Day 6: Jesus & Johnny Cash

When I first started doing #AdamsActs, four years ago now, I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. I think my goal was to create a more positive outlet for my grief than, well, spiraling into clinical depression. I didn't really realize it at the time, but what I really needed was the opportunity to process my grief as an adult for, probably, the first time. My oldest daughter, Annalee, just started middle school. She is the exact same age that I was when Adam was killed. I cannot imagine her enduring the traumas that I endured at her age. I cannot imagine her calling family friends to inform them of such a tragic event. I cannot picture her standing in front of a court room, asking a judge for the maximum penalty for her sibling's killer. I cannot bear to imagine her private grief, her guilt for surviving when her sibling did not.

I can't believe that I did those things. And honestly, I can't believe that it took me this long to realize that inside, I was still grieving like a middle schooler. When you always feel a thing, it's hard to identify that thing as dysfunctional. And the "thing" I always felt was this crushing, devastating belief that I should have been the one to go. That God made a mistake, and it was me who should have died. Adam was so good. 

There was a scene in the movie Walk the Line about the life of Johnny Cash, where he and June Carter are talking about Johnny's older brother, Jack, who died from an accident with a table saw. In the scene, Johnny is just coming to after detoxing from a long-battled addiction to various pills and narcotics. He sees that June is by his side, despite everything he has done to make a mess of his life. He looks at her and says, "You're an angel." And the rest goes like this:

June: No, I'm not

Johnny: You've been there with me.

June: I had a friend who needed help. You're my friend.

Johnny: But I've done so many bad things.

June: You've done a few, that's true.

Johnny: My Daddy's right. It should have been me on that saw. Jack was so good. He would have done so many good things. What have I done? Just hurt everybody I know. I know I've hurt you. I'm nothin'.

June: You're not nothin'. You are not nothin'. You're a good man, and God has given you a second chance to make things right, John. This is your chance, honey.

I love that scene. I love it, because I know what it's like to look at all your sins and your flaws and to think, "I shoulda been the one on that saw." I could not help but see my life, my worth, my circumstances through this lens of loss and guilt and grief. It was this notch that had been cut out of my world... and I could not see or hear beyond what was missing. When something so big and central is lost at such a formative time in one's life, it frames everything else and perspective gets lost. That is what it was like for me all these years, except I didn't know it. 

So, when I started focusing my grief outward, and really letting God's promises of healing and redemption take root inward... I healed in a way that I never had as a girl. I've done some bad things, that's true. But, there is nothing better than the moment when June Carter tells Johnny Cash that God's second chances are bigger than the things he done wrong. 

Now, Day 6.

Jay and I had an appointment with the audiologist because he lost one of his hearing aids. It's a big deal, not being able to hear everything everyone else takes for granted. So, the hearing aids are a huge gift, and so are the people who make it possible for him to hear. For my first act of kindness, I give you this video of the first time our son could hear everything for the first time. It's had over 170k views. Because it's precious. Expect to sob...

Okay, don't these people deserve some treats!?

We thought so too.

Jay was super excited!

But, mostly because he thought we were going to eat those treats for dinner at the audiologist's office. He was less excited when I explained those were not his dinner.

Apart from one weak moment when he didn't like the ear mold goop, and said that the audiologist "breaked him," he did awesome, got fitted for his new, neon yellow ear molds and had his hearing re-tested and his hearing aid re-programmed as a result. 

The interesting thing about Jay's hearing loss is that she referred to it as "notch hearing loss." This means that most of his hearing is in the normal range to mild hearing loss, but at a certain frequency, there is this notch that just sort of cuts out for him. Within that notch, are several common speech sounds and multiple every day things that he cannot hear. It is the strangest thing to see one's child respond during a test to a barely audible whisper at one frequency, but not even register a louder sound of a different frequency. It's like an auditory blind spot. 

Doing these acts of kindness, publicly grieving and re-processing Adam's death as an adult has been a lot like getting hearing aids for the first time. It's as if I discovered this "notch," a child's grief that won't ever go away, but needed to be redefined and reprogrammed in order to function properly. It was my Johnny Cash moment, where I had an opportunity to keep hating myself and hurting people... or I could accept that God's grace really was sufficient. And so I did, and so it is.

It's not really about me, it's not really about doing for others, it's not even really about Adam. It's about the God Adam loved. It's about his Jesus, it's about my Jesus.  It has been a lot of things, but a big part of it is confessing the sin of unbelief. I have claimed to have faith in a God that I believed made a mistake. I did not trust and I did not let him lead. Not when it came to this notch of pain... the blindspot in my faith. 

June told Johnny that "you can't walk no line." And that's what this is about, deciding not to walk the line any more. 

"How well I have learned that there is no fence to sit on between heaven and hell. There is a deep, wide gulf, a chasm, and in that chasm is no place for any man." - Johnny Cash

Day 4 & 5: A Gentleman and a Holler

So, I forgot to mention that sometimes it's hard for me to post on the weekends because I have hundreds of children. I assure you, though, that I am doing my daily #AdamsActs and feel perpetually nauseated until the blog is updated. If that helps.

Day 4 was a fun one for Marlie and I because it was our last night away so we went out for dinner. When you have five kids and only one income, dinners out are a huge treat! Shoot, ordering pizza is a treat in our house... so she and I both were excited. Finding something open wasn't easy, because where we were staying is a bit more rural and spread out than we are used to. So we went to the only restaurant in town. 

I knew that a generous tip for the server would be the easiest and most obvious act of kindness for the day, although I was tempted to bring homemade brownies to the alpaca farm across the street from where we were staying.

In light of recent legalization efforts around the country, however, I figured most people would Just Say No to questionable brownies from strangers. So, we went with the generous tip plan as originally intended. 

Our server was very friendly and did an excellent job. He remarked on how well-mannered Marlie was and he even brought her a complimentary piece of birthday pie. It was all very sweet. (He and the pie.) He mentioned that he had only been working there for a couple weeks and was just returning to the area and didn't have a car. We joked about how it is not exactly a great commuter town. I refrained from suggesting he try to rent an alpaca to ride and instead decided to make a very small contribution to his car fund, to write him a little note and then let his manager know what a great job he had done waiting on us. 

I wasn't sure how much to tip at first, but when I got the bill for a little over $17, I knew my answer. Adam was 17 when he passed away, 17 was his soccer number... AP #17 was worn on his teammates jerseys, warm-ups and cleats for years. It was my soccer number and my sister's soccer number and it is now my nephew's jersey number. My nephew, Adam, name after his uncle. So, the $17 tip on the $17 bill was a no brainer.

For Day 5, me and this stud tried to be neighborly and bring in everyone's garbage cans. 

My youngest son, Jay, was quite the gentleman, responsible for the recycling bins. He took the job very seriously, as you can tell by the fishy face.

It felt a little trespass-y I'm not gonna lie. But, we pushed through those social norms and just did it. It went fine, unless the house did not have any recycling bins... In that case, Jay would stop in horror and shout "I not a gemmamin!" And then this happened.

Face down. Sobbing.

And maybe a little rolling.

But as long as the house had recycling bins to tote, he was back to being a perfect gemmamin.

I am blown away by the creativity and hard work so many people have been putting into #AdamsActs! I am truly so thankful and pleased I was able to boss so many of you guys into being kind. No seriously though, you guys are amazing and you deserve the gift of this epic flums up.

Day 3: Uncle #AdamsActs

Oh, hey there Day 3.

If you are just now joining us, well, then... a plague on both your houses. No, I'm kidding. Welcome. For your convenience, here are Days 1 and 2 so you can catch up.

No seriously, read those posts. We'll wait.

Okay, great. Now that we're all caught up and on the same page, let's talk Day 3.

As I mentioned, Marlie and I are out of town for her coming of age chats. We have discussed all the necessary topics and early reports suggest that she is experiencing "pure disgust." I think my job here is done. #momfail

In addition to our planned act of kindness for the day, a couple also fell into our lap. Maybe "fell" into our lap isn't the right expression. These ones waddled across our path. Despite the road rage behind me, I came to a complete stop to allow approximately all of the brown peacock babies in North America to safely cross the road. It took a while because they kept coming, but I considered it an act of kindness. (And a bit of the adult version of my passive aggression I displayed in 8th Grade Earth Science.)

If those birds waddled into our path, this one fell. Or more accurately flew. Into the window. And then died.

I would normally pretend I didn't see the tiny bird corpse because I wouldn't want to touch it, but after all my internal preaching to the guy with the road rage about how birds deserve kindness too, I felt obligated to give this poor little thing a proper burial. Plus, our friends were so gracious and generous to let us stay in their cabin, that I really felt terrible leaving dead things around. 

Once I got close enough to pick it up for it's proper burial, I panicked and just sort of flung it off the deck with a toilet paper tube. It was truly my personal best, though I can understand why that seems hard to believe. It was really gross and I am pretty sure I got the bird flu from the whole interaction. But I did technically remove the bird. So I am giving myself at least one point for that. 

Then, this beauty and I spent some time altering her flower girl dress, and then got to work on our intended #AdamsActs.


Our friend Joe (who allowed us to stay here) and his new fiance, Katie, are very dear friends of ours. They literally got engaged a week ago, and we failed in a major way in the engagement gift department. But Joe and Katie wouldn't even want gifts. They care more about quality time and good conversation. So, we thought that a fun way to bless them would be to make a Date Night jar (which is filled with creative ideas for dates) and a Deep Thoughts jar (which is filled with questions they can ask each other to grow them closer together.) This might sound cheesy, but trust me, it is right up their alley.

Marlie brought a lot to the table with her date night suggestions...

\



Ahh yes, knitting. A beloved dating favorite!

And just to be as obnoxious as possible at all times, I threw in a few twists... like letting Joe's youngest son select their date attire. It should keep their relationship interesting!



When I was a little girl, my brother would put me in a figure four and would force me to say "I love you Uncle Adam." I don't know why he always said Uncle Adam, because he was just my brother not my uncle... but he would demand that I say exactly that. I would giggle and say "Okay, okay I will say it!" and I would proceed to say "I love you..." (insert dramatic, giggly pause) "...AUNT Adam!" And he would yell "ehhhh, wrong answer!" right in my ear, then straighten his leg causing me to laugh even harder, partly in pain, and fear that my femur would snap, but mostly in sheer delight at our little game.

As I sat with Marlie tonight, writing down silly things and deep things and all the things in between, I told her how much her Uncle Adam loved games and being silly and how he would have loved this. And I caught myself...

Uncle Adam.

You would think it would feel strange saying Uncle Adam because he never got to meet a single one of his 13 nieces and nephews. But it's not. Because even as a 15, 16, 17 year old kid... he went by Uncle Adam. And it breaks my heart a little every time they say "Uncle Adam" because they won't ever know their Uncle, but it is such a sweet gift to have heard him say it, to call himself by that name so many times. It's those small things that I remember, and it really is the small acts of kindness and silliness that he would have loved.

It's okay if these #AdamsActs are small or silly. It's okay if it's just a friendly smile or a good old fashioned, out-loud compliment... It's okay if it turns out that you can't do the proper bird burial. Sometimes just a toilet paper tube and some ice breaker questions are enough for now. I think that sometimes it's the littlest things that matter.

"I love you Uncle Adam..."

Day Two: Reunions, Tips and a Toddler Takes Notes

Welcome to Day 2.

Based on the 7,100+ hits on yesterday's post (which you can find here if you are  a deadbeat  just joining in) I think it's fair to assume that some of you reading this are strangers. There is a fairly good chance that at least 83% of those hits are my mother... but even so, I don't know that many people, so it's safe to assume that at least some of you do not know who I am.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Lara and I miiiiight be a bit of an over-sharer. #shockingiknow 

I live with my family in New York. (Upstate, not the cool NY.) My husband and I have five children. We are a colorful, adoptive family, so some of my babes came to me via adoption, and some are biological. My husband, Tom, borders on sainthood at all times, so you may find me playfully abusing him a little bit, because you simply cannot have two saints in one marriage. That'd just be obnoxious. We just moved to a new house a week and a half ago, so life is a little hectic, always, but especially while we don't have laundry hook-ups yet, and all seven of us are still living out of boxes. I am going to need all of you to set your expectations of me to a nice, low standard, and let's just go ahead and accept that my not harming any of the children during this crazy season will likely be my greatest act of kindness. 

Now that I have introduced myself and crushed any lofty expectations... let's talk Day 2.

I had a few ideas up my sleeve for today, but I settled on a surprise reunion between my two older girls (Annalee -11 and Marlie -10) and their favorite teachers from their former school. When we moved, we left some really fantastic teachers behind and I wanted to bring the girls by to say hello and that we miss and appreciate them.

Both of my parents were public educators and at one point or another, so were both of my sisters, my brother-in-law, my step-sister and step-brother and step-mom. It goes without saying that I have a healthy respect for what teachers have to do on a daily basis. Teaching is often a thankless job, and I gave some of my teachers a serious run for their money. 

In 8th grade, I refused to take notes in Earth Science because I believed myself to have a somewhat remarkable auditory memory. However, note taking was required and my teacher refused to change the overhead slides until everyone had taken thorough notes. I acquiesced, however, I did so in the most irritating way possible. I did take notes. With my left hand. It took me approximately one thousand minutes to write a barely legible sentence. I remember, quite clearly, realizing that I could technically obey, but still punish him for making me do the thing I did not want to do. So, I took my sweet time, writing like an enormous toddler.

And my teacher did not hit me with a bat.

If I could go back in time and hit that passive-aggressive version of myself with a bat, I would. Since that is not an option, I have resolved to work very hard to build good relationships with my children's teachers, since I sort of owe it to public educators for my generally bad behavior.

We had grand plans to show up with coffee and donuts, but we found out that they had an assembly scheduled so we had to high tail it over there sans treats in order to see them. Still, the teachers and students that we saw agreed that bringing my two sweet girls for a visit was treat enough.

After popping in to see the teachers, Marlie and I left for our Double Digit Getaway. This is a tradition I started in order to force myself to have my Claire Huxtable mom moment with each of my girls.

(Tom can do the guy thing, and I don't want to know anything about any of it, Because, no. Because, gross.) But for the girls, the tradition goes like this: I give each girl an invitation on the exact birthminute of their tenth birthday. This is the moment they hit the double digits, going from 9 to 10. We schedule a weekend away to discuss all the things that are about to go down in the double digits. It is a lot to cover, ya know... everything that happens between ages 10 and 99. So, we talk body stuff, we talk birds and bees stuff, we talk modesty stuff, we talk boy stuff, we talk Jesus-and-daddy-are-the-only-men-you-really-need kind of stuff. I am pretty terrible at it because I am a middle school boy at heart and anatomically correct verbiage either grosses me out or makes me giggle uncontrollably. It's a problem, Still, it is a great kindness to give a child one-on-one time when they have four other siblings vying for my attention.

Even if you make them learn about periods.

We were at least able to give the waitress a generous tip when we got Marlie some hot cocoa. (Chocolate is a big part of a girl surviving the Double Digits, so this felt like it tied in nicely.)

And for my final #AdamsActs for Day 2. I would like to publicly apologize to all my teachers and coaches for being a giant pain much of the time, but specifically to my 8th grade Earth Science teacher.

Mr. Holwerda, I am so sorry. I think you and I both know that I am not left-handed. I am sorry for my behavior and I thank you very much for never hitting me with a bat. 

So, that's that, Day two. I cannot thank you all enough for joining my family and so many others who are sprinkling kindness confetti around the globe in memory of my brother Adam. He was a phenomenal student and, incidentally, could actually write very nicely with both his right and left hands. I often grapple with this feeling of survivor's guilt, like if Adam had lived he would have done so many more important and astounding things than I have done with my life. But, as I see the impact his legacy of kindness is making here in the US, but also in India, Ghana, Japan, France, Australia, Germany, etc. I can't help but be overcome with gratitude. For though Adam's life was cut short, you all have helped me to do something important and astounding. Nothing can bring him back, but for those that loved and knew my brother... this sure does make it feel like a part of him never left. 

The Hardest Story I Never Told

Deep breath.

Day 1. 

Four years ago, a few friends and I decided to change the way we did life in October. I want to explain why I needed to change my Octobers, but if I had to rewrite this story for the fourth time, I would just bag the whole thing altogether. Still, each year we have new followers, and new participants, who deserve to know the whole story.  So, I will start at the beginning. There is something very heartbreaking about the beginning. The fact that each year that I do this, the story is always the exact same. That despite all that we have done to change October for us, and for so many people, this story never gets a new ending. It just is. 

So instead of trying to change it or rewrite it with a fresh twist, I will take you back to the first time I had the guts to tell my brother's story so publicly, and I will trust my former self to know what she was doing.  

Last October, I asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. Please share the links to your Facebook pages, and why not tag everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. I truly believe that the things we do this month would be acts of kindness that Adam would have spent a lifetime doing. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. 

Thank you for allowing me the privilege to share my family's story with you. 

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I am going to tell you a story. 

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly.  But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well.  So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game.  He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid. I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship.  And he's free.  He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow.  I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did.  He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free. He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble. So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice. 

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth.  And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single blast through the closed front door. 

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated.  But only one life was ended.  My only brother, my parents' only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble.  He was gone. 

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready. 

So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 34 years old... Not only have I outlived my big brother, but I have now, officially, had twice as much time on this Earth as he did.  I need to do something. I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression.  So, I accepted a challenge, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people. 31 days of kindness toward others.

I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done to the glory of God if his life had not been cut short. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 34 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

For Day One, I am sharing this story. I am rallying the people around me to participate, and I am bossing you into participating too. 

Your welcome. 

I wish that for day one I could adequately describe what most of you are missing by not having had the privilege to know my big brother. He was something. Although the story of Adam's death does not change with each year that passes, the way his life inspires me to live mine... well, that can certainly change a lot of things. And over the next 31 days, I will do my best to continue his legacy of kindness. And I hope you will too. 

 In loving memory of my buddy. 

Romance and Real Estate - The One.

If you missed my post yesterday, you can get caught up here. Okay, now that you have some backstory (and have been made aware of how melodramatic I can make things) I offer you, part two of this saga.

After the crushing breakup I endured (and described in absurdly romantic detail in yesterday's post) I went back to my old ways. I felt I had no choice but to obsessively check out the typical real estate dating scene. I shopped around to see what eligible houses were on the market. I even did the online thing for a while. But, there was just one problem.

I was already in a serious commitment with another mortgage. Constantly nagging in the back of my mind was this question of how and when to end my current relationship. Do I break up with this house banking on finding the perfect match for me just in the nick of time? Do I wait to find the perfect match, and then quickly try to break my first commitment? What if no suitor came for the old house, could we afford to juggle two relationships at once? Would we have anything left to give the new house, if all of our time and energy was tied up with our old love interest? Would that really be fair to either house? But, above all, would I be willing to risk losing the perfect house because I was still tethered to the one that didn't really have my heart?

It took a lot of soul-searching (and by that I mean our realtor told us what to do.) So, we decided that we would finally end the 9 year relationship we have poured so much into, and just have faith that the right thing would come along at the right time. This began what they call the "staging" phase of the breakup.

For those of you who haven't been in the game for a while "staging" is when you hide all your previous relationship baggage to make your  self  house look more appealing. This is all but impossible when you have five kids. (Jay, at age two and a half, is particularly unhelpful during this phase. He would literally unpack every box that I packed. In real time.) We were storing furniture and toys and off-season clothes in our friends' attics and garages... like we needed to involve casual relationships with even more houses, it was just getting sleazy.

And right when I declared that I could not possibly hide or discard or miraculously evaporate one more thing, our friend Joe casually solved all of our problems. He let us know that some of our friends from church were looking to rent a house. People we know, and love, and trust, could potentially rent our house! No more staging. No more partial-packing. No more selling and then not knowing and hoping something would be available. It was going to be good for us, good for our friends, and we felt like instead of just walking out on the house that has treated us so well over the years, we were able to find a suitable partner for our house. It was like the most perfect arranged marriage in real estate history.

And since we have  zero  extensive experience as landlord and landlady, we feel  foolish and terrified confident we know precisely what we are getting ourselves into. Seriously though, there isn't even enough room to go into all the details of how God orchestrated such a perfect, enchanting match with our tenants, Peter and Emily Gavenda. Once we were comfortable with the blossoming romance between them and our house, we felt like we could finally move on.

With the conclusion of the staging phase, came what must be the real estate equivalent of speed dating. Countless disappointments, several false alarms, and the dreaded open houses (singles mixers?) and just when I almost swear off hunting for the perfect mate altogether... we find, The One.

It was love at first sight.

When we pulled onto the street Tom said "I don't want to live in this neighborhood... I will just always be jealous of whoever lives in that awesome white house."

And then we realized that our date was WITH that awesome white house.

And then we met and fell in instalove with that awesome white house.

And we just knew. We knew we would make an offer. And so we confessed our love and made an official proposal that night. I know, I know... it's not always a good idea to rush things this early in the courtship. But, the house had only been single for three days, and another floozy was already on his tail. And though another suitor was interested in making an offer, the awesome white house - already a faithful companion -  would not be seduced by the empty promises of another. This house, my house, is different from all the other fickle, triflin' shacks out there. This house chose us... accepted us... loved us back so instantaneously, the other offer was dismissed before it even arrived. (That does not happen. Unless your love is already so magical that it transcends the very laws of real estate.)

It's everything we hoped it would be, and more. It makes me look back at those old French doors, throw my head back, and laugh maniacally. Because, I snagged the better house. The perfect house. It's not insecure like other houses - with the flashy updated kitchens and bathrooms. My house is comfortable in it's original subway tile and drop ceilings. (Sure, the drop ceiling has to go, but... houses can change right? I can change  him  the carpet.) My house doesn't need all the bells and whistles, because just like the perfect guy, it's got character, strength, integrity, and crown molding throughout. My house wasn't so full of himself that he was over priced or all gussied up, he wasn't out to score a quick sale either. He was just solid, sturdy and maaaan... is he built.

So, that's that. The beginning of a beautiful life together. The engagement is official, and the wedding should be very soon. We are just waiting to get the 'Save the Date' notice, and then we are taking the leap! We would love for you to  help us pull up old carpet and move  join us in the celebration of our beloved union.

My soul mate, my true love, my best friend. 

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Romance and Real Estate - The Ex

I don't generally like to re-post old blogs. I prefer to wow my readers with fresh crazy each and every time I sit down to write something. However, in this case, I don't feel like I can invite you to really look forward with me until we take a look back. A really embarrassing, pathetic look back.

The following was something I wrote nearly four years ago when we first began our search for a new home. We currently have a beautiful home that we have loved well. But when we first moved in, we only had two little girls and were used to living in a small, two bedroom walk-up outside of Philly. We have  an unreasonable number of children  expanded a bit since then and as those two little girls are now nearing their teenage years, mama needs another half bath up in here.

We have exciting news about moving forward to the next chapter of our lives, the magical 1 1/2 bathroom chapter. But, that post (coming tomorrow) can only be appreciated in the fullest sense if you see how  absolutely crazy  patient, yet excited I have been to finally find the house we plan to stay in for(maybe)ever.

So, come along on the roller coaster ride of my precarious stability, and take a moment to feel bad for my husband while you're at it.

--
I don't think I have ever really gotten dumped.  Until now.

I can't say for sure, but I am pretty sure that this is how it feels to get good and dumped. Ya see, we put in an offer on a beautiful home that really seemed like it was the best possible home for us. This house was just like the perfect guy: sensible, stable, good-looking, (without trying to impress anyone), met all my earthly needs, had a lot of character, and even a little bit of a sense of humor, humble from the outside, but was really something special on the inside... where it counts. Oh, and like all perfect guys, he had a walk-in butler's pantry.

In fairness, I know it isn't exactly the same as a breakup with an actual human... but, all the major factors are the same. It all started out like young love. There was the awkward anticipation of the introduction, trying to get to know the house while everyone is watching and wondering if we'll hit it off. There's that feeling of being totally head over heels, but trying to play it cool, knowing you need to take things slow, and really try to see things realistically. All to no avail, because there simply are no flaws!

Then, it starts to unravel.

I want to make a commitment, but my Facebook status indicates that I am already a relationship with another house, or worse yet... that "it's complicated" because I need to sell by owner so I don't lose all my equity. All of this is just too much for the dream-guy-house, because he's totally ready to settle down, and he's a real catch, and he knows what he is looking for and if you don't snatch him up... some other unattached babe is gonna snag 'em with an offer that isn't contingent on breaking up with her other house first.

And this leads to the ultimate demise. Suddenly there I am, making these empty promises that I swear I'll break it off with this other house, that this other house means nothing to me... that the house I currently own was just there for me when I needed a place to stay... it isn't love! I just need a little time to let that house down gently!  Please, I beg, I just need a little time!

I am acting a desperate fool, and he just moves on like our time together meant nothing to him.

In keeping with the common denominators of a heart wrenching breakup:  I cried for an embarrassingly disproportionate amount of time, I had trouble sleeping, woke up clinically depressed and without any desire to eat or hope for future happiness. I emailed his buddies (aka the realtor) and asked to convince him to give me another chance. (Sorry tom, that is actually true.) I, impressively, was able to change every subject of every conversation back to the house, I spent most of the day looking at pictures of the house online, then "went to the post office" which is PATHETIC for "I really drove past the house just to see if the house was home." I have pouted like a betrayed dumpee, and spent every spare second looking online for a house to rebound with. I just want to hurt him the way he hurt me. I want him to realize what he is missing. And when he sees me pull my U-haul down a DOUBLE-wide driveway, he will look at his puny single-wide and wish that he never let me slip through his beautiful pocket-doors.

With leaded glass.

--

On Second Thought, I AM a Saint.

I have spent countless hours parenting my daughters. We have three of them, and they all vascillate from quite pleasant and low-maintenance to "buckle up she's coming!" depending on the moment. They are girls. And they are MY girls. So, there is really no way of knowing who is gonna be doing/saying/feeling what from one moment to the next.

I have spent countless hours grooming them... the bathing, the clipping, the ballet-bunning! I have carted them from one activity to another. I spent long nights nursing and rocking and re-tucking all three of my precious angel baby heads. I have snuggled, and disciplined, and taught and trained, and blown it a time or  two. Or maybe more.

I have sat in waiting rooms during ballet classes, and tap, and hip-hop and contact improv, and doctor's appointments and pre-school evaluations. These girls have had stitches (okay, just London) and blood transfusions (wait, just London) and one maaaaybe fell in a fire that one time. (you guessed it, #London.) 

Diapers. Wiping. Accidents. Nightmares. Boo boos. Mean girls. The TALK. It's been a lot of exhausting time and labor-intensive grunt work. I mean, applying the sunscreen alone! 

Do you know how many times I have been called a saint for parenting my biological girls?

Zero.

Well, that's a lie. I make Tom call me a saint at least once daily. But unsolicited!? Not a single time have I been praised to the point of sainthood for being a "regular mom" and doing regular mom things.

I have done all of those same things for my boys. Just replace ballet buns with coconut oil and corn rows, replace dance classes with football (and putting back removed hearing aids, which is Jay's preferred extra-curricular activity to date) and replace the roller coaster of emotions with... wait, no, let's leave those in.

You get the picture. Lots of work, lots of good, lots of hard, lots of hair, lots of normal mom stuff. 

Do it for my girls? Nothing. Just normal.

For my boys? Instasaint.

Let's clear up one thing... I am not a saint. (Okay, theologically speaking, God calls his children saints because of his unbelievable grace. In that grace and mercy, he has chosen to see ME - total non-saint - through a pure, holy, and sanctified lens because he sees Jesus when he sees me.) Wow right? And also... huh? But that's not really what I'm talking about. I am not talking about biblical sainthood, I'm talking about the fact that people only view normal momming as saintly when done for a child who did not come out of my birth canal.

And I know the right position to take here, I am supposed to say that I am not a saint, and that it's a privilege and a joy to take care of ALL my children and I don't want to be praised and nominated for sainthood just because some of my kids came to me via adoption. I am supposed to say it's no different, and if I'm not a saint for momming my bio kids, then I'm not a saint for momming my boys.

I know that's the right answer. But guess what, I'm not gonna say that answer. I am not going to sit here and be outraged that people view what I do for my boys as saintly. Instead, I'm gonna go ahead and hop on the other side of this argument.

 

What I wanna know is this, why ISN'T anyone calling me a saint for momming my girls!? 

Have you even attempted to do a perfect crispy ballet bun? I don't wanna trash talk, but I don't know if Mother Teresa had the stuff to get it done. I am just saying. 

I know what I should say. Humble church lady mom would say "I'm not doing anything for my boys that I don't do for my girls, it doesn't matter that they are adopted. Please, don't call me a saint." 

Well, I'm not saying all that. Instead, please DO call me a saint. I love it. Every time I manhandle Tom into showering me with praise, it feels great. I agree with humble church lady about one thing, I am not a saint for properly caring for my adopted children. I want saintly props for properly caring for all my children. Less humble, less church lady... but, c'mon, people call foster and adoptive parents "saints" because people do truly recognize how hard it is to care for kids (especially those who are hurting) and adoption and fostering highlights the fact that they are doing all that loving and caring by choice. 

It's always a choice though. All parents have to choose to respond patiently or not. All parents have to choose to show up emotionally or to check out. All parents have to consiously choose to be gentle and soft or to blow a gasket. 

It's always a choice. With adoption the choice may appear more obvious, but real, active, engaged, conscientious parenting day in and day out IS a choice. So, go ahead old white lady in the waiting area, I AM a saint for sitting at my son's six and a half hour neuro appointment. 

But not because he was adopted. He's my kid, and I would do it for any of my kids. So would any good parent. 

It's just what saints do. 

There is No Quota.

You know how we all believe things that are irrational? C'mon, don't lie. You know what I am talking about. We all have things that are completely unreasonable, perhaps unbiblical, that we still believe. Maybe these aren't things that we believe consciously or intellectually, but based on the way we live our lives, they are deeply held beliefs that we have yet to uproot.

Maybe  I  you have some sort of lucky rain boots you insist on wearing when you speak publicly. Or maybe you are paranoid that if you playfully try out somebody's crutches, then you will end up needing crutches for realz, because you "jinxed" yourself.  (Dan Mann)  (You know who you are.) Or maybe you are one of the dozen people who, in a haze of disillusionment, suffer from the hopeful belief that this will be the year that the Buffalo Bills  stop being terrible at football  go all the way. Don't be too embarrassed, we all believe in something that is absurd.

Wanna know mine?

I recently discovered that I believe in what I have named The Law of the Quota. And here is how it all went down...

I grew up with some baggage - losses and pains and wounds that I wouldn't wish on anyone  except for maybe the person who invented those hotel curtains that block out every shred of light except that last sliver right at the center where the two curtains meet. Really? You couldn't take it a quarter inch further?  So, clearly, I have problems. But for the most part, I am functioning, by the grace of God, and I mean that literally... it is by His miraculous grace alone that I can even complete a sentence, let alone be a wife and a mom and a  terribly inconsistent  wildly hilarious blogger. So fast forward to January of 2013, when we brought home our son, Jay. He had a long and challenging road of health struggles that we did not see coming. Simultaneously, I sort of lost my best friend. Then, my husband, sort of lost his job. Then we spent the better part of the next year learning how to navigate his hearing loss, learning sign language, doing speech therapy and physical therapy, and a million other specialists for Jay, all while job hunting and in the midst of terribly expensive legal hiccups while finalizing the adoption (during a time, remember, when we had zero income) and learning how to navigate an open-adoption for the first time, and just so much weeping and gnashing of teeth. It has been a hard couple of years. It feels like at every turn, there has been a new challenge.

In the midst of all of this, our son Harper continued to display more and more signs of Reactive Attachment Disorder. We were a touch overwhelmed and did our best with all the needs piled on top of needs that we were facing, but each time we felt we were getting steady on our feet, life would cobra kai us right in the throat. And mama just can't take it any more.

But, remember that part about how there is always more? Yep. More happened.

We discovered a large lump on the back of Jay's neck. The one lump was the size of a grape, and doctor's discovered an additional chain of nodes coming down his neck and along his collar bone, as well as "numerous solid masses" in an ultrasound.

There is no quota. 

You can keep having things. Things can keep happening and there is no Law of the Quota that says that one family will max out, and only have to endure so much in a single year, or even in a lifetime. There is no tragedy vaccine.

You can just keep. on. having. things. happen. And I hate it and I want that law to be a real thing.

I haven't been able to sit down and write about all this with Jay because I also discovered another fake thing I believe is that if I talk about or pray about my worst nightmare coming to pass, that I am somehow giving God permission to take my baby away from me. I discovered that I am afraid to pray during a tragedy because I am afraid that any expression of faith makes me a willing accomplice if everything goes terribly wrong. And I am not willing, I am unwilling and I will go down kicking and screaming. So, I keep this (illusion of) control, and I refuse to speak to God for fear that He will mistake my desperate plea to Him as an expression of FAITH, and therefore a green light to take everything I love away from me as a test to see if that faith cannot be shaken. I don't want to pray for His will to be done, because I want MY will to be done. I don't want God up there thinking "okay, you prayed to me, now you better be ready to accept whatever it is that I see fit to dish out."

Wow. What kind of heinous misinterpretation of the scripture is that!?

Jay has a surgical biopsy scheduled for April 14th, but we have seen a significant improvement in the swelling of that lymph node as well as reduced swelling in the other nodes, and we are hoping to hold off on having surgery/putting him under anesthesia unless it is absolutely necessary. At this point, the doctors (and we) are cautiously optimistic that these are reactive lymph nodes, rather than the nightmare scenarios that I still lack the faith to say out loud.

Here is the truth. There is no Law of the Quota. To believe that I have exceeded the hardship limit is silly, and entitled, and offensive to those who have endured so much more hardship than I have. It is an affront to the mom who does not get to hold off on the decision to have her child's lymph node biopsied, because it is an emergency surgery with no sign of improvement. It is an affront to the man who lost his job when my husband did, and still hasn't found one. It is like spitting in the face of Christ, who carried his cross on this Good Friday so that we might lay down our sins and pleas and our nightmare scenarios because He has each of them covered in his blood and in his love and in his grace.

There is no quota. There is not a limit on how much we might suffer, but there is also no limit to how much that Jesus has already suffered by choice, in our place, for our sins. I am learning to pray that his will be done, and I am learning to make a plea to him in faith and not in an attempt to control a God who cannot be bound by my fears nor my folly. I am learning to ignore the ignorant and unbiblical fortune cookie theology that says God won't give me anything that I cannot handle. I am learning to be content knowing that He has allowed more than I can handle, that I might learn to remain on my knees, relying on him. There is no quota, no limit, to what we might endure on this side of heaven. But even if our lives take a beating as bad as the one the Buffalo Bills will undoubtedly continue to take until the end times, we can know that God is still faithful, even when our bodies are sick or broken, or in the unspeakable event that our baby's bodies are sick or broken.

Easter is a time to reflect on the miracle of Christ's resurrection. Some of you think that believing in THAT is the absurd thing. And it is pretty crazy, I'm not gonna lie. But, I can promise you this, when I stare down the road ahead - a lawless wild west of limitless loss and tragedy... I will take a crazy, counter-cultural faith in His limitless love every. single. time. The alternatives simply hold no hope.

God will either give us what we ask for in prayer or give us what we would have asked for if we knew everything he knows. - Tim Keller

An Honest Conversation

This week I misspelled the word "fundraiser" in a text message and autocorrect changed it to "fun drainer."

Yes, I thought.

That.

Exactly that.

Nothing drains the fun  and the sense of being a grown up  quite like fundraising.  

Here is how it all went down...Our talented and amazing friends, Brandi and Danny Ebersole took Tom and I out to a restaurant over Christmas break and said  nothing close to this, but this is all I heard  basically this, word for word, "Why don't we video tape you ugly crying while you spill your deepest family guts and we will put it on the world wide web for all to see!?"

It took a platter of really disgusting steamed buns and an obscene serving of bread pudding to stuff all my feelings about this proposal. If anyone else on planet earth had asked to make a video of us sharing such a deeply personal experience, I would have punched them in the throat. But, it wasn't just anyone. It was Brandi. Brandi! If anyone could be trusted to delicately handle our baggage with care, it would be her and her sensitive and gifted photographer/documentary making husband, Danny. As fellow adoptive parents, I knew they would know and convey our heart for Harper. And as an adoptee, I knew Brandi would understand the possible implications for Harper, if this were not handled with the utmost care. So, we hesitantly accepted this challenge to initiate a conversation about children with attachment disorders and other special needs that affect a child's ability to make healthy attachments. We all understood that these conversations are frequently silenced because of shame and fear. We knew that our own shame and fear would surface, and would threaten to keep us silent as well.

In fact, there were several occasions where I panic-begged Brandi and Danny to abandon ship, and destroy all footage. But, they believed in our family, and they believed in the power of telling your truth, and they believed in all of you. They believe that you would want to know our story and be a part of a creating a bigger story for our family, one of healing. So, we went forward in good faith that God would use our family's story to bring awareness and hope to someone who needed it, as well as resources and support for our family to be healed. As hard as the public ugly crying was, the fundraiser element is even harder for Tom and me.

It makes me feel like a little girl sitting at a lemonade stand waiting for customers. As an adult, I know that nobody really wants to waste even a dime on the watered down lemonade (that was undoubtedly prepared without any concern for what is sanitary) but we buy it anyways and we dump it out our car windows as soon as we turn the corner. Why do we do this? Because we want to support the little entrepreneur's willingness to be vulnerable and to put themselves out there. I feel like that little girl right now, but with the adult awareness that nobody really wants to waste a single dime on my  problems  lemonade. I feel like that little girl sitting there, with all her ugly hurts and failures exposed before the world, saying do you like my lemonade? 

It is terrifying, and it feels pathetic and humiliating and I keep returning to those moments of panic-begging Brandi and Danny to pretend we never agreed to this project, just to be spared from such feelings of raw transparency. But Brandi's ever-encouraging voice keeps reminding me of a few truths... 

Yes, we have a long and expensive road ahead of us... and yes, we could really use a community of people who are willing to generously walk that road and carry the financial burden along with us. Still her voice gets drowned out by the loud and faithful fear/shame combo that cranks itself up on a regular basis reminding me that "adults don't need money from other people because they should be able to manage on their own!" And ya know what, that is also true. We can manage. If nobody had any desire to partner with us, we would still make every possible sacrifice necessary to get Harper, and our family, the help he needs. But, there is something beautiful about the fact that many of you do desire to partner with us, and some already have.

We are overwhelmed by how many of you have taken the time to comment or share our video. We are overwhelmed by those of you who have generously given financial gifts, as well as gifts of prayer and encouragement. We are overwhelmed that anyone would be willing to pass their words, their dimes and their dollars on to us, so that we can get Harper the best care possible and be relieved of carrying the heavy financial and emotional price tag alone. It is that humbling sense of gratitude that makes me feel a little less like I'm selling refreshments, and a little more like I am the one that is being refreshed.

To view the video, or if you feel led to participate in this mission to bring healing and wholeness to a remarkable boy, our sweet friends have organized this "fun drainer" which we invite you to share with anyone who could benefit from hearing our story. 

http://www.gofundme.com/Capuanosupport

My Child is Not Struggling Because...

Over the past few years, the following things have been offered to us as possible causes for what we are experiencing with Harper. Most of the time the suggestions have been made in love purely out of concern, and occasionally they have been "casually" dropped into a conversation in correction or judgement. Some are shoved down our throats via Facebook articles and blogs. So let's take a look at the disordered attachment cause d'jour. 

We are going through this...

- because we didn't spank him.

- because we spanked him too much.

- because he doesn't have enough structure.

- because we are too rigid with him.

- because he needs tough love.

- because we musn't love him as much as our biological kids.

- because he's the only black/adopted child. (Before Jay.)

- because Jay's adoption is open. (After Jay.)

- because it's genetic.

- because we don't have a nurturing environment.

- because we aren't consistent enough.

- because we are too firm.

- because we were too open with him about his adoption.

- because we weren't open enough with him about his adoption.

- because white couples shouldn't have black children.

- because you shouldn't "mix" adopted and biological children in the same family.

- because he needs to learn self-discipline/self-control.

- because he needs a physical outlet.

- because he doesn't get enough attention.

- because we've let him be the center of attention.

- because we don't follow through.

- because we don't show enough grace.

- because we have let him get away with things.

- because we never let him get away with anything.

- because he needs medication.

- because he needs play therapy.

- because he didn't get enough skin-to-skin contact.

- because we aren't on the same page as parents.

- because we didn't do the family bed. 

- because I didn't wear him in a sling enough.

- because I wore him too much and he got spoiled.

- because I used "separation" tools like strollers, bouncy seats, etc.

- because I didn't nurse him.

- because I did nurse him, and that's unnatural.

- because I let him cry it out.

- because I answered his cries too readily.

- because I am too uptight about what he eats and drinks.

- because I am too loosey goosey and don't have him on a specialized diet. 

- because we don't have a strong enough marriage.

- because we don't pray enough.

- because we've neglected the spiritual element of child-rearing.

- because we over-spiritualize everything.

- because we haven't trained him biblically.

- because I am too distracted.

- because he is too distracted (attention deficit).

- because we have too many kids.

- because we over-analyze.

- because we haven't analyzed enough.

- because we are making the adoption piece too big of a deal/love is enough.

- because we aren't giving the adoption piece enough weight.

- because we followed BabyWise.

- because we didn't follow BabyWise.

- because we eat healthy/he doesn't get enough treats and affection.

- because not local/paleo/organic/free-range/no red dyes/gluten-free/annato-free/preservative-free/dairy-free enough.

- because we aren't conscientious parents.

- because we are helicopter parents.

- because he wasn't taught responsibility.

- because he was given too much responsibility.

- because it's spiritual.

- because it's psychological.

- because it's emotional.

- because it's medicinal.

- because it's chemical. 

- because it's developmental.

- because it's neurological.

- because it's physiological.

- because he should spend more time outside.

- because I don't homeschool.

- because he rode the bus to school.

- because I pulled him out of school.

- because he's not in private school.

- because we aren't in a good school district.

- because our school district is too diverse/other black children are a bad example.

- because our school district isn't diverse enough.

- because we don't have enough black friends.

- because our black friends aren't playing a large enough role.

- because he needs a mentor.

- because he doesn't know enough adoptees.

- because he is too aware of his adoption story.

- because he doesn't know his whole adoption story.

- because he has a learning disability.

- because he's too smart for his own good.

- because he's bored.

- because he has anxiety.

- because we should ignore his behavior.

- because we should put him in a group home.

- because we weren't prepared for adoption.

- because we didn't know what to look for.

- because the adoption industry is crooked.

- because immunizations.

- because food allergies.

- because microwaved plastic.

- because he'll outgrow it.

- because boys will be boys.

- because hormones.

- because high-energy.

- because wheat.

- because....

- because...

- because...

Because, no. Because, shut up. Because... none of this. Or because, all of this. Because, I don't know yet... and because, neither do you. 

But what I do know this... attachment is attachment, sensory is sensory, fetal alcohol is fetal alcohol, autism is autism,  attention deficit is attention deficit. They are not all caused or treated the same way, and many cannot be prevented. Many present co-morbidly (at the same time as another) and so it is hard to distinguish between the two, or three, or four things going on at once. What might look like a parenting problem, may in fact be a neuropsychological disorder. 

There is no fast solve, and I know that is uncomfortable. There is no Facebook timeline article that can shame a mother into solving disorders or dysfunctions like these. There is not a vitamin for autism or  insecure attachment, nor a something-free/something-rich diet that repairs brain-damage caused in-utero. Being shamed into a pro- or anti-something parenting position is not going to be what heals my child.

"If one is sick and desires healing, it is of prime importance that the true cause of the sickness be discovered. This is always the first step toward recovery. If the particular cause is not recognized, and attention is directed to subordinate causes, or to supposed but not real causes, healing is out of the question." 

- David H. Kim (The Lord's Prayer Devotional)

I believe that Harper will be healed. But it will not be quickly, it will not be unexplained or mysterious, and it certainly will not be because I went wheat-free. Perhaps I am wrong, and I do believe that God can and does perform miracles, and perhaps He will choose not to perform an instant miracle healing solely because of my lack of faith here... But I really just believe that God is going to heal him over time. The miracle will be that we all still love each other on the other side of the process. 

Out of the Attachment Closet

I miss writing.

I don't know how to write what I refer to as "secondary content." I am just no good at that. I am a "primary content" kind of girl. I write about what is actually happening to me, right now. And if I write about something from the past, it is because it is what I am dealing with, right now. 

I almost feel dishonest if I write secondary content, it feels like I am skirting the real issue or something, and what is the point of sharing my life if I am just gonna skirt the real stuff.

But, I am in a hard place. My family is in a hard place, and I don't know yet how to share the primary content of our lives with the world in a way that makes the most sense for everyone involved. 

But I miss it. I miss splaying all my baggage out for the perusal of friends and strangers alike, in hopes that one of us gains a little insight, encouragement or, at the very least, the sense the we are not all doing this life alone. I miss writing because I process my life through writing, and right now... I have a lot to process.

So, in relatively vague terms, I am going to share and process the primary content of my life. But it is not just my life in crisis, but the lives of Tom and my children as well. So, please know that I am not trying to be mysterious and string anyone along for the sake of drama... It's truly out of the desire to honor my family.

My oldest son is struggling. He has always struggled, which probably comes as a surprise to anyone who knows him. He, more than any of my kids, is social and charming and engaging and is so loved by people it's like he is the mayor of a small town and everyone knows him and loves him. Everywhere we go, people remember his big, beautiful eyes and charming manners. He has always drawn people in. 

The other side of that is what we have learned is a heartbreaking sense of insecurity in his ability to attach. While he can superficially engage anyone he meets, he has never been able to make and keep deep, authentic attachments. Even to me.

Because of the circumstances of his pre-birth, birth and adoption, Harper has always struggled with attachment. It has always been a very challenging road for him, and for our family... But in the past few months, the effects of Reactive Attachment Disorder have escalated significantly.

We were asked to do an interview about this disorder, to bring awareness and hopefully support to families who are experiencing the exhausting battles we are facing. We agreed and to be quite honest, neither Tom or I remember anything we said. Still, I will soon share the video and I hope that it will reach the mom who has relentlessly loved and pursued her child, only to be violently attacked in return. I hope it reaches the sister who grew up hearing her sibling threaten to kill his mother, or himself, just to make her upset. I hope it reaches the child who spent a lifetime pushing away love, out of fear and self-protection. I hope that it reaches potential adoptive couples, that they would learn the signs to look for early on and be able to intervene at a much younger age than we have. I hope it reaches school social workers and child psychologists who have blown off parents saying "boys will be boys" or "all kids have tantrums" or "have you tried a reward chart?" I hope it reaches my readers and you all know that I have not intentionally kept you all in the dark out of pride or a desire to seem like we have the perfect life or family, but instead, I have had a deep sense of responsibility to protect the sacred story that belongs only to my son.

But now, we are in crisis. And we need support. And it has gotten so bad that there is no longer secondary content, this battle, this primary content, has taken over everything else and has become our exclusive content. So, it's time. I have come to a point where I believe that being isolated and keeping this season of our lives a secret would not protect or honor Harper, but would only isolate our family and ultimately, make him sicker.

So, here we are. Broken and in despair, fighting for our son's precious life, just as he fights against me... believing he too is fighting for his life. I will be blogging throughout this journey, but I don't know what it will look like or how much I will feel free to share. My prayer is that we are able to love Harper into the wholest and healthiest possible version of himself and since we believe in a God who does that very thing, we trust that it is possible.