Life in the Tension

Sometimes I like to imagine what my kids will remember me teaching them throughout their childhood. What will stick? Will they remember all the "I love you's?" Will the "you're so brave's" and "tell me about your day's" be the words that become fastened to their memory? Or will something else overshadow the sweet and encouraging sentiments? One thing I frequently tell them that they find less favorable (but I am certain they will remember me saying) is "that is not a real problem." Let's run this down so we are all clear on what a real problem is in our house.

Scenario 1: You are four years old and you have no food to eat. At all. Ever.

Correct, that's a real problem. 

Scenario 2: You are four years old and you do not like "beet taste." 

Not even close to a real problem. (Also, beets are delicious.)  

Scenario 3: You must spend a half a day walking to a source of (questionably) drinkable water. 

Yes, this. This is a real problem. 

Scenario 4: Your food touches.  

No. Having your hot, nutritious food touch other bits of hot, nutritious food? That is - comically - not a real problem. 

You can see how they might remember me saying this. Because it is said frequently. And trust me, we are a big 'feelings' house. We talk about our feelings, we validate each others feelings, we use lots of expressive feeling words. There is no shutting down how they might feel about beets. This is a safe space to feel strong dislike for "beet taste." While I strive to always hear and even affirm their feelings, I don't pretend for a second that this is a real problem. 

I was discussing this with my friend Megan the other day. (Some of you might remember her from previous #AdamsActs posts about the heartbreaking loss of one of their sweet little twin girls, Zoey.) Megan and I were discussing our very low threshold for problems-that-aren't-really-problems. I think that low threshold is directly correlated with experiencing great and tragic loss. It changes you. It changes your perspective on what suffering is. It changes your capacity to tolerate complaints about that which is not a real problem. 

When facing challenges of various kinds, the leaders at our church will often use this phrase, "This is a tension to manage, not a problem to solve." Ugh... I love this, and oh how I wish that this concept would go ahead and just embed itself in my memory already! There are some challenges in my life that I have viewed as problems I desperately need to solve. Or avoid. Or feel sorry for myself about. These "problems" are not really problems to solve, they are simple tensions to manage. 

Instead of graciously managing the tensions, I have tried to control the tensions. I have tried solving the tensions. I have attempted to escape or avoid or blame the tensions. Shoot, I'd punch the tensions in the face if I could. Yet, nothing changes... the tension remains.

I recently shifted my definition of a problem to something more like this: a problem is only a problem if there is an actionable step one can take to work toward a solution. If no actionable step can be taken, there can be a lot of tension. That tension needs to be managed in a healthy way.

Parenting a child with a pretty severe behavioral disorder can feel a heck of a lot like a life-consuming problem. Except for one thing... there is no actionable step that I can possibly take to work toward a solution.

I must live in the tension. 

I can pray in the tension. I can cry in the tension. I can seek wise counsel in the tension. I can adjust my attitude about the tension. But I cannot solve it. I must accept it. 

The focus then is not on how to "solve" my son's disorder, but on how I can remain emotionally, physically and spiritually healthy enough to manage the tension that surfaces in light of my son's disorder.   

You may be wondering, "Who cares? What's the difference?" But the difference is everything. It's the difference between overwhelming shame that I cannot heal my child, and accepting him where he's at in his process. It's the difference between feeling exhausted and infuriated by the sheer volume of time spent supervising every little move, and recognizing our family's need for respite in order to prevent that fury and exhaustion. 

The difference is the understanding that I cannot play the Holy Spirit in my child's life. In the tension, I can only manage my own reactions, my own health, my relationships. But in the tension, I can know that I did not cause my child to have Reactive Attachment Disorder any more than I can cause my child's aversion to the glorious taste of a perfectly roasted sugarbeet. 

I did not cause either of these phenomena, and I cannot "cure" them either. I can only manage myself in the tension. 

It's hard to suffer well. And the greatest suffering occurs when there is no actionable step to take, because we cannot solve our way out of our pain. We cannot bring back the child that died. Or the parent who left. We cannot heal the primal wound that is left within the child who is separated from his first mother. 

We must simply learn to live, and accept, and love, in the tension.

So, when my five little ones are all grown and they reflect back upon their childhood, I hope that what they remember most is all the expressions of love, encouragement and adoration. Yet, I don't mind if they also remember me clarifying the difference between a real problem - real suffering - and something that is simply a tension to manage. Not only do I hope they remember hearing me speak these truths into their life, but I hope they remember me living, and loving, in the tensions... and teaching them to someday do the same. 

Jay, age four, confronting his greatest fear, a beet.  

The Time I Went B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Yesterday was a bad day. A really, really bad day. I basically failed at life yesterday.

My sister-in-law, Carlie, recently sent me a song that has become my anthem. I have this song on repeat for much of the day, and I'm telling you that if you watch this video, and watch it all the way to the end, you're gonna straight up pray that sinner's prayer. Okay, maybe you won't, but that is the impact that Miss Tasha Cobbs has on me when she's singing this song. This song, it is my anthem.

Plus, my voice sounds a lot like hers.

Official performance video for "Fill Me Up/Overlow" by Tasha Cobbs. Recorded Live at Redemption Church in Greenville, SC. Video Producer & Director: Chiquita Lockley, Associate Video Producer: Bohannon Nichols, Executive Producer: Tasha Cobbs, Editor: Terrence Crowley, Musical Director: Kenneth Leonard, Music Producer: VaShawn Mitchell, Music Co-Producer: Tasha Cobbs.

I can not overstate how this has become my battle cry. "I am empty before you, fill me up God." 

I don't know how it is possible to feel so empty, and also so full of my own self. I am empty, and yet, I am stuffed. I am stuffed with selfishness, with fear, with stress, with rage, with pride, with self-loathing, with a desire for control, and more than anything else, I am stuffed with a desire for relief. I am stuffed sick of my self, and at the very same time I feel completely empty. So, I listen to this song on repeat and I let Ol' Tasha usher Jesus into my empty places, and I let him sweetly pour me out, all of that junk that is in me, I beg him to let it spill out so that He alone can fill me up. 

I know that this sounds ridiculous if you have never encountered Jesus as a living leader and active forgiver. But, for me... this song is like being in a spiritual spin class. Where the instructor is leading me into an excercise that I lack the motivation and discipline and know-how to do on my own. Listening to this song has been a spiritual excercise, and the incredible voice on that woman is walking me through the process of opening up inside, and letting a holy fire burn out whatever is left in me, so that I can be an empty vessel that God, in his mercy, can fill to overflowing.

Yesterday was a bad day. Yesterday, I was empty. And I am realizing now that "empty" just means that I am actually full - of all the wrong things. So, yesterday I was stuffed. And I lost it. I absolutely lost my mind. I have a new respect for the phrase " go bananas" because I truly and completely went bananas. Ironically, about 14 bananas were actually involved in this particular incident. I won't go into the whole mess of the thing, but let's just say that lives were saved by the fact that bananas are a soft fruit. If we were talking pineapples, I'd be in jail right now.

It wasn't pretty y'all. My entire dining room was a battle scene, the evidence of our struggle was everywhere. The floor, the table, most of the chairs, the walls, all of it, was caked with smashed banana, and my heart was caked with shame. And while I was on my knees, face down, sobbing in the literal and figurative mess of my life, I heard Tasha Cobbs still playing on my phone. It was at 3:56 into the video and in the song she is begging God to fill her up. 

Fill me up, God

Fill me up, God

Fill me up, God

Thirty times in that section of the song, the phrase, my anthem, is repeated.  

"Somebody ask him," she sings, "I need a fresh annointing... Somebody ask him, fill me again. I need more of you. I've been running on empty. I need you to fill me again. We cry out for more. More of your spirit is what we need. More of your annointing, more of your glory, fill me up. That's what I really want, that's what I really need. I'm so tired of me, I need more of you. I gotta have more of you. "

A couple weeks ago, I was the key-note speaker for a weekend retreat. Next week I go to Michigan for two speaking events, and when I get back home, I have even more events lined up, or maybe not after I publish this post. Either way, I am not selling out arenas or anything, none of these events are necessaily huge or impressive. But, I stand before people and I tell them about my life, I tell them about the wisdom in the Bible, the truths of scripture, but ultimately... I only ever say one thing, that Jesus is the bringer of hope and redemption. That is my only message.

Sure, I write and speak about my life. I talk about parenting a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder. I talk about being a multi-racial, adoptive family. I talk about racism. I talk about the violent end to my brother's life, and my response to his death (#AdamsActs) with you all. I share my family's personal experiences - my daughter's current health struggles, my mistakes and my struggles, about throwing down with bananas, cross-country road trips, general shenanigans, and all the in-between stuff. But, all of that sharing is just a pouring out. It's just an attempt to overflow what God is doing, has ALWAYS done, in my life.

I have nothing to say, I have nothing to write, that isn't about redemption.

People often tell me that I should write a book. There are even times where it feels like it could actually be a dream realized. But the question remains - what would my book be about? 

The answer is redemption. The answer can only ever be redemption.

Because I am empty, and yet I am stuffed. And I am the worst. And I lost my head and I went crazy and I let myself lose sight of who God made me to be. And so much banana was involved. And still, somehow, God still lets me speak to rooms full of people. God still lets me tell you my story. He lets me tell you his story.

Please don't tell me how amazing I am in response to this. Please. If there is ANY good thing in me, anything at all that is inspiring, or encouraging, or worthy of admiring in me then you must know, that is not me at all. I am on the floor covered in fruit. I am dry, and empty, and still sickly full of my self, my shame and my sin. But, still, he uses me. I am not amazing, I am broken and he redeems me for his purpose. And that is the miraculous power of the living God that I serve and rely on. Because if, even for a second, I take my eyes and my hope off of Him... I instantly become part of the broken mess. 

And every time I go to write, or speak to other people there is nothing I am more aware of than my own lack. My shortcomings, my limitations, my total and complete depravity are never far from my mind. The day I lose the awareness of my own need for redemption is the day I have no business writing or speaking to anyone again.

Yesterday was a bad day. A really, really bad day. All of us can relate to that. Anyone parenting a difficult child, or does life with somone who has mental health issues, may be able to relate to some degree. Those of you parenting a child with disordered attachment... you have a banana battle story of your own, I'm certain. And as I kneeled down, filthy and sobbing and ashamed, I begged God - out loud and in front of my empty, hurting child - to fill me up.

"Fill me up God, Fill me up God, Fill me up God"

I do not deserve to write or speak to so many people. I am not worthy to speak a single word about a Bible that I can so easily disregard in a moment of anger or exhaustion or emptiness. But,

That. Is. Redemption.

That in the unlikliest places, that at the unlikliest times, in the unlikliest people, God chooses to fill, to forgive, to heal and to sort it out for good. And as long as he continues to redeem me and fill me and give me another go, I will simply never shut up about it.

Burnt Hair, the Hospital and a Rogue Set of Googlies

So much crazy has gone down in the past 72 hours. 

For starters, Windpocalypse 2017 came at us like a wrecking ball, and I mean that in the most literal sense possible. The greater Rochester area, but particularly our town of Irondequoit, just started vomiting trees all over the place. In the words of my four year old son, Jay, "it's insame."

The past few days feel like everything in my life was shoved into an enormous version of that game Barrel of Monkeys, shaken up and then spilled out all tangled and confusing and somehow dangling precariously from one flimsy limb. So, now you all get to experience the literary version of these things being spilled out, in a random, haphazard and somewhat tangled order. Here are the events that transpired over the course of the past 72 hours:

-One ancient tree exploded into the street and landed directly at the end of our driveway, crushing nobody, but if it had fallen in literally any other direction, one of our houses would have been decimated.

Our house is the white one. Jay is by the stump, for perspective.

View of wreckage from attic window.

I picked up these 7 crazies from school to discover the driveway completely blocked - this pic was taken because,for a brief moment, one of them was certain they could move the tree.😂

-A thousand other ancient trees were uprooted, landing on countless homes, cars, a mail truck, a school bus, etc.

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

Our friends' house is under there. :(

And our old church, impaled by its own steeple.  

-Many of these trees took powerlines down with them and we have been without power since 1:30pm on Wednesday.

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

-I got called into the school because one of my children used magnet letters to write “nipples” on the magnet board. (Before you judge, I should note that he did not learn that word at home. I am not mature enough to use correct anatomical language with my children, so ‘nipples’ is not a word he learned at home. In my house, we say “googlies,” like normal people.)

-The first thing I did after the power went out was spill a canister of white sugar all over the floor. You really do need a vacuum for that sort of situation. This is the one single thing that is stopping me from becoming Amish. Mama needs a vacuum because no birch broom is gonna cut it when you have wall-to-wall sugar carpet. And my hair would never stay under those little bonnets. And also I love nail polish, it keeps me sane. Okay, whatevs, maybe being Amish wasn’t ever really in the cards for me.

-Tom found a secret hidey-door on our fireplace with a battery compartment for just such an emergency. Not the sugar emergency, but the power outage. So, we have a toasty fire in one room that has allowed us to stay in our house, despite the dropping temperatures.

-On a churchlady dare, I gave Tom such an epic kiss that he forgot to put the car in park and I closed the car door on my own knee while Tom just watched the car roll away with his eyes glazed over. #skillz

-We have moved all of our food from the luke-warm fridge, to the front porch, which feels super classy. Nothing says “I have no dignity left” like a huge ziploc bag of chili on the front stoop.

-London was in the hospital for a procedure to confirm Celiac Disease as well as further testing on her thyroid. Her thyroid levels have continued to elevate and each test proves a little more concerning than the last. The GI doc just called to inform us that while we are still waiting for all the lab results to come in, her TSH is, once again, higher than the last test.

-She was a champ at the hospital and in recovery, and groggily requested sushi on our way home. So, high thyroid levels aside, she’s pretty much acting like herself.

-They are calling the power outage a “multi-day event” as if it some sort of special occasion and, Lucky us! We made the guest list!

-The kids are actually having a blast living pretending to be Amish (there’s still a chance for them) and love living by candlelight while we remain one of 92,000 people who initially lost power in Rochester.

-In other news, that may or may not be related to the children enjoying the candlelight, Marlie set her hair on fire.

Guys… do you recall the title of my last post? Please Excuse My Mental Breakdown? Yeah, I think that post may have been a little premature because what in the actual heck is going on!? All of this has been so crazytown, I really have no choice but to laugh.

(Except about London’s poor precious baby thyroid, if you laugh about that I will cut you.)

In times like these – and in complete transparency, my life always seems to be “times like these” – I feel really elderly. I don’t feel like the 35 year old spring chick that I am. I feel a thousand. I feel like one of those skittish, old, maniacal women who laugh way too hard and for way too long, and then the laughing takes a fast curve into spontaneously crying, and all this while feeding so many birds for some reason. That’s me. I’m a thousand and I’m “insame” and I’m here cackling away in the candlelight with all the birds, but I am one sugar-granule-on-the-bare- foot away from snapping.

Poor Tom. Yesterday he had to calmly explain to me why he felt it was actually for my benefit that he talk to me “like a mental patient.” Say goodbye to your magical makeout sessions mister.

In all seriousness, as hectic as the past 72 hours have been (and the preceding 35 years) I haven’t actually lost my mind. That is how I know that Jesus is real. That is how I know that when life comes crashing down, sometimes all at once, he is steady and at the center of it all. And I honestly do not know how I would do each day without him, without the hope that this life isn’t all there is. I really believe that this life, and all its trouble, are temporary. That London will not suffer forever. Even if she suffers for her whole life, it won’t be forever. Even if every 72 hours looks as wild as these ones did, it won’t be forever. It is this awareness that keeps me going. Apart from my hope in a God that sustains us (sometimes with front-stoop chili) I would not make it through another day, let alone come through it laughing.  

We will eventually get our power back. Marlie’s hair will eventually grow back. We will eventually get to the bottom of London’s strange set of symptoms. Eventually, I will be mature enough to explain to my kids what these so-called “nipples” are. Until then, we are just going to say that where we are at right now – even if it is the center of windpocalypse 2017 – is the best place to be, because it is where He has put us. And I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Unless somewhere with less sugar is available.

Please Excuse My Mental Breakdown

I am sort of the queen of hastily published, crappy first drafts. I know you are supposed to read your work, then re-read, edit and have it edited by a discerning second set of eyes. But... yeah... that's not how I do things. This is a blog, and a mediocre one in comparision to the zillion other blogs out there, and if that was my process I would never write. In fact, I write infrequently (in part) beacuse I feel like that should be my process. 

The other night, I abandoned that mosty-self-imposed pressure, and I went with my own process. Which is very scientific. 

Step 1: Have feelings.

Step 2: Tell everyone what they are.

Step 3: Panic when people start reading about the feelings.

Step 4: Live in deep and immediate regret.

Step 5: Have new feelings (which trigger some sort of vulnerability amnesia).

Step 6: Repeat steps 1-5 and continue to produce crappy, unbridled first drafts until someone makes you stop, or arrests you. 

That's it, that's my process. If you don't like it, you can arrest me. A mental health arrest would probably make the most sense, and given my last post it is probably quite obvious that a stay in some sort of facility would feel like a vacation and I welcome it. So go ahead a make the call. I dare you. Nay, I beg you. 

Alright, now that we've set the standard super low, I apologize for the mental breakdown that I published the other day. But, I am only a little sorry because after 4,000 reads, I feel semi-confident it reached the suffering mamas I was hoping to reach, and it met them right where they were - mid-breakdown of their own, no doubt. So, while I am a little sorry, and a lot embarassed, I am not even that sorry because the best thing for a child with RAD is to be loved and supported by a parent who has all their faculties. And the longer one is parenting a child with RAD, the less in-tact their faculties become.

I'm only a loose 30% sure I am using "faculties" in the correct context here, but we already discussed our writing standards and what you can expect here. Just be glad I'm not yelling swears at you for questioning me. Understand? Good.

So, here's what took place to bring me to the hysterical crescendo that was my written tantrum the other night. It's hard to know where to start, because well... my own birth makes the most sense as a starting point, but that feels a little heavy on the backstory. So, let's just start with the holidays. The holidays are like Baggagefest '08 for anyone with RAD kids. It is all kinds of trigger. There are gifts and parties and treats and all the other things that kids with attachment issues will sabotage because they don't believe they deserve good things. This, combined with the extra-special contradiction of demanding all the good things and an attitude of entitlement to all the good things, makes for a good time had by all. And by all, I obviously mean nobody within 6 square miles of us. 

Fast forward through the holidays. (I wish this were a real thing we could do but it's actually just a saying we use to reduce the backstory in crappy first drafts). We barely get through the holidays, and I'm still having PTSD flashbacks to our Christmas break. One particular low-point included the children vomiting all over the marble floors of city hall during a big family reunion photo session. We were dealing with RAD stuff, and normal big family with lots of kds during flu-season stuff. And then there was London.

As some of you may remember she had a rare blood disorder as a baby called Transient Erythroblastopenia of Childhood. So, when she starts to look pale and thin and worn down, we take it pretty seriously. We noticed that she had been looking and acting sick for a couple of months, and we did the routine bloodwork to ensure that the TEC was not back. It wasn't, but she continued to be very pale, acting more tired at school and at home. She was not herself, and her appetite was waning. She has a never-ending incurable rash on her leg, she has lost 6 pounds in four weeks, her thyroid levels were elevated and I discovered a few gray hairs on her head. 

She is seven years old.

In the midst of everything swirling around me in my normal life - holiday preparations, parent-teacher conferences, hosting family and friends, general parenting and care of five kids, Christmas shopping and cooking and hosting and the subsequent cleaning, all the vomiting, and the subsequent disinfecting, four January birthdays in our house, and the subsequent poverty - there were all the RAD behaviors, and then this slow-motion awareness at the center of all of the peripheral chaos, that London was not okay. 

I spent whole entire days in various doctor's offices watching them draw vial after vial of blood for tests that would give us inconclusive results. Until nine days ago when we were told that she came back as a strong positive for having Celiac Disease. (Feel free to punch a bagel in the face right this very minute in her honor.)

While we still don't have all the answers as to what is causing what, it looks like having a serious, genetic autoimmune disorder go untreated for great lengths of time can apparently cause your thyroid to poop its pants a little. The jury is out on the gray hair, but we are still looking at this from every angle. But, the bottom line is that we are beyond relieved that she has something that (while a huge dietary undertaking) is managable and not something more sinister or life-threatening.

See? You see now why I have been slowly building up to a mental breakdown? Because everything felt like it was falling apart. My oldest daughter, Annalee, became a teenager, then she broke her arm during a track race (which she finished like a total boss, btw) but the break went through the growth plate and they have to closely monitor it in order to prevent surgery.

My youngest, Jay, is still adjusting to his new hearing aids (and by that I mean, he is chewing his ear molds like gum when we aren't looking.)

And we are just trying to keep our heads above water on this RAD stuff. Then you throw in a gluten rash and no good pizza or soft bread for life? It's enough to make anyone crazy.

Here is what I do regret about my mental breakdown. I regret not reminding any and all of you who are in the thick of it, that it isn't always this low. It's not always this bad. There are times, however brief and however infrequent, where I am dellusional enough to believe that maybe we have turned a corner on this RAD stuff. Of course we never do, but there are small rests and there are little breaks in the chaos... just enough to let the light peek in for a moment. Just enough to make us hope again. 

So, that is my real regret. Not adding one more reminder. So here it is.

11) There is always hope. Even if it doesn't get better forever. Even if this is as good as it gets. There will be little bright spots - not because your child successfully manipulated someone with their deceptive charm - but because one teacher believed you. Or because one friend met you for lunch so you could sit in Panera and cry until you had a snot mustcahe. Or because you found a blogger who lacks a sense of appropriate boundaries and is crazy enough to say what you can't.

There will be those bright spots and Jesus knows when you need them most and he will deliver them to you in his mercy and good timing. Let's just hope they come before you publish that first draft. 

This is an actaul candid photo of me, caught in the wild, begging for my way. All signs of a mental breakdown were there, and ignored by those closest to me. I blame Tom, who probably gave me my way while in this state. Like an enabler.

To All the Other Haggard Moms Parenting a RAD Child

There is nothing so painful as unrequited love. And there is no love as powerful as a parent's love for their child. So when you love your child and he does not, can not, love you back... it might be the most heartbreaking scenario of them all. 

At least that is how I am feeling now... that (apart from losing a child) there is no pain I can fathom like having a living child that you cannot reach. 

Unrequited attachment, unabsorbed love.

And the world takes the salt of misunderstanding and rubs it into the proverbial wound. All kids lie, they say. Or steal, or hurt others, or themselves.

All kids want control. All kids say hurtful things.

All kids... 

He is not all kids. He is my kid. And I know him best. I know what makes him sicker. I know that treating him like "all kids" is one of those things.

I am exhausted. I am fed up. I am done explaining to people that yes, a child can be traumatized inside a womb. Google it. I am tired of trying to convince people that an unborn baby who develops in a bath of cortisol (stress hormones) instead of bonding chemicals will not respond to life or love in the same way as a typically developed child. I am all done explaining how exposure to different substances may harm a child's ability to bond and connect. I will not keep explaining that my child is both brilliant and unable to choose wisely. I will not keep asking for support only to be questioned or accused or dismissed. I am done.

Except that I'm not. I'm never done. As much as I freakin want to be done... I am not even close.

We are on four different waiting lists for various supports and schools and services. We have four siblings who are confused and wounded and are trapped between knowing that they must forgive, and their natural instinct to protect themselves from a person that causes them pain. 

I cannot describe the sight of a small, furious, hurting sister shaking her fists with the totality of her exasperation. The helplessness in her eyes, matched by my own.

 And all I can say is "I know baby. Me too." 

I cannot take away my son's pain. I can not make him feel unabandoned. I am not enough to fill in neurological gaps or heal his amygdala. My love is not that big. My love is not enough. YOUR love is not enough... so don't try to be his friend, or tell me to love him where he is at. I do. It's all I have done. And it isn't working. And I will keep doing it because there is nothing else to be done. But, all I can do is still not enough. 

I read the Bible so I know that God IS enough. I know that. But, right now... it's looking a lot more like

God + an unreasonable amount of time + so much pain in the interim = enough

I know that I sound hopeless. I know that all this is raw and scattered and probably sounds dramatic. But of one thing I am sure, there is at least one set of eyes on the other side of this screen that are filled with dysfunctionally relieved tears. One set of eyes that are seeing their feelings put into words, maybe for the first time.

So, I am writing to her. To the isolated, discouraged, helpless mom who's love is unrequited:

Hey. What's up? Thanks for somehow finding my blog. (Probably at 3am.) What you are going through is really, really hard. For you, and even harder for your child. You probably chose adoption because you wanted to be the family that helps to complete a child and now you are realizing that - surprise! - your family is being torn apart instead. Listen. Here are some things I need to hear on a regular basis and sometimes I have to say them to myself. 

1- You are not alone. There are a crap ton of us out here going through this, but most of us are too ashamed of ourselves, or too protective of our kids, to talk about it. There are a lot of anonymous blogs, but be careful, people are angry and exhausted and they sometimes bash their children. That's not okay, and it's not helpful for you.

2- You didn't cause this. (Unless you are an abusive dirtbag and you did cause this.) You didn't cause this.

3- Nobody, literally nobody, will understand what you are going through unless they are also a parent of a RAD kid. Social workers, psychologists, attachment therapists, adoption specialists, respite providers, felllow adoptees, friends, family... they all have their place, and they may even be excellent and able to help. They will not understand. Unless they are raising a child with RAD, or have done so in the past, they simply won't get it. 

4- A lot of people won't believe you. They probably will eventually, but until then, there will be a lot of advice and suggestions and have you tried's. There will be a lot of judgement. There will be a lot of people who try to "rescue" your child by loving on him, because they can't understand that you have done that, and it wasn't enough.

5- Get a door alarm and a video monitor. You need sleep, and peace of mind, and you need both of these to have a snowball's chance at either of them.

6- It's okay to go away. You need respite. Your other children need respite. Your hurting child needs respite. You all need to breath, and it's really okay to make room for it. It's not just okay, it's necessary.

7- Find a Lexi. A Lexi is a faithful friend, a champion for your self-care, a devoted caregiver, and defender of the weak and a giver of good gifts... like breaks from your child and cups of hot coffee. She doesn't have to be named Lexi, but mine is, and I couldn't do this without her. 

8- He can't love you. It's not that he won't, it's that he can't. He might want to love you, or he might actually love you, in his way, but he can't show it. He can't stop protecting himself from your love. Your love is scary to him, but it's also all you've got. And when you run out, it's okay to fake it. 

9- This is probably going to be the hardest thing you will ever do, and the biggest fight you will ever fight. You will probably not see results for a really long time. You might not ever see results. You must keep going. You signed up for this, even if you didn't know it at the time, and it is your job to keep going. And it's going to break your heart over and over and over. 

10- I know baby, me too. 

Travel Dance Video: Bestiemoon Take Deux

So, I have sat down multiple times to write about our amazing trip to France. If you don't know what I am talking about, let me get you up to speed. My friend Melissa is a world traveler. She has friends and connections all over the place, enough airline points to make you hate her just a little, (except you can't because she's so stinkin' generous with them), and she doesn't take no for an answer. So, she essentially manhandles me into taking epic vacations with her. It's a terrible friendship and this whole post is basically a cry for help. 

Okay, for realsies... the trip was fabulous.  The only reason I haven't written about it yet is because Melissa and I are going to tell the story together on video because I promise it will be so much better that way. We were in Paris for a few days, then popped over to Finland for a few days, then back to Paris, then to Provence (where my world changed and I got in touch with my roots in a major way) then back to Paris for the last few days. I ate croissants to celebrate the life and memory of my beautiful friend Karolin who commanded me to go to Paris and have fun. So we had the most fun.

And, we danced. 

We danced all over Europe. Usually at inappropriate times. We danced with new friends and perfect strangers and our French and Finnish hosts. 

And we made a video of it. Because I secretly want us to host our own travel show and making an absurd travel dance video seemed as good a means to that end as any.

What you are about to experience is a bit of an early Christmas gift. So, Merry Christmas to all and to all a You're Welcome.

Love, Tom, Melissa and Lara 

Melissa, Lara, and Tom dance their way across France and Finland

The Final Au Revoir

In the month of October, I traveled to NYC for a birth parent visit, to Michigan to surprise my mom for Halloween, did four speaking engagements and 31 days of kindness. During all of that, we were also privately waiting while our friend Karolin finished her battle with leukemia. You may remember Karolin from Day 4, where I described her as a brave warrior. Well, she was. And while her body lost that battle yesterday, her soul won, as she is now safely home with her Heavenly Father.

When I told Jay that our sweet friend (his "ice cream buddy") wasn't going to get better, he paused for a moment as if looking for a solution then said "Jesus can hold her!" That was my goodbye to Karolin on Wednesday... kisses, hugs, lots of tears, just enough complimenting her to get an exaggerated, slow-motion eye roll, and a few reminders. Namely, that Jesus is waiting to hold her.

I told her that she did so well. She did well at life, and she did well at approaching death. She did it all with incredible faith and grace. I told her that she still looked smokin' hot (insert that 60 second eye roll here). I told her that she is loved. And I told her that Jesus could hold her.

And then he did. Yesterday evening, after four years of battling this thief of a disease, and after being tenderly held and cared for around the clock by Carrie. Jesus allowed these two to be parted so that he could take over the holding. Never in my life have I seen someone care so diligently for another. While Carrie was not Karolin's "mom" in the traditional sense, she was the only mom Karolin had on this earth. As a mother to both biological children and children who belonged to a different mama first, I have it on pretty good authority to say that a mother can come in a variety of different forms, and Carrie was Karolin's in every conceivable way. This could not have been more evident in these past four years.

When I met Karolin 10 years ago, she was best friends with Lexi (who has become one of my best friends) and I only ever knew her as an extension of Carrie. I have never been to a place that Karolin lived that wasn't in or attached to Carrie's house. I have never walked into one of Karolin's countless hospital rooms without signs of Carrie (or Carrie herself) all over the place. She loved and cared for Karolin just as any mother would, maybe a little better even. Watching she and Lexi relentlessly care for, advocate for, and love on such a precious girl was truly a gift to see. A nightmarish, devastating, heart-wrenching and beautifully inspiring gift.

And today I am sad. Just so unbelievably sad. But despite the overwhelming desire to stay in bed with the covers over my head, and cry about my friend, and cry for my friends who are crying about their friend... I will be boarding a plane to Paris. It is the stupidest thing to write about these two starkly different things happening today, but I do primary content. And this is my primary content. My friend just died of leukemia and I am going to Paris. This trip was a gift given to me back in June for my birthday, from Tom and my friend Melissa. They surprised me with a ticket for Melissa and I to take another "bestiemoon." But as it turns out, the flights were so reasonable at the time that Melissa and I decided to surprise Tom on Father's Day with his own ticket and permission to crash our bestiemoon. So, the three of us are heading to France.

I feel all the things. I feel torn about leaving while my friends and family are grieving this enormous loss. I feel exhausted and sick and beyond sad. I feel crushed. But Karolin, Carrie and Lexi all told me to go. And while I am under no assumption that any of them actually need me here, I feel terrible about going right now. Their enthusiastic permission has allowed me to come out from under the covers and get out of bed and pack up my stuff to go. And much like I spent October running all over the place, doing all sorts of crazy things in honor of a kindhearted young life that I so adored... I will spend November doing much of the same.

Only I will do it France.

For these three.

Day 31: Circles Over Rows

My church has this saying they use when talking about what church should really be like, they say "circles are better than rows." What we mean by this, is that as a church, we believe that life (or life change) doesn't happen when people are sitting in pews or rows at church. Rather, we believe that life happens, community happens, when we are sitting around in a circle. This is why our church has Community Groups - where we sit together, eat together, talk and share life together, every week. Not on a Sunday, and not in a row, and not at a church... but we meet throughout the week too, in our homes, and we circle around with each other in a way that is more intimate, and more authentic than it could ever possibly be on a Sunday morning in a church building. It's how Jesus did church and it's what works for real life change and growth in faith.

Circles. They are better than rows.

There are some species of animals that only survive because of circles. The matriarch of a herd of African elephants, for example, will - when sensing danger - form a protective circle with other mature elephants to surround the youngest and most vulnerable elephants in the herd. The circle, which can sometimes be severel layers deep, serves as a barrier that protects their young from harm. 

Circles. They are safer than rows.

I have always been a circle kind of a girl. I love doing life with people. I love hearing and learning from others' stories of loss and love and redemption. I love to open my life and let people look inside of it, to correct wrong thinking, to steady me, to challenge me to grow, to comfort me. You can't do any of that in a row. It can only happen in a circle. 

Circles, are more effective than rows.

Time is more like a row. Time is linear. Grief, not so much. Grief is more like a circle. It has a natural rythm, it is cyclical, and fluid and it never ends. Sure, it may seem to pass for a while, only to circle back around again. The return of grief is the most certain part of it.

Circles. They are harder than rows. 

I have felt a lot like the little elephant inside the protective circle this month. So many of you have surrounded me and my family with love and support and encouragement. This great circle of grief might always orbit around me, but ouside of that, is another, much greater, circle. It is made up of friends, and neighbors, and former teachers and coaches. This circle around me is several layers deep, and it is comprised of perfect strangers and friends of friends, and people who knew my brother and people who did not. Just like grief, this protective community of people around me has no end. 

For Day 31, I was able to connect with some of these people. I went home to Michigan to surprise my family. Although, on this side of heaven, my mom will never have the gift of having all four of her children in one place, it was healing for her to have all her living children and grandchildren together on the night that she lost her son. We were her circle. 

I surprise visited a few family members and old friends, none of whom expected to see me, and I hope considered it a pleasant surprise. And I had the opportunity to visit my alma mater, Grand Haven High School, and had a Q&A with staff and students.

It was a great time of discussion and visiting and felt way more like a kindness to myself than to any of them. It was strange to see my old school, and Adam's old friends who are now the coaches and teachers. It was surreal, but it was good to see yet another layer to that great protective circle.

Circles. They are greater, more impactful, more powerful, more meaningful than rows.

So, Day 31 was no grand gesture of kindness. I simply gave the gift of reconnection. It was a gift to myself as much as anyone on the receiving end, I'm certain. Still, I think that connection is powerful and life-changing and as I think about the immense and powerful hold that grief can have on someone who is facing forward, alone, in a row... I am so thankful that I am in a great circle, and that I am covered. When I feel the pull of grief, tugging my soul into a place that is too dark to face alone, I am covered in prayer. When I feel the shame of suriving, or feeling stuck in this long process of healing, I am covered in grace. When I am grasping for an anchor to ground me, I am covered in love. When I fall short, evey minute of the day in some way or another, I am covered in mercy. And when I am not sure how to bring something beautiful out of something so sinister, I am covered in your kindness.

And when I am missing my brother, and I withdraw and sit alone, defiantly facing foward in what feels very much like a row, God (in his infinite wisdom and relentless pursiut of my affections) begins to sweetly bend that row around me until I am right back in a circle. And the circle is made of layer upon layer of new brothers and more sisters and the whole body of Christ working to protect our weakest and most vulerable. And we shift and take turns recieving cover and protection as we all cycle through our times of grief, and we move and we make room for new members of the herd.

Because circles, are more lasting, more transformative, and more life-giving than rows.

Day 30: We Are Not Blocked

After staring at a blinking curser for the past forty minutes, I have decided that I am just going to tell you the truth. It's not like I have writer's block, in fact I don't think I have ever experienced writer's block. Only real, official writer's get "writer's block." I would have something more like "stay-at-home-mom who wants to be a real writer someday and pretends to be a writer and might even call herself a writer when she is on an airplane and can pretend to be anyone...block." But, even then, I don't know if I have had it. When I don't write, or can't write, it's not for lack of ideas. If I am not writing it is because I tend to only write primary content - the stuff I am really living through and experiencing right now. If my primary content is too hard or too private, then I won't write. But, I don't usually feel blocked.

Today though, is a different sort of thing. It's hard for me to write today because I feel like I have already written it all before. I have been doing #AdamsActs for a while now, and I have shared my private memories, my secret feelings, and all the griefs. This is the hardest part of blogging about a story that does not change. I am out of material. I am blocked.

Remember a couple years back, when I told you all about Adam being such a phenomenal wrestler that his teammates called him "Pinner"? And then I told you how they called me "Lil' Pinner" because I followed him everywhere and looked a lot like him? Yeah, well nothing has changed since then. That still happened, it still breaks my heart, and I already wrote about it. 

I just feel blocked.

I already told you that my heart breaks in fresh ways every time someone asks me how many brothers and sisters I have. That is still true. I already told you that it took me years to forgive myself for going skiing with some friends instead of celebrating Adam's last birthday with him. That is still true. I already told you that if I could go back and celebrate his life for one last time, I would give anything to make a different choice. I still regret it. I already told you that he would dance in hammer pants around the house, and that he taught me to forgive and to think independently. All still true, all still not nearly enough. 

There is so little left that I haven't told you. And I don't know if I want to tell any more. Because ya know what, this is all I have left of him. I do not get fresh material to draw from. I do not get new stories to share, new memories with him, or some totally new perspective on grief and loss. This is it. This is all I have. I have already shared everything that I was given. And when I start pressuring myself and I catch myself feeling like I am disappointing all of you by not bringing something new to the table I start to feel a sort of anger burn deep within me.... an anger that screams back that nobody wants new stories to share, nobody wants more memories, nobody wants another birthday... more than me, more than my family.

And so, this is it. This is the truth. I have already told you almost everything. I have hesitantly and tentatively opened my hand and shared with all of you the most sacred bits of my story. Our time with Adam was so very brief, and as the youngest, I had the least time with him. So, in a way I am blocked. That is what happens when a life is cut short. When a bright, brilliant light is shut off, there is only the vague memory of it and everything else goes dark.

It's easier, trust me, to sit in that darkness. It is easier to call it writer's block, and to stop sharing and to just let myself be sad. But, I refuse to stay here in the dark when God has made it pretty darn clear that we are supposed to use our stories and to be the light of this world. And so, it's true, there is nothing new to share about Adam. It's true that I have said it all before.

But, as long as these old memories of mine hold truths that help this dark world glow just a little warmer, a little brighter, I will keep sharing them. And I won't put pressure on myself to share new things, because I don't have the luxury of making new memories with Adam. But, what I have is primary content. I have this day. And today, was a good day.

For Day 30, Tom and I packed up all five kids and drove to Michigan to surprise my mom. Today we all hung out, the cousins played, and my mom had all her kids and grandkids together under one roof. It was a good day. And while it's true that Adam's story doesn't change... ours is still being written. Today I sat with my nephew, Adam,  who will be 17 in a few days, who was named after his beloved Uncle, and we talked about school and sports and life and his future. His story is still being written.

I watched my nephew, Tyson, play soccer a lot like his Uncle Adam did. And afterwards we all played together, and we ran and wrestled and clicked our heels and got tangled in the soccer nets... and I could see that our story was still being written. I can see that while Adam's story ended, it is still woven into us so profoundly that it continues on in its own way. 

We are not blocked. We have gone through hell and back as a family, but our story is good. And it is still being written. 

Day 27: Tantrum Acts of Kindness

Day 27 was a cold one. We woke up to a dark, snowy morning and since we all know that #iquitwhenitscold I was not thrilled for the winter to pop by this early in the season. And while my hibernation intincts to store food in my pillowcase and just hole up til spring were kicking in like nobody's business, I pushed through to the bright side. And the bright side is that I have waited for a snowy October day for forever! I have dreamed of bringing hot chooclate to the crossing guard near the middle school on the first really cold day of the year. And it was finally here! And I knew just the right person to treat! This guy is a little bit older, and he singlehandedly mans the busiest intersection in the neighborhood. 

So, when I woke up to this:

I call this Phase 1: Frosted Mini Wheat Snow. It gets worse, and there are many levels of torture involved, but this is the beginning. 

I decided to make the best of it. I would bring the crossing guard a hot drink on the first really cold day of the year. This guy is faithfully out at that intersection every single morning, and every single afternoon all year long. 

Except for today. Of course.

Fortunately, I had already arranged to bring Harper's teacher her dream lunch today as well, so it wasn't a complete bust. I also extended the kindness of extra treats to my kids, because it is sometimes hard watching their mom just hand out candy and special lunches willy nilly, when you are getting the same old turkey on wheat that you always get. 

Jay, in particular, seems to be enduring the greatest temptations. 

He starts off strong, ready to give joyfully, then crumbles upon learning that he will not be getting his dream lunch any time soon.

You can see the evolution of emotions he experiences as we wait for Mrs. Mendicino's dream lunch.

We start here with a relatively strong smile and willing participation.

He starts to realize that maybe he doesn't care to wait here for something he won't be enjoying, but the one side of his mouth still has enough fortitude to muster half a fake smile.

Here we have stage three, as you can see the clenched and extended neck area shows building emotional distress, head thrown back in exasperation, but feelings are being stuffed in hopes that forced politeness will earn a handsome reward.

Reality sets in. Hopes are dashed. Fake smile, and entire face, disappear behind the goods. Tantrum ensues.

So, I resolved to really let them enjoy some extra dessert tonight. My friend Nan had so graciously made our family an apple crisp, and the kids were looking forward to having some after dinner. Apparently, Annalee discovered that I had "taste tested" a small bit, and sent a very clear message that she was watching.

Even though my hot chocolate mission was a fail because there wasn't a crossing guard there to guard all the crossing, I didn't report the old man who had clearly abandoned his post. I am not sure if that is kindness or negligence on my part, but we can just call this one a draw.

I really can't believe that we only have four days left of October. I have gotten a lot of messages from people expressing regret that they just learned what #AdamsActs is all about, and they feel as though they missed the opportunity. I am toying with the idea of making #AdamsActs an all year thing. I would continue to particpate at this level only in October, but I have been asked to speak about this movement in November, and I love the idea of issuing different schools, different communities, different churches, teams, organizations... the challenge of doing one full month of kindness throughout the year. I know why I do it in October, but there is no reason that I can't challenge other groups of people to do it any time of year. So, whatchya think guys? Can you think of a youth group, or a small group, or a neighborhood, or a book club, etc. that might be up for taking charge of a month? If thousands of people can spread this much kindness in the month of October, how many more people could #catchthekindness throughout the year? A wise and beautiful woman with an unbeleivable heart of gold (yes, that's you Sue Delgatti) said to me, "When this month is over, I am going to keep #AdamsActs going. I say #ContinueTheKindness." I like how Sue thinks.

I don't know what this would look like, but I know that my life's mission is to share this story of redemption with as many people as the Lord wants to put in front of me. I truly believe that God takes the worst of us, the worst of our experiences, the worst of our pain... and transforms it into something purposeful and beautiful if we allow him to. My passion is to share that truth with as many people as possible. So, if you have a group that could benefit from the good news that redemption and healing are possible, I wold love to share this story and invite others to join in the movement to be more actively and intentionally kind. I believe that we should give sacrificially, but joyfully. We should give 'til it hurts a little, then do it anyway, knowing that ultimate joy comes from loving and serving others ahead of ourselves. Don't we all feel a little tantrum-y like Jay when we really give big? And I have to be honest, the thought of pouring my story out year round is just about enough to make me throw myself on the floor and roll around a little... but I also know that some stories are just too big to confine to 31 days. Some things - like radical kindness, like overcoming grief, like sharing life with others - just might need to happen all year long.

--

If you are interested in booking a speaking event, or have a group in mind that might be interested in participating in #AdamsActs for one month in 2017, contact Lara here.

Day 26: Video Fail, Kindness Success

This video is Tom and my relationship in a nutshell. I'm obnoxious, insecure and hyper, sort of like a puppy. He is sensible and quick to end our hilarity out of embarrassment. Because he insisted on shutting down my attempt to share all my kindnesses (which was clearly going so well) I will give a brief overview. Day 26 included hosting our community group here because the planned hosts had a stomach bug. I sent a few notes of appreciation to various people who have supported me during different seasons of my life, and I also sent messages to people who are going through difficult times. I checked in, asked how I could pray, and tried to brighten their day a bit. But mostly, I intend to brighten your evening with this uncensored peek into our marriage.  

Day 25: Ele's Place

Hi all you #AdamsActs warriors out there! I’m Karen and Lara has been kind enough to let me guest blog today so I can introduce you to Ele’s Place, a healing center for grieving children and teens. But first, let me introduce myself and my connection to Lara and her family. Lara’s big sister Kristin was my college roommate and has been my bestie for 25 years! In October of 1992 Kristin and I were a couple of relatively carefree college seniors living in a tiny apartment near campus and preparing to do our student teaching. We were equal parts enjoying our last months as college students and planning our futures. Then the World stopped. Kristin was home for the weekend and on the morning of November 1st she called me. “My brother has died.” I remember trying to make some sense of what she could possibly be talking about, but of course it made exactly zero sense to my 21-year-old college student self. I don’t remember much after that. Mostly I remember that she needed me to call the family she was planning to babysit for that night (which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Kristin; at the worst moment of her life she was worried about others and the commitments she made to them). This, I’ve come to realize, became the first time I companioned a friend through her grief. 

Fast forwarding 20 plus years, Kristin and I have supported and cheered each other through weddings, babies, jobs, cross country moves, surgeries and much more. Most recently, Kristin has cheered me on through my mid-life crisis. Thankfully not the kind where I go crazy and act like a child, more the kind where I search for my life purpose and a new career.  In the end, I came to realize that I wanted to work with grieving children and I’m sure this life purpose was greatly influenced by Adam’s death and witnessing his family’s grief process, including Lara starting Adam’s Acts. After Kristin helped with some encouragement and prodding, I was led to Ele’s Place Grand Rapids where I started working about 2 months ago. At Ele’s Place we provide peer to peer support groups for children 3-18 who are grieving the death of a parent, sibling or other close family member or friend. We also provide grief support groups to local schools, and education about children’s grief to the community. Ele’s Place vision is for every grieving child in Michigan to have access to compassionate support. Currently there is an Ele’s Place in Lansing, Ann Arbor, Grand Rapids and Flint. As I have gotten to know the families at Ele’s Place I can’t help but wish that there had been an Ele’s Place for Adam’s family.

The more I get to know Ele’s Place the more I love them and their mission. Before I started working there I had no idea that Ele’s Place serves all families free of charge. No sliding scale, no income requirements, no billing insurance. We feel that grieving families should not have to worry about where the money will come from to get the support they need. Ele’s Place is 100% funded through donations, volunteers, and community support. I also love the philosophy about grief at Ele’s Place. We believe that grieving is a normal and healthy reaction to death. We do not provide therapy because families who are mourning do not need to be “fixed” they need to be companioned. They need a safe and comforting place to talk about their person who died and receive support from others who are also grieving.

If you feel connected to this mission, please consider doing an #AdamsAct to support Ele’s Place. Here are some ways to help:
* Volunteer – Our support groups are run by volunteers who are trained by our staff. We have the most amazing and dedicated volunteers, some who feel called to help because they experienced a death when they were a child
* Donate goods – We are always in need of office supplies (printer paper, red folders), paper goods (paper plates, napkins, paper towels, cups, bowls etc. for the potluck dinner we serve prior to groups) and art supplies (construction paper, crayons, markers, cardstock)
* Donate money – Every little bit helps us to provide support to local families! If you feel moved to donate remember to include a #AdamsAct so we know your donation is in honor of Adam!
You can bring/send donations to our Grand Rapids office at 2000 Michigan St. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49503. If you are interested in volunteer opportunities feel free to email me at kketterer@elesplace.org and I will point you in the right direction. You can find more information about Ele’s Place and how to help grieving children and teens at www.elesplace.org.

A big thank you to Lara, Kristin, BethAnn and Sandi who long ago became my “other” family. Love you guys! 

Day 23 & 24: Yes, Still.

So, I think it's pretty obvious that I am getting overwhelmed. All the usual signs are there. First, we are in the home stretch with #AdamsActs, second, I have pulled out the buy one, get one blogs more than I wanted to, and finally, there's been a lot of uncontrolled weeping in my house. (Mostly from Tom.) 

Seriously though, I can feel the weight of October (and everything it holds for me) just settle deep into my bones around this time every year. And it unhinges me. And every year, I scold myself, "Still?"

Yes, still. 

I still remember Joe walking into my house, basically still a kid himself, holding up my mom and my oldest sister, to tell Bethann and I that Adam was gone. Joe defintely got more than he bargained for when he decided to fall in love at first sight of my big sister Kristin. He didn't know that our family was about to change forever when they first started dating. On their comically awkward first date (in which Joe got his own arm stuck in the steering wheel while driving, and I'm pretty sure my sister also threw up at one point) he didn't know that our parents' divorce was only months away, and that Adam's death was waiting on deck. Or that the trial would begin shortly after, and a march on the courthouse to demand justice for Adam. He didn't know that he would be the rock of our family when he walked through that door to deliver the news that would change our lives, our family, our selves, forever.

Kristin and Joe on their wedding day, 7 months after Adam passed away.

Yes, still.

I still remember watching a video of Adam at the funeral home, trying desperately to memorize every manerism, the sound of his voice, and what his hands looked like. And as much as I fought it, those memories have faded over time, yet the loss of him, has not.

I still remember dressing up as Adam on that last Halloween. It has always been heartbreaking and beautiful to me that on the night my brother was living his last moments as a 17 year old boy on this earth, I was also pretending to be that boy, wrestling singlet and all. I was dressed as my super hero for Halloween, but it just so happened that my hero was my big brother.

I still remember praying that God would let me talk to him in a dream. And still, certain songs, certain smells, certain weather... can crack my heart wide open to reveal a wound that still feels so fresh at times.

Yet there are a lot of other times when my pain is mostly the result of my little empath heart breaking for my parents. There is no pain more acute in my estimation that that of losing a child. There is no reality so harsh, or loss so severe as knowing that your child is gone, and you must continue to live.

So, yes. Still.

It is all still there. So many years later, because that is how love works. Just because one life ends, does not mean that all the love ends to. And when you have a boy so great, and so much love, really... something must be done with it. And so, as hard as it gets to continue blogging day in and day out, as exhausted as I feel from a month of feeling exposed, as much weeping as there is... it is out of a complete overflow of love that #AdamsActs was born.

And until I come face to face with my heavenly father and my earthly hero, I consider it a privilege to pour myself out each day. As long as I can say, "yeah, still." I will keep attempting to use this oportunity to show love and kindness to others.

Day 23 and 24 included a variety of kindnesses. I spent a lot of time in grocery stores so, three times over the past two days, I bought a Snickers for the cashier. This is one of my favorites, because the opportunity presents itself so conveniently and so regularly! Plus, cashiers are watching other people buy delicious foods all day. Can you imagine how hungry you'd get after a while? And for someone to say "Hey, Victor, you look like you could use a Snickers on your next break," has to be so gratifying. 

Victor was a 17 year old boy too, which just sweetened the whole experience for me. I told him about my brother, Adam, who is forever 17, and how he can pay it forward someday when he sees someone else who stands on their feet for an entire shift. He seemed genuinely touched. Another lady came around the check out to give me a hug, and the third lady gave me a look like "I don't need your filthy Snickers bar." But, she turned her light off as soon as I paid and took her break immediately. Turns out, girlfriend does need my filthy Snickers.

I also filled all the grocery carts at Aldi with quarters and I helped a friend who has been having some excruciating back issues with her grocery shopping, a little laundry, and dinner. And I bought her sweet angel girl some slippers which she pretended to hate until I left. Mostly though, it was a kindness to me because we mostly just ate subs and talked about all the crying we were doing lately. 

And for my final act of kindness, I contributed to a gofundme for a college student who is double majoring in African/African American Studies and Political Science and is raising money to study abroad in Ghana. Sidnee is a bright student and activist who will be partnering with me tomorrow night for another discussion on the race relations in our country.

After all the fails, and all the weeping, I'm feeling like mama got her kindness groove back a little bit. And as much as the last week feels like the emotional equivalent of walking through quick sand, I can say another set of "yes, still's" are true.

In a time where racial tensions seem to continually intensify, yes, still, I will speak up and try to make a difference. In a culture that overlooks others in the busyness of life, yes, still, I think that our world can change one Snickers at a time. I lost my big brother, and yes, still I have faith. Yes, still, I trust my God. Yes, still, I believe that He brings good things out of bad, life out of death. And I am willing to splay my grief journey before thousands of people because, yes, still, I believe that Jesus is in the business of turning my pain, and yours, into a beautiful, candy-bar-filled story of redemption. 

Day 21 & 22: Let's Leave Lisa Out of It.

After my highlight reel of fails the other day, trust me when I tell you that the irony of being interviewed for #AdamsActs is not lost on me! And while I feel unfit for such a responsibility, I had the privilege of challenging an entire gymnasium full of 4th, 5th and 6th graders to join #AdamsActs with all of us for the next ten days.

That is not me in the fire-engine red wig. My wig only comes out on really special occasions.

I got to stand in front of these developing minds and tell them about all the things that my big brother could do - soccer, wrestling, editing the school paper, making people laugh, etc. But, I also got to tell them that Adam wasn't special because of what he could do, but because of what he chose to BE. And what he chose to be was really, really kind. I shared with them one of my favorite acts of kindness that exemplify who Adam was when nobody was looking. Below is an excerpt from a message I received many years after his death, about a simple kindness Adam showed to one of his classmates. 

When I was 15, I went to the freshman dance in the cafeteria in the Jr High. I was awkward and very shy. I spent most of the evening hiding in the bathroom and hoping it would just be over. I ended up going out to the dance floor. I didn't know Adam, but I recognized him. He was there all by himself. Amazing! A 14 year old boy at a dance by himself! ( I went with a group of girl friends). I asked if he wanted to dance. He said sure! Before we got a chance, my friend cut in. It was funny the first time, but she did it repeatedly all night long and I never did get to dance with this nice boy. Well, as I was walking down the hall after the dance, I met up with Adam. My friend was no where in sight. I mentioned that to him, just as a joke. He stopped right there and we danced! Just for a few moments. No music, no cafeteria, who cares who saw.

What a special, special brother you have! I don't know of any boy that age that would do such a sweet thing. I was always taught that there are angels on earth. I have repeated this story to people many times and there is no doubt in my mind that he was an angel.

At the age where these kids are still forming their world view, and their very identity, I am counting it as my Day 21 act of kindness that I attempted to convince hundreds of kids that being kind is cool. That slow dancing in the hallway to no music with the shy girl who felt left out is the stuff of legacies. That seeing the kid who feels invisible, is what separates everyone else from the heroes. As a kid, it is so easy to feel like you are standing alone on the wrong side of a great divide. Maybe it's having the wrong sneakers, or clothes from all the wrong stores, an outdated haircut, or a second-hand dress for the prom. Or maybe it's just having nowhere to sit (or nobody to dance with) in the junior high cafeteria. Whatever it is, these kids are still deciding which kind of kid they will be. Will they be brave enough, kind enough, to reach out across that divide (which is much smaller than it seems to the girl hiding in the bathroom at a school dance) or will they be like everyone else? 

I was beyond excited to be invited to push these kids to grow in the area of kindness. But, I admit that I was a bit on the nervous side. Enter into evidence, Exhibit A: the photo I sent to my sister-in-law, Carlie, when she asked how I was feeling about the whole thing.

Despite the nerves however, I am so thankful to have this unique opportunity to partner with the students and faculty at Rogers Middle School. And 13 WHAM news. Even though they think my name is Lisa. 

I am not even a little bit ashamed to admit that mid-speech I, Lisa, took a mass selfie with the entire middle school. The quality of the photos are terrible, as was the decision probably, but they still turned out really fun! 

For Day 22, I was going to go see a friend about a pelvis, and that's really all I will say about that. However, there was an unexpected change in her schedule so pelvic plans have been moved to Monday. Which means I have just enough time to panic-scramble some sort of pathetic kindness in this evening.

But, I also thought I should give some updates as well! First of all, the donation bin for David's Refuge has been a HUGE success! As you can see below, we have received mountains of sweet and salty snacks which will be used to fill gift baskets to accompany the overnight getaways for parents and caregivers of children with severe special needs or life-threatening medical conditions. There is still time to donate some snacks to my front step. If you are interested, message me for my address. We will be collecting items until the 31st.

I have to admit that I have also been the recipient of many kindnesses. My friend Andrea sent these beautiful roses and a note of encouragement, my mother-in-law brought me these cheery daisies and my friend Lexi has provided an eternal supply of apples. (#foodsofaffirmation) An eternal supply is saying a lot for a household of seven! Trust me when I tell you that the grocery struggle is real. As always, it's better to give than to receive... but I gotta admit that recieving is a very close second. I am very blessed to be surrounded by people that Adam would have loved if he could know them and I consider it the great sadness of my life that they will never get to. Still, it encourages me to believe that God is using both Adam's memory, and all my favorite people, to raise up a new generation of kind kids.