a mother.  I am worthless.”  As time goes on, you wait…wait…for your moment.  You endure the showers of others who are expecting the very thing you have desired for years now.   You wonder, “God, why would You spare me?  If it is Your will, then why won’t You give me a child?  How can there be mercy for someone like me?”

Well, dear friend, precious soul, battered one, addicted being, homeless shell, wayward son, and one filled with despair, there is no need to wonder.  When Jesus carried His weary body so that His feet could be nailed to the Cross, it was for you.  When He breathed His last breath, it was for you.  It was for all of us.

When He exclaimed, “It is finished”, we were on His mind.  His salvation lasts forever.  It lasts through the hardship of life.  It conquers the poor choices, imperfections, addictions, broken relationships, concrete jungles, and empty nests.

His mercy is fluid.  It moves with you.  It wraps around you, and migrates with each step you take.  You wonder, “Am I worth it?  Why would He spare me?  Am I worthy of forgiveness?  Is there enough mercy left over for someone like me?” 

Yes, dear friend, precious soul, battered one, addicted being, homeless shell, wayward son, and one filled with despair, you are worth it.  You are a child of God.  Do you know that?  Your worth is so much more than you can ever fathom.  Mercy….

Mercy has your name written on it…

….and, praise Christ for that!

So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive His mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it. – Hebrews 4:16