Day 8: Chemo Care Drive

I can’t believe that we are officially starting week 2 of #AdamsActs!! It’s been a strange month for me so far, to say the least. I am still feeling quite dizzy and out of it, and I am down about ten pounds. Despite having been called a fat cow multiple times in the hospital, I actually don’t have a lot of extra weight to spare at the moment… so ten pounds is a bit rough. I am still not cleared to drive, so I thought now would be a good time to kick off my plan for the rest of October.

In the past couple of years, I have collected items for various causes. One year I collected snack items for gift baskets which were then given to an organization called David’s Refuge. DR provides respite for parents and caregivers of children with special needs, long-term medical or terminal illness. The following year we did a blanket drive for homeless shelters. This year, I will be collecting items for people who are going through chemotherapy.

I will keep a bin on my front step where you can drop items off at your convenience (if you live in the Rochester area.) For those readers who live elsewhere, you can send me a private message for my address if you would like to mail items to be part of our drive. As in past years, anyone who is not a pervert is welcome to participate. I mean, I can’t just have pervs comin’ and going’ from the house willy nilly.

Here are some items that I would recommend:

• Comfortable socks/slippers

• Beanie, hat, head wrap or scarf made of soft fabric

• Wrap, soft blanket or shawl

• Travel pillow

• Snacks

• Travel size toiletries (toothpaste, mouthwash, hand sanitizer, lotion for sensitive skin, etc.)

• Moisturizer (anything with calendula)

• Gum, mints and crystallized ginger (to combat nausea)

• Magazines, crossword puzzles, books

• Journal

• Paper organizer (to keep records and prescriptions in order)

• Reusable water bottles

• Chapstick

• Peppermint or ginger tea

• Headphones

• Sleep mask

• Earplugs

• Nail polish (nobody going through chemo recommended this, but I don’t think anyone should ever go through hard things without an excellent base, color and top coat. If you need brand suggestions, I will happily oblige.)

• Gift cards (I-Tunes, gas cards, grocery stores, restaurants and activities near hospital.) Even if these aren’t used right away, it gives the patient something fun to look forward to when they are feeling up to it!

• Blank stationary or note cards

• Subscriptions - Netflix, Amazon Prime, Audible, Hulu, etc. can help pass time.

Housecleaning and meal delivery services are also amazing gifts, but I am not about to be organizing stuff. I will just collect and distribute, because I know my limits. Still, I think a collection of these small, but essential items can go a long way to encourage people and alleviate some of the financial strain of battling cancer. None of these “extras” are covered by insurance, even though many of these items, like nail polish, are necessary for survival.

Quick instructions if you come to my house - you should know a few quick things.

• There could be upwards of 100 children from the neighborhood scattered about the yard at any given time. They will almost definitely be wearing bicycle helmets, backwards and for no apparent reason. Whether they are actually riding their bicycles or not - the helmets will be incorrectly, unsafely and precariously dangling from their heads. 100% of the time. (Below are photos of my actual children. Please pray for their future.)

• We have a small and poorly trained puppy who is super chill and lovely, until someone brings lotions to our house for cancer patients. Then she becomes an “excitable greeter.” Just, push through it. She is harmless and adorable. I am better at training people than pets apparently.

Happy Day #8 everyone. I hope to hear from many of you about partnering together to encourage men, women and children who have a long, hard fight in front of them.

Day 6: Fat Cows, Camels and Compliments

On Wednesday night I was at church volunteering to watch some kids when I started feeling unwell. More accurately, I started feeling worse. I have not been feeling great for over a year now, and the past couple of weeks have been particularly rough. By Wednesday, I was feeling weak and dizzy. As Jonathan mentioned in the public flogging over my poor hydration habits, I assumed that I might just be dehydrated. I began feeling a little faint, so I sat down until I felt okay to drive home. I only live five minutes from church, but still, I had my three youngest kiddos with me so I didn’t want to risk anything.

I drove home from church, went in the front door and that’s really all I remember. At some point I passed out near my front door and the kids found me there on the floor a short while after. I do not know how long I was out for. The kids were incredible and able to figure out how to use Siri to get help. I was pretty proud. I woke up to London, my 8-year-old , saying “I’m going to get Scout (our puppy), it’s the only thing that will work!” It was so sad. And also adorable. Because to a little girl, there is no problem that an adorable puppy cannot solve.

I decided to go into the Emergency Room just to be safe. Long story short, I was admitted to the observation unit - lots and lots of tests were run, heart rates and blood sugar were erratic, weight has been lost, heads have been aching and the short answer is… we don’t know. There are still some test results we are waiting on, but for the most part they have ruled out anything too sinister. It sounds like they are leaning toward this being some sort of malabsorption issue from something like Celiac or Crohn’s.  A compromised ability to absorb nutrients would definitely explain why my legs are the size and shape of golf tees. So, this seems reasonable to me. Still, more tests are required to confirm.

In the meantime, I was sent home from the hospital yesterday afternoon with a heart monitor to definitively rule out cardiac issues. I am not allowed to work or drive until I am cleared by a doctor. They did say I can still do laundry, so… awesome.

I have been really overwhelmed by those of you who have reached out for updates and well-wishes. I appreciate it so much. I don’t think I have ever spent so much time on my phone before, so we can add carpal tunnel to my list of possible diagnoses. In all seriousness though I was amazed to sit back and watch #AdamsActs just explode before my eyes, knowing that it literally had nothing to do with me. You guys, are amazing.

I have been trying very hard not to get down on myself or feel like I’ve let ya down. Seeing everything you guys are doing to spread kindness, positivity and love has been such an encouragement to me that it has helped keep me in good spirits. I thought about doubling up acts of kindness to catch up, but I am releasing myself from that because I am wearing a heart monitor as we speak and I don’t need that kinda pressure.

For Day 6, I will tell you the highlight reel of my stay in the hospital. I had planned to extend kindness during my stay… but oh boysies. Here’s how it went down. I was put in a “room” with a curtain separating me from an older, unstable gentleman who burned his feet up from walking too much. It was actually quite sad, but also he kept swearing at me and accusing me of stealing his sunglasses, so I feel like it’s ok for me to get a good story out of the abuse, if nothing else.

I knew it was going to be a long night when he got started on the Communists and the Russians. I have to admit, I didn’t see all the smoking coming though. Yep. That’s right. This man perpetually yelled “Nurse! Nurse! I gotta go number two!” As it turns out, “Number Two” is very much code for “Smoking in the Hospital Bathroom.” Every time he came back in the room the nurse would yell at him and apologize to me… and eventually I got my very own bottle of air freshener!

Once the nurses put a stop to Operation Numero Dos, he very boldly lit those Camel Straights right there in the room. The security guards were not thrilled. They wrestled the cigs away from this guy, and I was definitely to blame… seeing as I was “the fat cow who stole his best sunglasses.”

Not only was I a fat cow, I was a number of other filthy names that have become memories I’d prefer to treasure privately. My favorite name, however I will share with you. Every time he demanded that I - a patient hooked up to an IV and all the monitors - get up and get him some Tylenol he would call me Hunny Bunny. When I told him that I was unable to provide any medicine at this time, he would scream at me and call me Nurse Ratchet. I have a bit of video of this as evidence that I am not being dramatic, but I cannot include it because, ya know HIPPA or whatever.

So, that was night number one in the hospital. Super restful. No wonder my heart rate was going bananas! What were its options!? The second night was not much better because the observation unit just means that all of us fat cows are appropriately placed in curtained stalls. We are strategically situated to ensure that every time someone moans or talks about their bile, we can all weigh in.

I promise though, I was doing my absolute best to extend kindness whenever possible. I spent hours patiently talking with Mr.Russia. I told him politely that I preferred “cow” to the other c-word he was throwing around. I listened to him talk about literally every thought he had, as he had it. And I didn’t once lose my temper. Or sleep.

I was also intentional about trying to be as kind a patient as possible. Of course, I always strive to be polite and kind, but when you are bed-ridden and the only opportunity to extend kindness is toward the people taking care of you… ya run short on ideas. It did give me the chance to live out one of my life mottos which is to never just think a compliment, say it instead.

So, that is what I did. I liked this nurse’s glasses, and I appreciated that nurse’s sense of humor. I found something attractive or admirable or pleasant about every single person I came in contact with. Let me tell you, it helped. For them, I think it is encouraging to be appreciated or recognized in any small way while working in such a hectic environment. And it helped me. I felt uplifted every time I was able to make someone else feel good.

I think my brother would have liked Russia. He would have sat with him a while, got to know him. He would have had a good laugh at his shenanigans, and he would have had compassion. So, while the past few days probably won’t make it onto my top ten list of best ever weeks… I appreciated the opportunity to live out some deeply held values: to listen to lonely people, to see and appreciate people, to be generous with encouragement, to love the people that the world says are “unlovable” and to laugh at inappropriate things.

Day 5: Conversations instead of casseroles.

Hi #adamsacts Fam— Brandi Ebersole here, a good friend of Lara. I have the honor of people saying “we’re a lot alike”. Usually when we hang out together our passive husbands, roll their eyes as we get overly passionate or obnoxiously loud together.

We’ll it’s my turn to be up to bat …guest posting. Not paling in comparison.

Here to let you know, she’s still in the hospital

— WAITING.

And this is where you too, can step in. We all need to be going HARD on our acts of kindness in her absence and PRAYING. Because in my eyes, this is just evil against good… but we’ll leave that kind of writing to George Lucas

#maytheforcebewithlara  

Anyway the funny thing about Lara is she is actually outrageously kind-- EVERYDAY. It’s not just this month. I can visit her from out of town and there is always a neighbor or a church friend stopping in to return a clean casserole dish or something borrowed from her. I know many of you know, this Lara. The one who will pick-up your call even if she’s wrangling her kids in her van. Stopping to give you all the advice and her whole heart. Asking you, the hard questions and always tells you the truth.
     My first vivid memory of Lara was many years ago. We were at her in-law’s house. She was telling me a bit about her brother, Adam and family history. A lot of chaos was going on. But after being kind and vulnerable about her own experience, she asked me a raw question…  Do you ever want to meet your birth-family? (adult adoptee here). I was shocked, but felt safe and answered “Yes”.

This small question has changed the trajectory of a lot in my life.

 See that’s Lara and that’s kindness. Sharing your own story, giving-room for others to share theirs. I have had the honor of knowing and gleaming from Lara’s kindness for over 10 years now. She’s been with me when I got married, adopted my first kid, found-out I was birthing another kid and most important has NOT let me shy away from my experience or has not stopped pointing me to the good-Lord for the answers.

      So my challenge to you today--

How can you be vulnerable with someone else, so they too can feel SEEN and KNOWN?

Maybe it’s not the casserole, but the conversation.

Substitute Teacher

You know when you walked into Science class in 8th grade and knew right away there was a substitute teacher? No one was sitting in their seats, your friends were eating their lunch pudding packs at 9:30am. No rules… Well, If you’re reading this and already getting the sense that this isn’t your favorite blogger on earth writing to you, it’s because I (Lara’s brother-in-law) have been asked to sub in for the moment.

About an hour ago, Lara found herself waking up on her living room floor with their three youngest kids hovering over her… “Mommy you passed out”. Well, it was a little more insane than that. Jaylen, their youngest, was screaming and is officially scarred for life at the thought of Mommy falling to the floor. Harper grabbed Lara’s phone to call Daddy, and didn’t know the passcode to unlock it. Thankfully he had enough wit to mutter out “Hey Siri… Call ‘Tom My Lover.’” Of course, that’s how every husband is and should be saved in the phone. But everyone can breathe. I just got off the phone with Lara. Her and Tom are at the hospital waiting for results on a few tests, but she sounded ok.

Don’t worry, I’ve already shamed her for not drinking enough water ever in her life; as I believe if they did a full body/organ scan they’d come to find all of her organs are shriveled to raisin size. That’s enough shaming my sister-in-law in the hospital. This is a time and month for good deeds. We can all pray for Lara as she’s hopefully hearing very soon of what may be going on.

As the sub for today, I do have one assignment for class today… on behalf of #AdamsActs, give even greater than yesterday! I think that’d make Lara’s day.

Until next time she passes out…

Jonathan

I Come Empty Handed

Historically, I have not handled criticism terribly well. Anyone remember this mental breakdown from last year? Perhaps one of my finest public shame spirals, if I may be so bold. I have learned and grown a lot in the past year, so I decided that since more than 5,000 people have already read Day 1, this year I am going to get ahead of some of the most common questions and critiques. This time, not because of my insecurity, but because I want to convince you that we are doing good work together, and you should definitely consider getting involved. Let’s take a look at question/comment #1...

Q: For starters, shouldn’t we all just perform acts of kindness anyways? And shouldn’t we do it anonymously? Isn’t it really self-serving to post kind acts so publicly?

A: I can appreciate this question because, at first glance, I would probably tend to find a public bragfest to be quite off-putting. However, I do not believe that people are doing this to “brag about being kind.” I have been doing this for seven years now and I have had the honor and pleasure of watching this idea grow into an initiative and then develop even further, into a movement. It has caused people to move.

I have seen angry, bitter, hurting people move toward softness, toward healing. I have seen people who are fearful and guarded, move toward openness and vulnerability. I have seen people who are trudging through the same heavy, thick grief move toward peace and freedom, toward levity. Kindness moves people to become more kind. Kindness had the redemptive and restorative power to heal people, to invite them in to something bigger and more meaningful than themselves. I have seen this month of kindness give people purpose. We can be privately kind for 11 months out of the year, but for one month… let’s be out loud and in your face about the impact kindness can have. Because, that is what moves people. That is what makes it contagious.

Q: Aren’t you just trying to get attention? Shouldn’t you be over this by now?

A: Eh nope! Okay admittedly, I haven’t received this particular question (to my face) since high school. However, as my brother’s story is being circulated by strangers multiple times over, its reach gets further and further removed from me. That is exactly the goal! What tends to happen though, is that people feel freer to make potentially hurtful remarks like “get over it by now.” To that question I would say a few things: 1) You, sir, are lucky that I am stable enough in this moment that I will not hunt you down and throat punch you for your insensitivity. 2) You, sir, are quite fortunate that you do not understand the depths of timeless grief because that means that you have never lost someone who you loved so much that you can’t “get over it,” 3) You will someday, and you will want to apologize for what you said, 4) I already forgive you. But also 5) Shut up so much.

When Adam was killed so suddenly, I was still just a girl. For a child to navigate an ocean of grief without the maturity and capacity of an adult, the grieving process is delayed. While I do not think we should compare our grieving process to another person’s process, I think it is understandable to do so. What is even more misguided, would be comparing an adult’s grief to a child’s. I am not saying either is harder or easier… but I am saying that a child will need to first become an adult in order to fully and effectively grieve. So, that is what I have done. I started this process seven years ago. And now it feels like Adam died 7 years ago. In reality, Adam was killed in 1993. But my process started many years after that. So, see #5 above and have a blessed day.

Finally, my favorite frequently asked question:

Q: What if I forget to post? What if I run out of ideas? What if my acts of kindness are just very small?

IT’S ALL OKAY. Trust me, after you read what I did for Day #2, you are going to feel a lot less worried or pressured to do something epic. I LOVE the creative ideas that people are already coming up with! Here’s the thing though, we aren’t all in that space. I have five children people… there were years where I counted the absence of an outburst in my home an act of kindness. There are times that I have done nothing at all, so instead I made a terrible video explaining myself. There have been times, like today, where I totally failed at my kindness altogether!

You will forget. It’s okay to double up, or to give yourself a pass. If you run out of ideas, type #AdamsActs into Google, Twitter, Instagram or Facebook and you will find a butt ton of ideas. If you are sick or tired or feeling particularly lazy - SHARE MY POSTS! Liking, commenting, reposting… all these easy actions are a kindness to me, and they put this kindness campaign in front of more eyes. It helps us connect with more people who could use a little kindness in their lives. If you are consistent, but feeling as if your kindnesses are “small” then I want to challenge you to try this exercise:

Think of three of the kindest people you know. Now think of something nice each of them said or did. Were they all huge, life-changing things? Or were they smaller, consistent efforts to encourage you? In the same way that small things can trigger big feelings of grief, small acts of kindness can make a big impact on someone’s day. One compliment, one encouraging message, one extra moment to make a human connection… these are the things that, if done consistently over time, have the potential to change someone’s life. Remember that our cumulative efforts are what make the biggest difference.

Now, without further ado, my Day #2. I made a very sizable donation to a fundraiser that my sweet friend Anna is involved with to raise money for her High School’s production of Pride and Prejudice - which is one of my all time favorite books and I also love the movie. In related news,  I think that the BBC version was well done in regards to character development (many thanks to Pete Nesbitt for that astute observation), but I don’t care what anyone says Keira Nightly is a better Lizzie. Okay, I know that was a really self-indulgent moment but this technically is still my blog and you can see #5 above if you have any further questions. Back to my sizable donation. By “sizable donation” I mean that I bought a five dollar raffle ticket, And by “bought” I mean I forgot to pay for it. So, for Day #2, I stole. From a child.

Here is the ticket I stole:

Oh wait, that’s just an empty hand. Because after stealing the ticket, I lost the ticket.

See? Bar set super low! Now, go, and be as kind as you possibly can be. Give joyfully! Steal accidentally! I mean, pay people back and stuff, but don’t beat yourself up about it! And it’s okay to tell the world. It’s also okay to keep it private. Whatever would stretch you the most, then do that thing. At the end of the day it won’t be the recipients of our kindness/theft that will be most impacted, it will be us.

Day 1: The Hardest Story I never Told. #AdamsActs

Several years ago I was challenged by some friends to participate in a 31 day kindness challenge. These friends knew that I struggled through the month of October with loads of unresolved grief from my childhood. My little girl self had a world of grief that I had never processed as an adult. So, I accepted the challenge and forced myself to unpack said baggage in a super public and vulnerable way! Hooray for having zero boundaries! The story I share below is that original post, virtually word for word. I only make minor edits each year because I like the raw vulnerability of it, and because frankly… the story of what happened that night does not change. My brother’s fate will never change. The only thing that I have the power to change about this story, is my reaction to it.

----

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. 

I started doing these acts of kindness because I had to do something. I had to be productive and focus outward or I would implode with this seasonal grief and cyclical depression. I wanted 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. This is why we call them #AdamsActs, because these are the types of things Adam would have spent his life doing. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 37 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

I cannot change the outcome of Adam’s story. So, this is how I am choosing to respond to the greatest loss of my life. If I can’t change Adam’s story, I might as well try to change the world. One act of kindness at a time.

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. You're welcome. This is the seventh October that I have asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. The greatest kindness you can do for me and my family is to like and share these blog posts to your social media, and why not challenge everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please use the hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. Each year we gain thousands of new readers and I believe that this year is going to blow our minds. I want you to be a part of it.

Thank you for allowing me to share my family's story with you. If I can't spend my days watching my brother live out all the remarkable kindness that was in his heart, the next best thing is watching all of you do it in his memory.

In loving memory of my buddy and hero, Adam H. Provencal.

For pointing me toward God's restorative kindness.

Love, your baby sister

#AdoptionIsLove & All the Other Things

“Did my birthmom give me up because my head is shaped like an oval?”

My son Harper was only six years old when he asked me that. I was shocked for so many reasons. First of all, because his head is perfect. Second, and more importantly, he was using language we hadn’t ever used. We never once said that she “gave him up.” We always said that she “placed him in our family” or that she was “not able to parent him.” Our careful word choice was not enough to change how he felt and how he felt was rejected, declined, discarded…

given up.

Four years ago on this day, we finalized Jay’s adoption. It took 19 long months of tedious paperwork, home visits from our case worker and jumping through legal hoops before this day became a reality. When I look back at the photos from that day in court, there is so much beauty and joy captured there.

I remember the peace the kids felt when they knew that Jay’s place in our family was sealed and solidified. That his sonship was sure. There was a palpable sense of reassurance knowing that this little boy was ours forever. As our friends and family gathered with us in that courtroom, our hearts took a collective sigh of relief. We have an open adoption, and a great relationship with Jay’s first mama, so it was not as if there was some crazy custody battle. Quite to the contrary, The Lovely Miss N. - as we affectionately call her in the blog - was walking through this part of our journey with us. She too rejoiced when the adoption was finalized, because she also wanted Jay’s place in our home and family to be permanent and sure.

The fact that nobody was contesting either of our boys’ adoptions technically made things “easier” for us. Yet, as I continue to listen to and learn from the powerful voices of adult adoptees in my life and community, I can’t help but anticipate the dismay that my sons will likely experience as a result of knowing that nobody contested their adoptions. Nobody tried to stop it. Nobody fought us for them. The set of circumstances that created relatively obstacle-free finalizations are the same dismal circumstances that will cause our boys to process feelings of rejection and abandonment for the rest of their lives. Whether they were “lovingly placed” or “given up” almost doesn’t matter if their little souls question their worth and their place in the world.

I happen to know for sure, with 100% certainty that my sons were (are) both fiercely loved by their first moms. Because we have the luxury of an open-adoption with Jay’s birthparents, we have it on pretty good authority to say that they are absolutely wild about him. Due to situations that are not mine to disclose, my boys’ first moms made an impossible decision. Their choices were made out of anything but rejection or indifference. Still, we cannot possibly know how a child will interpret the actions or inactions of the adults in their lives.

And while we are entirely committed to facilitating healthy relationships between our boys and their birthfamilies, we know that there will be times of strain and hurt no matter how hard we try to prevent it. We know that there will come a time when they will confront the harsh awareness that they were “free to be adopted.” And knowing that their heartbreak is inevitable, I find these photos and memories equal parts joyful and disconcerting. The more I learn about the adoptee’s experience, the harder it is to celebrate these moments without also acknowledging the layered grief and loss involved in a day like this coming to fruition.

#AdoptionIsLove is a popular hashtag in the adoption community. And it is so true. From every side there is this imperfect, but unending love for a child. Adoption IS love. But a less popular truth is that adoption is also loss. It isn’t as trendy a hashtag and it isn’t as pleasant a view of adoption - but it is just as real, just as true.

Adoption is love. Adoption is loss. Adoption is wondering if there is something inherently wrong with you. It’s looking in the mirror, wondering who you look like, and thinking maybe your head is just too oval to be loved. Adoption is feeling given up, even when you were lovingly placed. As I tucked my boys in to bed tonight, I asked Harper if I could share this story from when he was a little boy with all of you. I said that I think it’s important to tell the truth about the good things and the sad things about adoption so that people can understand all of it a little better.

He gave me his permission. And then he added this,

“You can tell them that I said that when I was a little boy, but it’s okay to tell the things I worry about now. Like... I don’t think it’s because of my head anymore, but I still think it’s because of something. I just don’t know what it is yet. Maybe knowing that I still wonder will help people to understand the sad parts.”

I am thankful, beyond thankful, that I have the joy and responsibility of raising these two little crazies. I am thankful for the days that the states of New York and New Jersey said that they could be ours forever. I am thankful that I know - even when they don’t - that their first mothers would die for them in an instant. I am thankful and overjoyed, to be sure, I just don’t know if all the other feelings we have about adoption will ever quite fit into a hashtag.

What Lies Ahead

I have been home with my kids for nearly fifteen years and I have loved every, single minute of it. I have remained patient and full of the holy spirit for the entirety of the past decade and a half, and I would never - under any circumstances - drive past my house and go around the block multiple times just so I can finish an audiobook in glorious, uninterrupted peace. Also, I have no flaws, so...

Okay, fine. I am a liar. And the past 15 years have been just slightly more nuanced than that. Maybe I do have flaws. Like, if I had to ballpark… I’d say maybe 5-7 flaws come to mind?

Okay, fine. I’m a liar. Again. I barely survived the past 15 years. My flaws are infinite, and they are just scattered haphazardly all over the floor with the other rando debris in my home. But, while it’s true that I have loved being home all these years, I hate when people say they loved “every minute” of something, as if that’s even possible. Clearly it’s a gross exaggeration and if there is one thing I won’t stand for it’s a gross exaggeration.

Okay, look, I am just going to be lying on and off, basically this whole post. The truth is, my favorite kind of exaggerations are the gross ones. Still, I do despise an overly tidy sum-up of something as complex and layered as 15 years of parenting! Or a lifetime of devotion to a particular profession, or 60 years of marriage, or 25 years of serving our country. Any experience that could be compared to Sisyphus pushing that boulder up a hill over and over cannot possibly be enjoyed 100% of the time.

Still, I really have loved being home all these years. And if I could go back and do it all over again, I would make the same decision to be home. I loved being there for every first - first taste of every food, first steps, first words, first time covering their entire room with sidewalk chalk, or oil paints, or human feces. I rarely ever missed a first anything. And that I loved. I have loved being the room parent and chaperoning all the field trips. I loved being able to bring my kids their stuff when they forgot it at home. I also loved not bringing them their stuff sometimes, so that they would learn the lesson of being more prepared. I loved that I had the choice.

But, there were also a lot of things that I hated. I hated when people would say I was lucky that I could afford to stay home - as if we haven’t made huge financial sacrifices by living below the poverty line for a hundred years. I hated not showering for more days in a row than I care to admit, because I WAS NEVER ALONE. I hated having no sick days, and I hated the moments that I wish I could do over. I have a lot of moments that I regret. Moments of selfishness, impatience, and straight up ugliness. I regret not savoring each day that I had my babies home. I regret the times when I wished away the hard days and longed for this season to come - the season when all my kids would be in school full-time.

Now that time is nearly upon me. On September the sixth, in the year Two Thousand and Eighteen, I will be alone for the first time in 15 years. People ask me what I will do with myself. Here is what I plan to do with myself, in alphabetical order:

• Be alone.

• Blog more frequently.

• Complete tasks. Observe/record what it is like when the task is not immediately UNdone by another, smaller person.

• Eat pieces of candy without risk of what I call “the seagull effect.”

• Finish writing my book.

• Go to a doctor for adults.

• Have conversations with adults.

• Hire new booking agent.

• Increase the number of speaking engagements from what I was previously able to do.

• Maintain flexibility in schedule so I can still be room parent/chaperone all the things.

• Paint fingernails.

• Shower daily, during regular daylight hours.

• Submit book proposal to publishing company.

• Work during daylight hours.

• Work without noise-cancelling headphones.

This might seem too ambitious, or maybe not ambitious enough. I honestly have no way of gauging what is realistic to accomplish during a school day. I had my first child in college, like a sinner, so I have no idea what it will be like to have five school-aged children and a whole day to accomplish things.

Here’s what I do know. I am at peace with it all. Not because I loved every single second of how it was, or because I have no regrets or because I was so awesome at being a stay-at-home mom 100% of the time. I am at peace with it because it’s what is happening. It will be like everything else… some of it will go too fast, and some of it will feel like it’s dragging on. Parts of this coming season will be easier, and I will probably be dismayed to discover that some parts will be harder. Some days will feel free, and some will be a grind. It’s going to be whatever it’s going to be, and I am at peace with all the unknowns and the certain bittersweetness of it all. While I am embracing the change, I am also operating under the total assumption that there will be a minimum of 84 mental breakdowns during that first week of school.

Until that day (where I can be found at home in a ball, eating candy, with a youtube video of seagulls attacking a sandwich playing in the background) I am preparing my heart for whatever God puts in front of me this year. In anticipation of what’s to come, I am so excited to announce that the amazing Jonathan Capuano - digital arts/graphic design extraordinaire - has completely revamped my website! While you’re here, please take a look around at how profesh he is making me look! My favorite new feature is that you can now send a request to book a speaking engagement directly through the site or, as always, connect with me through the contact page. I would love to speak at your next event - youth, church, college, women, corporate… I have had the opportunity to keynote so many incredible events in the past couple of years and I have loved every single second of it.

(Still, with the lying. smh)

Okay, fine… I maybe haven’t loved EVERY second, but if there is one thing I have learned in the past fifteen years, it’s that you don’t have to love every single second of something to know that you were made to do it. I was made to be a mom. But I was also made to be a fun and compassionate speaker who isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions, or to tell the hard truths or to lie comedically via gross exaggeration. So, I can’t wait for this next season of life, because I get to do all of the things that I love so much - writing, speaking, momming, eating pieces of candy. Even if there are a few seconds here and there that aren’t my favorite, I get to be what God created me to be, and I am still wrapping my mind around what a glorious and wonderful gift that is.

--

Lara is now booking events for 2018/19, click HERE to invite her to speak at your next event.

A Sense of (Mis)Adventure

We used to take these really long road trips when the kids were little. Our first trip, nearly a month long, took place when our youngest (we only had four children at the time) was just 6 months old. We zig-zagged across the country from New York to Washington state and then down the coast of Oregon and California, then zig-zagged back. All 6 of us slept in a tent each night, and we scheduled one night at a hotel each week. There, we would shower and do laundry and use a toilet that flushed. After weeks living outside, indoor plumbing is truly a marvel. We did three big trips like that. (You can go back and read about the Capuano Tour De USA parts one, two and three.) It was hard work and a lot of preparation, but those trips go down in our family history as some of our very best memories.

People thought we were nuts. Maybe people were right, but I really didn’t care.

I wanted my kids to have a sense of adventure.

After taking those three trips, life changed for us a lot. We adopted our son Jay, so all of our money was tied up in adoption expenses. Jay was born healthy, but there were some complications within 24 hours of his birth that led to him receiving very high levels of antibiotics in the NICU for 12 days. This caused damage to his brain and permanent hearing loss.

Almost immediately after we brought Jay home, we began therapies and interventions to address his various delays. Oh, and bonus, Tom got laid off from his job of ten years! Around this time, our other son was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder and our life was consumed with intensive attachment therapy, weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I think it goes without saying that family camping trips to “nurture a sense of adventure” took a serious backseat to survival. Adventure felt like pure frivolity in comparison to preserving whatever shred of sanity we could. Still, in some small way Tom and I grieved these times we had. We felt a sense of simplicity and freedom on those trips, and even though almost every possible thing went wrong, we made some hilarious and wild memories. And for years we have missed taking these trips.

We have made some very noteworthy progress in our home in the past few months. After ten years of hard and intentional work, our son appears to be securely attached. He is thriving, he is loving, he is connected. We still have challenges but this summer felt different. It felt like adventure might be possible again. So, we started to plan a trip. This time, just a week. Start slow, work our way up.

In the weeks leading up to the trip I started feeling this longing for adventure once again. But, this time… it wasn’t about the places our family would go, this adventure, felt more like the people we were supposed to be.

For years Tom and I have considered whether or not we were in a place where we could be considered a stable family for a child in the US Foster Care System. During these past several chaotic years, the answer has been a resounding “awww he!!-to-the-no!” Yet, during these past few months we have been closer to “normalcy” and stability than we have been in the past 5 years. And I can feel the question creep back into my heart again.

As Tom and I were processing this possibility, we included the kids in some of these conversations about what life might look like if/when we ever did become a foster family. There was this unbelievable moment when I was listing some of the sacrifices we would have to make as a family. I told my oldest daughter, Annalee, that she would need to share her bedroom with her little sister, London. This may not seem like a big deal but Annalee is 14 years old and we are JUST NOW finishing her bedroom in the attic. The kid has been waiting over a decade to have her own bedroom, and what was her response?

“Having your own bedroom is a luxury. Having a family, should not be.”

Going into this trip, I no longer felt grieved for all the years we lost to chaos and suffering. I no longer feared that my kids would not have a sense of adventure. In that one pure moment with my daughter it was unequivocally apparent that our children are ready for adventure. If and when our family is ready to become a foster family, I can be confident that they will have what it takes to endure with a sense of true adventure. Not the frivolous kind that comes from seeing Mt. Rushmore or from using a vault toilet in the mountains.Their sense of adventure is of a much grander scope. To them adventure means sacrifice. It means being a family to a child who needs one. It means abandoning frivolity and taking the harder path. To them, adventure no longer means exploring the world.

It means changing it.

Contentment Over Comparison

Guys, I have a confession. I am a total and complete phony. While I have a surprisingly convincing ability to fake enough confidence to get myself into all sorts of situations, I rarely posses enough real confidence for any of them. And - bonus - I also don't have the credentials or skill set that I have somehow created the illusion of possessing! On more than one occasion, people have confessed to feeling intimidated around me, which I find absolutely hysterical. In these laughable conversations, people have said that when they first met me they assumed I was very confident. I then explain the elaborate magic trick I like to call "overcompensating for insecurity!" and then we all throw our heads back in laughter and become fast friends. It's true, I have a big (read obnoxious) personality. But, that is often mistaken for being self-assured. In reality, I am just an extrovert who desperately wants to be liked. So basically, I'm a puppy.

 I spent most of my adult life in an almost constant state of self-doubt. Or more realistically, vacillating between self-loathing and absurd pride. Pan over to this embarrassing sample of my inner-dialogue:

Moment #1: I can't do anything right because I am the worst. End of story, nothin's gonna change my mind.

Moment #2: Sure! I can do that! There's nothing I can't do because I am basically amerrrzerrrng. (With "Nothin's Gonna Stop Us Now" playing in the background while an industrial fan inexplicably blows my hair around like Beyonce.)

Moment #3: Why? Why? Why would I agree to that? I am not capable, I know nothing and I am a total phony. Everything I do is horrible because I am a garbage person.

Moment #4: Did that guy just say I couldn't do something? Excuse me very much... we'll see about that mister. God has been equipping me for this my entire life! I am capable! Somebody, BRING ME MY HAIR FAN! 

Moment #5: He's right. I basically belong in prison. Because of definitely being a full-time, Grade-A, maximum strength, free-range garbage person.

Guys. It's sick. It's a really gross cycle of pride and comparison and insecurity and overcompensating. It made me super critical of myself, and then I felt small. And when people feel small they are intimidated and resentful of people who seem free and confident. And when people are intimidated, insecure and self-critical, they tend to be hyper-critical of other people. This would make me feel bad about myself, and then I would lather, rinse and repeat this destructive cycle all over again. 

The problem is that every time I tried to break out of this cycle, there seemed to be someone waiting in the wings with just enough criticism to make me feel like my growing sense of healthy, appropriate, God-given, God-driven confidence was premature, or worse, that it wasn't secure confidence at all, but was an unhealthy arrogance. It was as though any progress was immediately set back by one critical remark. 

I am not going to pretend that I am entirely through with this whole insecurity and comparison trap thing. That would be a lie. But here's what I do know: The more intimately acquainted I become with the character of God, and my worth in his estimation, the less I care what people think. I have found that God is much easier to please than people are. The closer I draw to Jesus' wholesale acceptance of me, the less concerned I am about the approval of man. I still have plenty of vulnerable moments where I am blindsided by rejection or criticism, but more and more I am letting God's love encourage in me a healthy self-acceptance. And not one that comes from some delusion that I am great, but from a much deeper security in who God made me to be. I am no longer (as) afraid to say that yes, I have gifts.

It took me 36 years to feel like I have gifts. 

Maybe it sounds prideful to say that I have gifts. But, I don't think it is. For me, it is profoundly healing. For the first time in my life, I feel as if I am working toward something resembling a confidence that comes from my identity and value being so securely rooted in the God who sees me (flaws, fears, strengths and all) and has still decided to allow me the privilege of doing ministry in spite of those things. Or maybe even because of those things. Scripture is filled with so many dirtbags that God chose to love, equip and use for his glory. I am not the first garbage person with gifts that God has chosen to use. And I won't be the last. But I AM all done denying my value. It's just plain offensive to the one in whom I find my worth.

As many of you know, just last month I had the privilege of speaking - alongside two other wise women from my church - about this topic of comparison, envy, jealousy and contentment. Despite the fact that I had been studying these topics for over two years, I was honestly terrified. The weeks leading up to it, I battled to mute every voice from my past that told me I had no business being a speaker. I had to filter out those that said I don't know enough, or I'm not churchy enough, or that I'm too silly or that I just want to make it about me. Those that said I was too outspoken or stubborn or rough around the edges. I had to lean in to God's word more than ever, and I had to trust that he chose me to be a part of this mission to help others be free from the bondage of comparison. Are there more gifted women at our church? Certainly. Are there professionals with more experience and bigger name? Of course. But that's not what God did. He allowed Nancy, Julie and I up there instead. Who am I to question him? Who am I to doubt what he is capable of doing - even through the likes of me? Who am I to figuratively spit in the face of my creator by saying he made me without any gifts? 

Perhaps you can relate. Maybe you feel like a total phony when your colleagues seem to know what they are doing, while you feel totally lost. Maybe you tend to be the critical one. Maybe you have a history of being so harsh with yourself that being harsh with others is an unintended, yet ugly, side effect. Even if you are a much better behaved person than I, you still have a little garbage person in there somewhere and I believe all of us can relate to the struggle of uprooting jealousy, envy, pride and insecurity in order to be more content and secure. A number of you have asked if the event was livestreamed and recorded. It was, and all three parts have since been put up on the Equip page of our church website! I generally would shy away from putting up a video from a speaking event because I hate to watch myself speak. But, I really think the content that these women and I worked so hard to present is valuable. I think we are valuable. And I think you are valuable. So this is worth sharing. If you have ever had enough pride that you fantasized about having a hair fan, you should check it out. If you live in terror that your incompetence will be discovered at any moment... you should check it out. And if it is as hard for you to recognize that you have gifts and worth as it has been for me, you should check it out. We discussed this topic in three parts, within the context of faith and the Bible, but there was still plenty of practical wisdom for just about anyone... even my fellow garbage people. 

Enjoy. 

Love, Marriage & A Side of Grief

Apart from the occasional humorous anecdote or good-natured jab at his expense, I don’t often write about my husband. Sure, I write a lot about life and family in general, but I don’t think I have ever written about marriage or romance. Since I debuted as guest-blogger here for the first time ON Valentine’s Day, it felt like maybe I should write about my husband, Tom, once and for all. As I sat down, I discovered that I just couldn’t do it.

First, allow me to explain why I don’t usually write about him. You see, I grew up with a bad-to-the-bone single mom who raised the junk out of us four kids. She taught us all the important things: like how to be kind and compassionate, how to curl and feather our bangs to perfection and how to make homemade donuts. Basically, life essentials. And she did all of this alone. She did this in the wake of a divorce and then the death of my 17-year-old brother just shortly after. She is incredibly strong, and she did a pretty great job with us. But still, it was not easy.

So, every time I feel compelled to tell the world about what an incredible man my husband is, I think of the women who are raising the junk out of some awesome little kids, and are maybe doing it alone. I think about the people who have marriages in crisis or marriages that are just okay. I think of those that are still grieving the death of their spouse, or all the peeps who are single-n-lookin-to-mingle. OR the zillions of people who are happily-single-and-just-sorta-sick-of-hearing-about-other-peoples-marriages. And I panic. It starts to feel all weird and braggy, and I get in my head about it all. I tend to be hyper-sensitive to other people’s feelings and situations. It’s the blessing and the curse of being an empath, and sometimes it prevents me from publicly celebrating certain victories or gifts in my life. Including my husband. I just don’t want my joy to bump up against someone else’s grief.

In the past year and half, however, I have spent a lot of time studying pride, jealousy and envy in the Bible. These are three things that I have struggled with immensely for the past couple of 36 years. (Alright look, basically from conception on I have been a pretty gross person ok?) I have sooooooo far to go in this journey of uprooting pride, sinful jealousy and envy from my heart, but the one area that I have felt pretty strong is coming along side of those who are grieving or struggling. This is very natural for me. What is less natural and requires more of an effort, is the celebration piece. Celebrating others, and feeling the freedom to celebrate in my own life.

In the spirit of Valentine’s day, that is what I am committing to do. I am going to celebrate all things love and marriage. And while I am still quite afraid of bumping into a wound or two, I am giving myself permission to publicly celebrate a man who is long overdue for me to gush over him a bit. Guys, if you take the beloved Jack from the hit TV show This is Us (hold the drinking problem and 70’s mustache - replace it with mild-to-moderate anxiety and lumberjack stubble) you have my husband Tom. He is dependable, thoughtful, conscientious, protective, hilarious, steadfast and strong. Unlike Jack, he would never die in a fire to save our dog, but that’s seriously his one and only flaw.

In the past 15 years together, we have faced some really dark times. We have had some big wins and some pretty major losses. We have had moments where we felt like total failures as parents, we have been passive-aggressive and cranky (me), hangry (him) at times, but also really devoted and self-sacrificing. He lives more like Jesus than any man I’ve ever known. All the good in our marriage has been him. So I celebrate him today. And I celebrate marriage and love and things that are going right. And for those with wounds - whether fresh or long held - there is plenty of room for this empath to give a reverent nod toward grief today too.

Deck the Halls with All my Baggage Fa Lalalala

There’s nothing quite like the holidays to bring out all your bitterness and deep-rooted sin problems. I know, I know… nobody but Scrooge McDuck wants to read something that shatters the illusion of the jolly holidays which is why I waited until after Christmas to punch pinterest in the face. I have taken a long sabbatical from blogging and household chores and really all my responsibilities and it just felt wrong not posting one last time before the new year. Perhaps posting this little truth bomb here will help me leave my cranky pants in 2017. Alright, here’s how it’s all going to go down. I am going to be really honest. If my honesty in previous posts tends to make you gasp and cover your mouth with a gloved churchlady hand, then it’s okay to not read this blog ever again particular post. It won’t hurt my feelings yes it will but I’m aware that I’m sort of like dark chocolate. A tad bitter for some people. Although, I don’t really even love dark chocolate myself, because it’s a little too pretentious and classy and definitely should be sweeter. Maybe I’m more like Pop Rocks, delightfully youthful and somewhat unexpected, but definitely not for everyone. If you love my zany Pop Rocks ways and you find my honesty refreshing, relatable and supes adorbs, then I cordially invite you to kick back with a packet of really odd candy and enjoy the fireworks.

Ok, I have mixed so many metaphors at this point that I am not even sure what’s happening.

Ahh yes, all my baggage.

I have to say going into this that I have come a verrrrrry long way since this post in 2012 where I explained Why I am Done Pretending to Like Christmas. In fact, the past two years have been full of deep, genuine, joyful anticipation of Christmas. Still, there was this nagging sense that somewhere around the edges of the holiday season, there is a dark, looming fog that threatens to consume the progress I have made.

I notice the cloud creeping in from the edges every time I see the picture perfect images that people post about their own holidays. You know what I am talking about… Those Facebook posts that are basically a list of ways people are being awesome. Like, literally people are posting accomplishment checklist. Still not sure what I am talking about? Allow me:

“Chores all done: check! Kids all reading (above grade-level) in their tidy and quiet bedrooms: check! Free-range, organic dinner in the crockpot (smells amazing btw): check! Errands run, house cleaned, diy decorations up, rose gold mason jars polished, marriage on fleek, personal sin problems resolved: check, check and check! All by 10:00 am! #blessed #adulting”

How ‘bout hashtag gag me.

I know, I know… I sound jealous and petty and bitter. Yes, that’s fair. Guilty as charged, I am a dash of each of those things when I read those perfect Pinterest posts. But, I also feel sorry for the person posting it. And I feel sorry for me. And for America. Because doesn’t our country have enough problems without people gushing over these braggy checklists?

I just don’t buy it. Unless people out there are living in an entirely different universe than me, I really cannot conceive of this kind of day. Now, it is entirely possible that there are only four of you out there that can relate to me on this – and I am just a hot mess while the rest of you are fanning yourselves with tiny DIY pallet wood fans. But I have to believe that I am not the only one who had to wash tomato soup off their puppy this holiday season. I can’t be the only one who didn’t have time to arrange my vintage, heirloom ornaments on my Etsy tree skirt to post a magical instapic while I was taking my tree down. Because I am a sinner, and I put my Christmas ornaments away like everyone else – in a panic, right before a party, wrapping everything in tissue paper from the 1700’s. My process is not photoworthy. Not even the low-fi filter can make my Rubbermaid bins look idyllic.

I just started liking Christmas guys. And now that I finally like Christmas, I scroll through social media and find out that I am bad at Christmas. And at life.

But, deep down, I know that it’s all an illusion. This world has told us that we have to hide away our reality in order to present a more palatable version of our lives. We value “being authentic” as long as everyone accepts that “authenticity” on Instagram means “I wear quirky hats.”  

So, I thought that I would kick the Pinterest illusion in the nuts this year by capturing my true Christmas. I also took an exorbitant amount of time to also try to capture the really idyllic images as well, just to remind us all that spending 45 minutes to crop/filter dust and clutter out of a pretty picture doesn’t change reality. Before I share my pictures, I just want to say that I celebrate Christmas because I believe that the Creator God conjured up a wild redemption plan that included a cast of unlikely characters (eh hem, an unmarried teenage girl) to bring forth a savior who chose to leave paradise to come to earth through a lowly birth in a stable. He did all this to set the world free - free from our sin problems, free from comparison, free from fear of man, free from the world's expectations for us to keep up. But, he also came to set us free to enjoy things as he intended them to be enjoyed. So, there is nothing but freedom to wear that fedora while you handcraft a micro-wreath made from salvaged driftwood. Just make sure you are doing it because you really love driftwood, not because Instagram makes you feel like the wreath you have isn't good enough. 

My front door:

What's lurking just behind my front door:

Let's take a closer look...

Yes, that is one cheetah print fake nail. 

My elegant and regal puppy:

Drinking the tree water...

covered in tomato soup...

and licking the broken candlestick (the shards of which I was vacuuming during the tomato soup incident of 2017)

1,000 hours spent cleaning and decorating to achieve these next pictures, plus a bonus of banishing the children outside and spazzing out every time they walk in the door.

And what it looked like for five days before those above pics:

Puppy in ugly Christmas sweater:

Which she wore for 30 seconds and then reverse-birthed herself out of.

Hand-dipped and decorated chocolate covered Oreos and gift cards for teacher gifts:

Not Pictured: A long string of texts between one particular teacher and myself in which I had to apologize for violently threatening a bystander, and for my child going through her purse. #Mombarrassment 

Fancy Christmas hairstyles:

Actual Christmas hairstyles (plus zero ability to keep eyes open in a photograph)

Note below - London's blue teeth (I believe from a candy cane eaten the previous day), Harper's egg-shaped hair about 3 months past due for a shape-up, Jay all weapon-ready with his war-face on, and Tom's mustache so thick that when I kiss him it feels like I am getting smacked in the face with a Christmas tree branch.

Attempting to take a nice picture of London, and she gives me a 90's rap album cover:

And our family Christmas picture. We were so close to getting that perfect image and I thought we got it, until I zoomed in on Jay doing the Michael Jackson scream from the Black or White video. 

This is Christmas. And life really. It's beautiful, and messy, and hilarious and slightly disturbing. A least that's how my Christmas - my life - has always been. Maybe yours is tidier than mine. But don't go feeling bad about yourself if it's not. Jesus came into this mess of a world for our freedom. May your 2018 be filled with joy and mess and enough freedom to find the beauty in the chaos, whether it's handcrafted or not. 

Day 31 Part 2: Before The Storm

Before a storm, there is often this slightly ominous change in the atmosphere. There is a sudden calm, quiet stillness as pressure builds into a storm. You can't see the pressure building as much as you can feel it. This is very much what October feels like for me. Throughout the month there is a slow build, an atmospheric shift within me. November 1st is usually when the storm hits and finally all that building tension is released.

There are a number of factors involved in this phenomenon, I'm certain. The pressure I put on myself to close the month out with something meaningful, moving and poignant as well as exhaustion from a month of spilling my guts and the subsequent vulnerability hangovers... on top of my normal life with five kids and a literal mountain of laundry to do at all times. This year, however, the pressure built earlier in the month than it has before. The storm came fast and furious last week.

There has not been any violence in my home for almost two years. This probably doesn't sound like much of a victory to the typical person, but in the world of Reactive Attachment Disorder and adoption trauma a two year stretch is a massive deal. We went from daily rages, violent outbursts and extremely disturbing behaviors to two years free of violence. Sure there have been close calls and some damage to clothing and property... but no physical harm. 

Until last week. 

I have been at a pretty low place the past several days. It is discouraging to feel like I am being pummeled by life and grief and once again, by my kid. It reminds me that the grief/trauma recovery process is more cyclical than it is linear. As much as I expect myself to be further along in my process, I always seem to find myself feeling all the same things over and over. As much as I expect my son to be further along in his process, I find him struggling with the same behaviors and feelings over and over again. I don't expect myself to "relapse" back into stages of anger or unforgiveness, but it happens. I don't expect my son to regress back to violence and aggression, but it happens. We cycle back into old patterns and long-held coping strategies of self-protection, shame, control, anger and denial. 

I have cycled through these things myself so many times that nothing seems to surprise me anymore. Yet, this past week I found that I was surprised. I was blindsided in fact. Much in the same way that my son regressed back into physical aggression, I found myself back to being a young girl trying to comprehend the gravity of Adam's death. This happened when the Grand Haven Tribune (my old hometown newspaper) published some photos of Adam from his last day on this earth, photos I had never before seen.

First of all, I have to say what an unmatched treasure it is to discover something new. When somebody dies, there is very rarely anything new. Whatever time you had, whatever memories, the jokes, the moments, the photos... whatever you had is all you'll ever have. There is no more. Only rarely, if you're very fortunate, will you discover something new. Someone will share a memory or a story you hadn't heard before. Or someone unearths photos you've never before seen. That is what Matt Deyoung of the Grand Haven Tribune did for my family. And it was truly a gift.

But, even gifts can trigger that old cyclical grief. And that is what happened when I saw these old pictures for the first time. Without warning I had regressed to that eleven year old girl who could not comprehend this loss. There was one picture in particular that wrecked me. 

I still don't fully understand it myself, but my response was so peculiar and irrational, as if my brain is trying to solve Adam's death or make sense of something so senseless. I can't explain it but when I saw this picture of Adam sort of coughing in the background, I had a brief unbridled moment of hope. I gasped and thought "Maybe he's just sick!" Seeing Adam doing something so physical and bodily as coughing - for one brief moment - allowed my brain to file Adam's absence as temporary and explainable. Not gone forever, just somewhere else getting better. The foolishness of this lapse is almost embarrassing to me. But there was something about seeing my poor sweet brother - my hero, my buddy - so alive and still present in his physical body that allowed my unguarded mind to dream of a boy who was not gone afterall.

It was only a moment that I regressed to that childlike way of thinking. Like my own son backsliding after two years of progress, it was a fleeting, irrational moment. But there was a world of pain that rushed in after his folly and mine. I simply cannot look at that picture of Adam coughing without being absolutely wrecked. 

My son and I are a lot alike. We have both been through hard things, experienced some trauma, learned some unhealthy coping mechanisms. We are both afraid of love, because we are afraid of loss. He has Tom and I - who have adored him since the moment he joined our family and we have met every single need since then. I spend the majority of my time each day chasing him down with that love trying to prove that he can trust me, that I will never leave him. And here I am, with a perfect heavenly Father who chases me down with his perfect love and restorative kindness, proving time and time again that he will provide for my every need and he will never leave me. He asks me to trust him, to love him back, to draw near to him. 

And still I pull back. I always pull back.

Like my son, I'd rather maintain some illusion that I am in control. I push back on God's perfect plan just as my son pushes back on my good plan for his life - a life of privileges and responsibility and blessings. Just as my son will push me away, but superficially bond with anyone and everyone he meets... I reject God's perfect and fulfilling love in favor of some cheap, artificial, temporary comfort. 

This month has torn my heart wide open for a bunch of different reasons. The unexpected criticisms, the setback in my son's therapeutic process, this moment of irrational hopefulness upon seeing my brother cough... these were all painful moments that contributed to the building pressure before the storm. But as I sit here and contemplate closing out #AdamsActs for the year it occurs to me that maybe it wasn't my traumatized 11-year-old brain that gave me that moment of hope. Perhaps it was that perfect heavenly father of mine, reminding me that Adam isn't gone forever. He IS somewhere else getting better. In fact, he's already better. He's with his father in heaven and is completely and perfectly healed.  

In loving memory of my big brother, Adam H. Provencal. I have wished for you to be here, to meet Tom and my kids... Oh how you would love my kids. I have longed to hear your voice, please forgive me for not remembering the sound of it. I have longed to hold your hand, to see you wrestle, to hear you rap or say "ghostman on third" just one more time. I love you and I miss you and I am so glad you are whole and healed in paradise with the God you loved. I'll see you when I get there, save me a spot.

Day 31 Part 1: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

If I attempted to conclude this month of #AdamsActs in my current state, I assure you that it would be found lacking. I will reflect on this month and everything I learned and grappled with in a final post tomorrow. In the meantime, I thought I would give a quick update from yesterday's post... I did deliver the pecan pie to Mr. Al and he said the words "barca lounger" a record number of times. We chatted for over an hour and was thrilled to have someone sit and stay a while. He also chastised me for not buying stock in Microsoft, because if I had just done that then, well, I would have made enough money in one week to fix my teeth by now. I didn't take the pie back after this remark even though I sort of wanted to. So, I am counting this as a bonus kindness.

I will write more tomorrow but to hold you over, I have included some pictures of our family's Wizard of Oz themed costumes. I make these all myself as a grand overcompensation of grief and baggage! Enjoy!

ON the far left we have Marlie as Glinda the Good Witch. 

Next to her we have Scout as Toto, then me as the Cowardly Lion. 

Tom "Always a Good Sport" Capuano comes in as Scarecrow.

London was Dorothy, Harper the Tin Man and Jay was a Winkie (The Wicked Witch of the West's little helper.) 

Annalee was the Wicked Witch of the West and her friend Paige popped in as a bonus addition of Oz himself (as seen in back middle.)

They had a great time and then came home to work out all their OCD issues right on the living room floor. 

My real post will come tomorrow but for now, I plan to follow the yellow brick road straight to bed.