Dragonslayer--Part 1 of 2

I'm am sitting in a pile of unfinished school schedules, unshelved books, and unopened curriculum guides.  School starts on Tuesday, and I'm not even sure what grades my kids are supposed to be in this year--so of course, I'm blogging:)

What would I do to me if I were one of my children?  Who is supposed to be here making sure I'm being responsible?  Where is the oversight for the overseer? 

(On the outside chance that a random, bored, bureaucrat happens to stumble upon my blog and gets any big ideas, I was joking. No extra oversight needed here.  I am having a scheduled break and will resume organizing shortly.)

But first, I have to share two stories of bravery.  Here is the first.

Dragonslayer #1:  Jude Christopher, age 5

Loves:  Mom--and some others, but to a lesser degree:)

Fears:  People who aren't Mom, strange places, strange food, textures, smells

Recent accomplishments:  giving up thumb-sucking, adjusting to glasses, saying "hi" to the UPS guy

Strengths: tender-hearted toward the small and weak creatures of the world, grateful spirit, forgiving to a fault

Recent Memorable Sayings:  "I'm not a lumber-jack, I'm a lumber-Jude."....and......"Mom, you need to know that I am a terrible jag-wow (jaguar) and also a ferocious eat-meater."...and..."Where are my servants in this house?"....and...."Every time I wake up in the morning, I'M STILL JUDE!"  (said in a grumpy, accusing tone)

SO...

Jude had orientation for our Classical Conversations program this week.  It will be his first year in an actual class, so I explained on the way that we would be meeting his tutor and the children who would be learning with him, and seeing his new room.  

As soon as I mentioned the tutor, he stiffened up and informed me that he would be staying home with Grandma this year--or going to work with Dad, but NOT to a new class.  Even the reminder that I would be in the class with him didn't help.  He DID NOT want to meet any new friends.  Period. 

This did not come from a place of defiance, but from a real, gut-wrenching fear of new things.

Which is why I did not pry him off my leg when his classmates were called to accompany their teacher to the new room.  I walked down with him, among a scampering crowd of 5 year olds, and sat behind him in the small circle.

A game was announced, wherein each child would roll a beach ball to a classmate, and that child would say his or her name, and one favorite activity.  Jude looked back at me in panic, scrunched down, and sat very, very still, looking at the rug as the ball got closer. 


I gave him my hand and as he held it--so hard--looking down at the rug through his little red glasses, I wanted nothing more than to be able to GIVE him the confidence and courage I knew he desired at that moment.

The thought came to me that I have had hundreds of these moments with my children over the years--where I am looking into that vulnerable place in their souls, seeing the lack, knowing the fix, treading the balance between under and over-mothering.

Should I barge in and "save them" --and rob them of the joys of owning a hard-won victory over one of their personal dragons?

What if I wait too long, and miss the flares sent up by a tiny, trusting spirit being dealt a crushing blow?  

How hard it is to know the difference sometimes!

So I just held his hand.  And the ball came to rest on his lap.  Without looking up, he took a deep breath, wrapped both his arms around the ball and waited.

"What is your name, sweetheart?" the tutor inquired.

From deep within the plastic depths of the ball, a breathy little voice whispered, "Jude".

Then a little stronger.  "Jude!"

I think he surprised himself, because he looked up over the top of the ball for a moment.  His glasses were a little crooked and his face was bright pink. 

"My name is Jude!  And I like to......ROLL THE BALL."  And off it went to the next child.

I am still so proud thinking of it!  What an achievement!  Jude, saying his name three times to a perfect stranger.  Nay!  A group of perfect strangers!  Jude, coming up with an activity in spite of the great swirl of fear which surrounded him.

So what if "ball rolling" is not an activity which I have EVER seen him engage in--much less a favorite activity.  He came up with something that fit the bill and saved the day in his little world.  Yay!  Is there a ribbon for that?

Three cheers for Jude, my quiet conqueror!

Did he know what he accomplished?  Yes!  Because later he proudly told all his siblings about his tutor, and his classmates, and the whiteboard in his room, and the red chairs, and how he is going to sit in the one by the window this year.  And he couldn't stop smiling when he said it.

May I have many more front row seats to such sweet victories!

Part 2 tomorrow (or whenever I get my schoolroom put back together).

Beware the Jabber-talkie

I am still cycling down after a white-knuckle Monday.  It opened with screaming, (not mine--that came later) closed with crying (also not mine--that came earlier) and in-between was a whole lot of sinning, selfishness, and sadness. 

I am so heartbroken to see the heartbreak in my little foster son.  He is simply torn up inside.  He is a naturally spirited boy, and he has an uncanny radar for hypocrisy.  

He still remembers a conversation which took place between his mother and her social worker back when he first came into care at age two.  He has brought it up over and over in the past two years.  I don't know exactly what he heard, but he came back saying, "My Momma needs to be good and get a job so I can go back to my house."

So what do you say to a tiny child who asks you, "Why doesn't my momma be good and get a job?"  For the first few months, you can find words. 

"She's working hard." 

"She's trying."


"We need to wait for the next time the judge comes to court."

He turns three and we start saying, "We need to pray for her."

"She needs Jesus to help her."

"We are all trying to help her."

He turns four and we start feeling like liars no matter what we say.  But meanwhile, the stream of empty promises flows from other places and eats away at his heart.

"You'll be back in time to go to Head Start with your cousin."

 "I'll get you a Spider Man room."

 "We are getting a Jeep for when you come home." 

"After your baby sister is born you can come home."

"After your next birthday, you'll be home."

And after 24 months in foster care, this little man is getting angry.  It primarily comes out, of course, at the people who are here every day, raising him and loving him.  

It is coming out in torrents of misbehavior, in screaming, in wanton destruction, in efforts to hurt everyone around him.  It even comes out in the wrecking of things he loves--blankets with holes torn in them, stuffed animals with fur pulled out, his prized CD player with the top smashed off. 

My concerns about his escalating behavior were met with suggestions for therapy.  What I wanted to say was, "Therapy for whom?"

For the mother who can't be bothered to complete the minimum requirements to be reunited with her flesh and blood?

For the agency that makes excuses, enables, drops the ball, hides the ball,  pushes concerns under the rug, plays musical social workers, and drags their feet?

For the court system that schedules, not ONE permanency planning hearing, but SIX in a row?  Each three months apart?  In total violation of state and federal law? 

Our next hearing is exactly 26 months from the day the children entered care.  Where is the lawsuit?  Where is the outrage?

This child is the only one who DOESN'T need therapy.  Why do grown-ups get to create chaos, uncertainty, and mistrust in the lives of children and then, when little Junior react in normal ways (fear, anger, sadness), the grown-ups pop a pill into his mouth and slap him into therapy?

Pat, pat, pat.  "Mommy, Daddy, and the rest of the grown-up universe have the right to abandon their commitments and live hedonistic and irresponsible lives because that's what makes them HAPPY, Sweetheart. 

"But we really need to help YOU, a weak, defenseless, dependent child, get a handle on your anger issues and figure out why you can't concentrate in school.  YOU are turning out to be broken, weird, and a little bit scary.  Also, we think you are dumb.  Because we're betting you will never figure out that going to therapy three times a week, having people look at you with pity and disgust when you act out, and being labelled as a trouble-maker by all your teachers from first grade on, is a negative thing.

"How dare you react with pain and rage when I sear your little soul with my selfishness?  NUMB THAT BOY UP, DOCTOR!"

Therapy will happen over my dead body.  There is nothing wrong with him other than what is wrong with all of us.  I love this boy.  He drives me nuts sometimes.  He makes me cry.  He ruins my stuff.  He squanders my time.  And he also burrowed his curly head into my lap today and hugged me, in the middle of his screaming fit, when I reached out my arms to him. 

Yes, he peed all over the bathroom wall this morning, but later he ran his hands over the picture of the woman washing Jesus' feet with her hair and  said, "You mean He forgave ALL her bad things?  Like when I stole Elijah's gum and broke Jude's corvette and threw the car at the window?" 

Yes!  All her bad things!  And yours.  And mine.  It's grace.  And it is the only thing that, once understood, can enable us to let go of all the bitter pain in us and respond with forgiveness and love.

 I want to hold onto people like Christ holds on to me.  Protectively. Sacrificially. Tenaciously. Inexplicably.

I want to see this story end with a boy finding a spiritual anchor that cannot be shaken, no matter where his earthly home is.  I want to write my chapter with him well, as God would write it through me. To not get weary when all around me looks like craziness and discouragement.  To know that He who began the good work will be faithful to complete it. 

That is ultimately what I want for all my children.  If you are reading this, would you pray for that with me?

God gives--

"beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified."—Isaiah 61:3b. 

"Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!  He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy."  Psalm 126:5-6a

"He will tend his flock like a shepherd;
     he will gather the lambs in his arms;
he will carry them in his bosom,
    and gently lead those that are with young."  Isaiah 40:11

"Restore to me the joy of Your salvation and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.  Then I will teach transgressors Your ways, and sinners will turn back to you."  Psalm 51:12-13

I'm Not Who I Thought I Was

So much of this past year has been an ugly revealing of my true nature.

I take our foster kids to visit their mom twice a week, and I have noticed a steady decline in my good mood starting about 24 hours before the event, with increasing crabbiness overnight and into the morning hours, developing into strong outbursts of general unpleasantness by midday,  followed up with widespread gusts of hyper-criticism in the hours leading up to the visit.  

Periods of carping and quibbling are not unusual, and some scathing bursts of sarcasm can also be expected.  Residents of..well, everywhere...are advised to not call me, not come over, and not accidentally wander into the same room and look in my direction, lest they be caught in the maelstrom.  

Sadly, some unfortunate people actually live here, and, having nowhere else to go, they rarely escape the onslaught. 

I have blamed my personality change on a certain morally, ethically and motivationally-challenged female personage who has spent the past two years testing the limits of my good will, good intentions, and gullibility.  But she is not the problem, and I say that in all honesty.  She HAS a problem, and it needs fixing, but she is not MY problem.

I am.  

Once again, I think the Holy Spirit has used circumstances in this arduous year to paint for me yet another picture of the depths of His mercy toward me.  God is self-sustaining.  He is all powerful, all knowing, all seeing, perfectly just, perfectly loving, perfectly holy, perfectly...perfect.  In every way.

And so He comes and reveals Himself to whom?  

To someone who can benefit Him in some way?  To someone who can add a missing dimension to His life?  Who can love Him like He deserves to be loved?  Someone who will be reliable?  Faithful?  Honest in her dealings with Him?

He didn't?

Say what?

Well, maybe she can at least show some decent gratitude for all the good things He gives her--some because she asks, most of them because He just wants to give good gifts.  Because if all she does is take, take, take, and then whine about how hard it all is and how everything is just stacked against her, and how unfair life is, I'll bet this God is OUT OF THERE.  Washing His hands of her and everyone like her.  Winging it back up the company of the angels and the perfect fellowship of the the Three In One.

Good grief.  Do I need a bat upside the head to see the similarities between the God/Sandra relationship and the Sandra/Nameless-Personage relationship?

Um.  Yep.

The answer is definitely yes.  I needed two years of relentless, brazenly unrepentant selfishness inflicted upon me--and a splendidly timed sermon by our pastor--to bludgeon me into an awareness of my lack of gratitude.  I think it was the message that Pastor Ford gave in Sunday School last week that finally woke me up.  

God's covenant with me, His willingness to bind Himself in a relationship with me, His incredible sacrifice for me was 100% for my benefit. 

God got nothing He didn't already have.  He loves me, but not for what I can offer Him.  Certainly not for what He gets out of our relationship, that's for sure!  I know myself too well!

 He is so much the essence of love, that the terms and the sacrifice are all His, but the gain is all mine.  He is the owner of all things and has the right to ask for anything.  

I am a lost, wayward, headstrong, prickly, snarling Gollum of a person, and he has every right to make me a cowering, trembling slave.  But He tenderly takes me in, pays every debt I incur with His own blood, binds every wound, fixes every mess and calls me His daughter instead.

I haven't even scratched the surface of what I owe to this aforementioned female Personage because of the mercy that God has shown to me.

Oh!  That I will one day learn to relate to people for THEIR benefit and not my own. 

Lord, by your strength may I not continue be a miserly recipient of your beautiful grace, but rather to reflect it in such a way that it will draw others into relationship with You.

And may that happen soon.  I have a visit tomorrow...