Who are you?

Fearful. Hurt. Disappointed.

That is how I have been feeling the past few weeks.  I am a mother who has kids with brain damage from being infused with drugs and alcohol while in the womb.  This has caused havoc in our home for years.  When we learn new tool, things get better for a while.  But then a new wound will appear in a child and we start all over again.  As they get older, the loss of their birth parents becomes greater as they realize the deep rejection and sadness.  Top that off with a huge dose of brain damage and you have yourself chaos.  Well, the past few weeks the chaos has returned and I found myself defeated, angry and depressed. 

So I do what any survivor would do…put up walls of protection, control and live in fear of the future.  I realized last night that what I am doing is not only unhealthy, but is taking the joy right out of my life.  I have been trying my hardest to be what my kids need me to be. 

Strong.

Kind.  Even when they are yelling and swearing at me.

Forgiving and forgiving and forgiving.

I need to be these so I can show them the love of Jesus.

I have tried and tried to become what they need to be and began to lose sight of who I really am.  Isn’t that the way it always starts…losing vision, not being able to see?

So I sat down and wrote out who I am.  Here is my list….

Kathryn

The Pure One

 The disciple Jesus loves

Good

Weak

Hurt

Disappointed

Guilty

Fearful

Hard

Soft

Pressure on myself

Passionate

Loves deeply

Fails daily

Learning to live grace

Counter of gifts

Freedom fighter

Vision caster

Writer

Lover of the broken

Lover of God

Worshipper

Loved

Hated

Risk taker

Comfort seeker

Broken

Amazed

Grateful

Truth teller

Spirit follower

I realized that I was not being ALL of me.  I was living in fear and guilt and wanting to serve and love my kids so they would heal and so I wouldn’t damage them with my unwillingness to love when they are displaying their anger over their deep loss.  I am denying much of who I am because I need to protect myself.  I need to be strong for them.  I get hurt.  But instead of acknowledging that, I disregard my feelings for the sake of being “Christ” to them.  Sick, I know. This is what happens to a mom who has taken in broken children.  

You begin to cope instead of love.  

You fear, instead of trust.  

You harbor guilt, instead of living grace.  

I was trying so hard to have grace for my kids that I neglected the grace for me. 

I am going to work on living ALL of me.  The good, the bad and the very ugly.  

I am going to receive instead of protect.  

I am going to live joy instead of control. 

I am going to be free to be myself instead of what I think my kids need. 

And most importantly…I am going to accept myself as Kathryn, The disciple who Jesus loves. 

So who are you?  How is your vision?  I challenge you to make a list.  You may be surprised at parts of yourself that you may be missing.  

I pray you will live Grace today.  

Grace for yourself.   

We can only see clearly through the eyes of Grace. 

An Inconvenient God in a Convenient World

I was driving with my kids to take dinner to a friend and we saw a dog up ahead.  It was standing in the middle of the road.  We slowly passed it and its head followed us with a look of terror on its sweet face. It was a big golden dog with a collar.  It seemed to be beckoning us crying, “Help!”, in doggy language.  Let me first tell you that I am NOT a dog person.  I like dogs.  I even have one.  Her name is Mia and she is sweet and small and follows me around the house all day.  I like her.  I would even cry if she died, but I’m not in love with her.  If I’m honest, there are days she is just one more creature that needs my time and care.  OK, now that’s settled, let’s get back to the road.  So, unfortunately, I had all my kids in the car with me.  They love dogs.  They saw the dog and saw the look of terror on its sweet face.  They all yelled in unison…”GO BACK! Get the dog!”  Now I had a choice.  I was already late in getting this dinner to my friend.  I had a to do list with me filled from top to bottom.  What do I do?  I really did not want to stop, but I had been asking God to speak to me when He wanted me to do something.  In my heart, I knew I needed to turn around.  So back I went with cheering kids in tow.  We got out of the car and checked the collar.  Good, it has a phone number.  I didn’t even see that her name was Abby.  Ok, I will just call the owner.  We will be heroes and off to do my list we will go.  So I called and there was no answer.  Now I had another choice.  Leave the dog and continue on planned path or detour and be inconvenienced.  I really wanted to leave her (I’m sorry to all you dog lovers), but we decided to go to some houses and see if we could find the owner.  No one was home.  I felt like we were supposed to take the dog with us to drop off the meal.  I’m sure the owner would call soon.  Because of the long list of to-do’s, after I dropped off the meal, I went by my house to tie her up with some water.  She was a very docile, sweet, loving dog.  I put a leash on her as I took her out of the car.  I was holding the handle of the leash in one hand and the rope part of the leash in the other.  Once she saw my dog in the yard, she became Kujo!  She leaped out at my dog as if she was going to devour her in one bite.  As she raced to eat my dog, the rope in my hand sliced a gash in my finger.  It felt like a burn and a cut all at once.  Luckily I had her on the leash so my Mia was safe.  I bandaged my cut, tied the dog up, gave her some water and left to run my errands.

I came back late afternoon and still no call from the owner.  I called her again with the message machine answering.  I left another message.  It was dinner time and again I called with no one home.  I started getting a little panicky.  Then the sun went down and it grew dark.  Abby began to howl and scratch at my door.  I went out to pet her and play with her, but as soon as I went back inside, she howled some more.  I put her in the garage around 7pm so she wouldn’t bother our neighbors.  She just kept howling!  Why did I pick this stupid dog up?  I felt like I had to have a plan for her to spend the night.  I saw myself not getting any sleep as I went to the garage every hour to keep her quiet.  I envisioned our garage mutilated by this terrified dog.  I predicted the next day I would be cranky and irritable due to lack of sleep.  So I did what we all do when we are desperate….I prayed.  I asked God to please have the owner call me before we went to bed.

Around 8:30pm, I got the call.  It turned out that the owner was in Georgia and the people who were house sitting were frantically searching for the dog.  The house sitters saw that there were messages, but couldn’t retrieve them.  Finally, they got a hold of the owner and she called me.  She said that Abby was scared because of a gunshot and that she was a very nervous dog.  She was so appreciative that we took her dog home. And as it turned out, she lives right around the corner from us.  We found her three miles away from our house.

I was inconvenienced.  I know this was a very small price to pay to help this dog and neighbor.  But I could have been spending my time doing what I wanted to do.  How many times do I wake up and have my “quiet time’ with God.  Worshipping, praying and telling Him how much I love Him and then going on my merry way to do “my day.”  My time is valuable.  Why would I take the time to pick up a dog when I had more important things to do?  It is because I think my time is mine.  That what God wants is secondary to my to-do list.  That I will choose how and when to follow God.  If I do my ministry on Wednesday nights, I feel good that I did what God would have me do.  But what about the homeless person on the corner Thursday morning?  What about the woman in front of you in line at the grocery store on Saturday?  What about that dog in the road?  That is too inconvenient.  I don’t have the time. I’m late. I don’t want to see.

Isn’t it the truth that ALL time belongs to God?  That every minute is His to give?  Then why do I think that I can serve God when it’s convenient?  Is it because my life is convenient?  I can get a coffee at the drive- thru and order my groceries on line and buy the latest book on Amazon.  Convenient.  I will schedule you in for dinner when it’s convenient.  I will bake cookies with you when it’s convenient.  I have found that God is not interested in our convenient lives.  He is more interested in the Kingdom Life.  He wants to be able to minister to that drug attic.  He wants to heal that blind man.  He is desperate to talk to that single mom over there.  And who will He use?

You.

Me.

The church. 

How can He use us when we are blinded by the convenient life?  When we are deaf to the voice of God?  When we want it our way?  God is not looking for more ministry.  He is looking for your time.  All 24/7 of it.  To be able to say go, and we will go.  To love that person in front of you at His command. 

To slow.

To stop.

To see!

I want to live this way.  But to be honest, I’m scared.  It is so much safer to read my Bible each morning and serve in my ministry than to give God my every minute of the day.  What if He asks me to go to Africa? What if he tells me to be late for a meeting so that I can help an old woman put groceries in her car?  What if He wants me to hear my child’s heart and I have dinner to make?  I hate to admit it, but dinner CAN’T wait.  The truth is…the child can’t wait.  When will the moment come when I can see?  Which moment will I choose to hear? When will I believe each moment is God’s and I live because He has gifted that moment to me? Jesus was inconvenienced constantly.  He was always on a journey somewhere when someone would need healing or a woman would touch him and power would leave Him. Or he would need to detour to raise the dead (and I thought a dog in the road was bad). He was always open to God because Jesus was doing the Father's business.  He only did what the Father told him to do. I’m wondering if the full life, the adventurous life is really listening to the voice of God and then doing it.  If I love and trust God, then I can believe that he will not give me more than I can handle.  That He will slowly teach me to hear Him and as I obey, He will trust me with more.  The fact is that God did answer my prayer that the owner would call and He did not give me more than I could handle.  When I was inconvenienced, my mind went directly to how this was going to impact me not how God wanted to use this.  Following God is a risk.  I could fail.  But I’ve gotta try. I want to love God better.  I want the full life!  I have nothing to lose and a Kingdom to gain.  Are you with me?  If you are lucky like me, God might just start you off with a dog in the road!

My Story Part 9

When we were asked to take in a 16yo foster daughter and her 2yo son, we were skeptical.   My son was 3yo and my daughter a baby.  What did I know about teenage moms?  We decided to have her over to check her out.  We instantly liked her and her son.  But could we handle it?  We took her on a tour of our home and ended up in the back yard.  My husband had a vegetable garden in the yard and had carefully placed the envelopes of each vegetable on a stick and stuck them in the ground ( I know…stay with me).  These envelopes were tattered and torn from the rain and wind.  I looked at one while giving our tour and the envelope looked like Elvis (I told you…stay with me!!).  A minute later, this young woman, Sarah, said, “Hey, that looks like Elvis.” And she was pointing to the garden envelope.  I knew right then and there that God was calling us to take these kids into our home.  I know it sounds crazy! In fact, I’m laughing out loud right now as I write.  But we were young in our faith and needed a sign.  Who knew God could use Elvis to confirm a prayer?

Sarah was a beautiful, scared, lost 16yo with a 2 yo son.  But we instantly bonded with her.  We had some great times together going to hockey games, out to dinner, movies etc.  It was tricky having her 2yo living with us because I took care of him during the day and she would take over after she got home from school.  When she was mad at me, she would tell her son to not talk to me.  But when she was happy with me, we all got a long great.  When she was about 17yo, she started freaking out.  I think she was scared.  She began to act out against me.  She would smear my food all over my kitchen and would take my car and we couldn’t control her.  The foster agency was a huge help and kept asking us if we wanted her removed.  But I knew God called us to keep them.  God would have to make it clear if she should go.  This trauma went on for months.  And I wasn’t innocent in this either.  I would yell at her and I remember throwing my keys at her.  I was angry and scared and wanted to help her, but couldn’t.  I lost weight  and would spend time at night in my room.  I like to say that Sarah helped me to like beer.  After I put my kids to bed at night, I would get some chips, salsa and beer and lock myself in my room.  I was miserable, but not going to give up.  She began having boyfriends and lying all the time.  We forgave her.  We made contracts.  We set boundaries.  None of it worked and we realized that she had to leave. 

It was devastating.  She was furious that we were “kicking her out with a baby.”  And I felt horrible. I felt like we failed.  I didn’t think we would ever see them again.  But she would keep in touch every now and then.  She ended up in transitional housing and then moved in with her dad.  She began making good choices and got a great job.  We saw her now and then.  She still struggled because she wanted a mom.  She wanted me to be a mom to her.  How could I fill a hole that big?  How could I help her unravel the pain, trauma and abuse she suffered?  There was no end to the depths of her pain.  So I loved her the best I could.  But it wasn’t enough.  I disappointed her many times.  She didn’t just need love.  She needed a pouring out of healing that only God could give.

And you know what? He did!!!!!  I have tears in my eyes as I write this.  Sarah became an amazing, beautiful, loving mother.  God gave her money to put a down payment on a condo.  He gave her a job at a private Christian school where her son could attend.  He gave her a church to call her family.  And the best part for me is that I get to still call her family.  I get to still love her.  God redeemed the pain.  If you met her today all you would see is beauty.  Beauty out of ashes.  Beauty despite what the enemy had planned.  Not just beautiful, but the deep kind of beauty that only comes from suffering and pain and wisdom and healing.  The kind of beauty that will never fade or disappear.

Today, Sarah is married to an amazing Christian man with two more kids.  Her son that lived with us is grown.  She is following the Lord wherever He leads.  She is compassionate, real and seeks God daily. She home schools and serves in her community.  She is the definition of beauty in every way. She is a gift.

So because of Elvis (and God), I got to witness a miracle.

I got to receive the gift. 

I got to be a gift.

I love you Sarah. 

The Guilt Trip

The guilt trip.  Many of us pack our bags, but how many of us ever come back from the trip?  I have lots to be guilty about….the choice to not love the unlovable, the choice to not see the broken from my own womb, the choice to bring words of death instead of life.  I could have, should have seen instead of being blinded by fear.  These were all choices packed tightly in my bag of guilt.  I have carried this heavy load for years. Occasionally taking out the garments of shame, looking at them one by one; hanging them up to the light of my window so that I could see every last detail.  Then when I have glared at each and every piece, I fold them up carefully and tuck them back in my bag.  And I wonder.   Why do I do this?  What causes me to recount the memories of failure?  To be burdened by the weight of my sin?

I carry my bag all the time.  It is so used to being carried that I cannot even feel the weight anymore.  Oh, but the heaviness is there.  It is waiting to shame me and keep me tied to the lie.  And what is the lie?  I stumbled upon it recently.  It is in Galatians 3-5.  It says, “All who rely on observing the law are under a curse.”  A curse?  So when I choose to carry my guilt I am under the law, right?  I am under a curse.  Galatians goes on to say, “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us.”  OK. Here is the good part.  So, little old me is carrying my bag of guilt living under a curse.  But Jesus redeemed me from the curse by becoming a curse for me?  How cool is that?  So I am redeemed.  When I carry the bag, I am choosing the curse.  When I’m unpacking the bag, I am telling God….you are not enough.  Your becoming a curse is not enough for me.  I need to live under the curse because that is what I deserve.  Am I becoming God when I do this?  Am I accepting the curse over accepting Jesus?  Galatians goes on further, “But now that you know God- or rather are known by God- how is it that you are turning back to those miserable and weak principles?  Do you wish to be enslaved by them all over again?”  Uh, NO!  Enslaved? That is pretty powerful.  So let me get this straight….I have been redeemed from the curse, can live in freedom, am an heir of Christ…His daughter and why am I still carrying this bag of curses? 

Well, I put a stop to that right away.  I took my bag, opened it and named every piece before God.  I told him about not seeing, not loving, the pain I have caused, the failure, the fears.  I took each piece and held it into the Light.  And the Light burned these words into each piece….”IT IS FINISHED.”  I don’t know about you, but I am done carrying burdens that have already been paid for.  I am no longer wanting to be God, punishing myself until I’m sick to my stomach.  Galatians 5 says, “It is for freedom that Christ set you free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” 

I choose freedom.  

I tossed the bag.  

There was a price paid for my guilt.  

But I was never intended to pay it.  

IT IS FINISHED.

What about you? Are you carrying a curse? If so, you are missing out on grace.

And it is AMAZING!

One Year in Colorado

It has been exactly one year since we moved and what a year!

Here are my top 10 reasons why we love it here! 

1.  The sky is big here so the beautiful sunsets and sunrises are that much more beautiful.

2.  Every weekend I see hot air balloons and sky divers from my back porch. 

3.  I never knew how much of a country girl I am…the peace, quiet and beauty takes my breath away daily. 4.  I didn’t realize how much our family needed to heal and draw closer together.  This is happening here and it is changing our lives. 

5.  Being out of a place where I had a reputation and was well known has brought me to my knees.  I have realized that I am nothing and anything I am is because of God.  I am so thankful for this gift.

6.Being surrounded by horses, cows, raccoons, fox, skunks, toads, coyotes, snakes and every kind of bird is a constant reminder of God’s creation. 

7. We live in a non- nanny state.  We can talk on our cell phones in the car, we don’t have to wear helmets on motorcycles, we get to have bags when we shop. 

8.There are 12 million people in the Bay Area.  There are 5 million people in all of Colorado.  We are loving all the space to explore, hike and camp. 

9.We are part of a church that supports foster/ adoption and is a powerful presence in Boulder County finding homes for kids in need. 

10.We have loved having visitors.  It is so fun to share our new home and lives with friends from California.  Please visit us!

Watching the Miracle

“You are saying I do things wrong all the time”, my boy screamed as I was explaining the consequence of hitting his brother.  “You are saying I am bad!”  This was a reoccurring theme in his almost 10 years of life.  Being abused by a domestically violent father has taken a toll on this beautiful heart.  Somehow, at a way to early age, this boy of mine decided that the abuse was his fault.  He was the cause.  He was bad.

The glass half empty.

The grass is always greener.

The fear to try new things.

Unable to give thanks.

These are the still fresh scars of a father who lashed out because of many old scars branded on his own heart.

How do I get to this tender but confused heart?  How do I tell him about a Jesus who heals scars?  How to reach a mind already entrenched with lies?

I am utterly unable. 

So I speak the words I have always known he believes.  I speak them out loud.  I speak them straight to his heart.

“I think you believe you are bad because your parents hurt you when you were small and somehow you blamed yourself.  You thought it was your fault.  Is this what you think?”

A nod of the head.

I began to speak from my deepest inner being.  Hoping.  Praying that he could hear.  Hear the words of truth.  Hear the words your Heavenly father speaks to you. You are special.  God will redeem.  God has a plan.  God sings over you. You are good. 

You are good.

You are good!!!

Did he hear me? 

I felt like something “clicked” in his eyes.  The glimpse of knowing.

I spoke out loud what he has known all along but couldn’t speak for himself.  We connected.  I understood.  I heard his heart.  He is not alone.

My mission is to speak words of life into this boy.  He is precious.  He is kind. He thinks of others.  He is smart.  He is worthy to be loved.

I cannot speak life while I am running around to different activities or busy on the phone.  I cannot speak love if I am irritated or tired or fearful. Speaking takes time.  It interrupts the schedule. Dinner might have to wait.  Appointments may have to be cancelled.

My own fears cannot trump truth.  My mind is saying “it’s no use, you will not be victorious.  You will fail.  You cannot undo the damage.  You cannot love.  Your words are not life, but platitudes of the flesh."

My heart cries out to a Living God!  “Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord. The Maker of heaven and Earth.”

Can I receive what I need to speak life? Can I live fearlessly? Can I live truth?  Can I live love?

Oh Father, help me.  I want to be filled with you. I want you to pour out spilling over my children. In my children. Cleansing the marks of shame. 

I am unable.

But I am enough because He is enough.

I am able because He is able.

Keep speaking. Take time. Heal wounds.

Watch the miracle!

Turning Seven!

My smallest boy is turning seven this Father’s Day.  We decided to have a few friends over and go to the park.  You would think that was a normal and even nice thing for a mother to do, wouldn’t you?  So we are in the car with friends filling the seats and he opens a gift his friend gave him.  He received a nice tape measure and a pair of working gloves.  After looking at the generous gift he replied, “I like the tape measure, but I don’t like the gloves.”  Which I immediately retorted, “Caleb Joshua Reginato (he knew he was in trouble by the use of the middle name), “you tell your friend thank you.”  And I proceeded to tell the six year old sitting next to him that, in fact, Caleb loved the gloves and would use them all the time. To which the little girl just stared at me with a blank face. 

We went to the park and had a lovely time, but when we got back home (the friends still with us), Caleb decided to ask the neighbor boy over to play games and have cake.  After the games were over, they all retired to Caleb’s room to play house.  They all were trying to fit into the closet ( I think they were using it for a bunk bed with one child on the floor of the closet and two others on the top shelf) when Caleb told his neighbor friend to leave his room because he wanted to play alone with his other friends.  I only found out about this because the little guy walked right past me in the kitchen, looking like he might cry.  So I marched into the closet and demanded to know what happened.  I was told the sad story and immediately had Caleb go apologize to his friend, which he did.

After all the kids went home, I asked Caleb if he had a good time at his party.  He said, “No, not really.” 

Isn’t that exactly how we are? 

We half heartedly accept gifts from God.

We are thankless for the wrapped treasures he places in our hands.

We love self more than others.

And it causes us to lose our joy.

What I get to share with my almost seven year old is that God’s mercy is new every morning.  That we get a do-over and we can start fresh by the power of His love. 

We can begin tomorrow with a renewed awe of the gifts we have been lavishly given.

We can excitedly unwrap even the smallest, precious treasures He gently places in our hands.

We can mend relationships and ask for forgiveness. And love others more than ourselves!

We can find our joy!

I asked my son before bedtime tonight if he could have done anything differently today.  He said, “I could have not been rude to my friend.”

Good job, son.

 Maybe seven won’t be so bad after all! 

My Story Part 8

I hate her!!! That was all could say about our first foster son’s birth mom.  How could a woman neglect her own child? How could a mother choose drugs over her kids?  I was appalled at the lack of love that this birth mother had for her son. And believe me when I say that the feeling was mutual.  She hated me.  She hated that her son was calling me mom. She hated that I got to take care of him and love him and feed him every day.  But you really can’t blame me, can you?  I was in this for the sweet child in our care.  To show him the love of God and to pray protection over his precious heart.  Why would I want to care for his neglectful mother?  She chose the life she was living and her son had no choice in the matter.  He had to go along for the ride. 

This hatred ran cold in my veins.  I truly couldn’t stand this woman. I wanted nothing to do with her.  But God had other plans.  One day I was on my knees praying about my anger.  Not that God would forgive me for it, but that He would strike her with lightening or make her leave the country.  As I was praying and looking out my living room window, it started to rain.  Now up until then it was a bit cloudy.  But as I talked to God about this woman, it began to pour.  Not just rain, but the floodgates of heaven opened and it gushed down like a waterfall.  It wasn’t peaceful and beautiful.  It was a torrent of rage being poured onto the earth.  And at that moment, God spoke to my heart so clearly, that I nearly fell on my face in His presence.  He said that He was even angrier than I was over the pain of this child.  That He would take of it and I was to leave the punishment to Him.  And lastly, I was to love her.  Love her?  Did I hear that right?  You are kidding me God, right?  No reply came.  I was summoned to love a woman I hated.  I knew better than to deny God.  So I began calling her and asking about her life.  I started to pray for her.  And my heart began to soften.  I asked her if I could pray for her and soon was praying with her.  And she desperately wanted to be loved.  I only wanted to do foster care to love the child.  But here was a grown up child who needed the same love.  When I found out about her past and all she had been through, I grieved for this woman.  And God gave me a piece of His heart.  This mother was also hurt and abused and unloved.  She was just in a bigger body than her son.  I eventually fell in love with this woman.  I wanted nothing more for her to get her son back and live a healthy life.  I eventually asked her if she wanted to give her life over to the true Healer. 

  She became a Christian and my husband baptized her at our church.  She eventually got her son back.  I was torn.  I loved this boy with all of my heart.  But I knew where he belonged. We had to take our sweet boy and drop him off at a drug treatment center where his mom lived.  We had loved him for over a year.  As I handed this child over to his mom, my heart ached.  I would never again hold him.  Never tuck him in at night.  I would never again hear the word “mom” come out of his mouth again.  As we left the treatment center, we were in deep grief.  But as we drove, we both felt the Spirit of God in the car with us. He lifted us out of our sorrow and gave us hope.  We began singing along to praise music we had in our car and praising God for allowing us the honor of seeing a family put back together.  And it hit me!  We could love the child.  But what if we loved the birth mom too?  What if God could heal the child’s mother?  Then generations are forever changed.  This foster child would have a healed mother.  Families would be restored.  The chain of sin broken!  We decided in that car ride home that we would be resolved to love not only future foster kids, but to love their moms as well.  This was a seed that years later would become The Refuge.  A seed that was planted deep in my soul.  Freedom!  These moms and kids needed to be set free.  I knew just the person to do the job! Yes!  

My Story Part 7

Ugh! Not sure why I’m telling my story.  It was a good idea in the beginning, but it brings up such heart ache in my soul.  To be honest, I have never told anyone (except my hubby) all about my childhood illness and all the shame that went with it.  I have felt so vulnerable and sometimes I just wanna quit!  But somehow when I write it all out, it brings healing and restoration in some deep seeded areas of my heart.  Areas I didn’t even know I needed healing.  Ok…done with the “feeling sorry for myself” rant.  Here it goes….

So you may or may not be wondering how shame played out for me as a mom.  I was actively pursuing counseling and God by this time.  I was never going to give up until I was healed.  As I look back now, I think shame played out in not feeling like I was a good mother.  I loved my son more than life itself.  But I just couldn’t get the mom thing down.  So I began looking to my friends to teach me.  I learned so many things watching my friends be moms. The good, the bad and the really ugly!  I enjoyed being home with Nathan and he was a joy filled, happy boy. 

As I began a love affair with God, I fell deeper in love with Him every day.  He showed me how to forgive, to love and show grace to myself and others.  I couldn’t get enough of Bible study and I prayed all the time.  We started a Bible study in our home with other young couples. God was so real in my life.  When Nathan was 6 months old, we decided to become foster parents.  It is one of the first times I felt a real calling by God.  Listen to the story…..

Dave and I both felt really called to reach out to the lost world and make an impact for Christ.  And we also knew that our doctor told us to never get pregnant again because of the trauma with Nathan’s birth.  SO we wondered what it would be like to have other kids in our home.  Maybe we would adopt one day, so why not try foster parenting just to see how it would go.  Oh, dear reader, please remember that I was young and had no idea what I was getting in to.  So we started to pray.  We went to a meeting at the county, but they scared us away with their rules and beliefs about spanking.  So we were back to square one.  Then one day, my friend called me to ask if I had heard that our Sunday night service that same evening was going to be focused on foster care and adoption.  I couldn’t believe it.  We had never had a night at church like that nor one since.  Dave and I went and cried the whole service. It was like God orchestrated the entire evening for us.  We knew God was calling us to do this.  After the service, we met a man named Dale, who was recruiting foster families for a ministry called Advent.  We knew this was the place to get started.  They licensed us and helped us with everything we needed.  When Nathan was 18 months, we got the call of an 18mo boy that needed a home.  We jumped in the car with Dale and went to meet this boy at his current foster home.  We were so excited.  It was like Christmas and my birthday all wrapped in one.  Yet, when we walked into the home, all excitement faded.  The home was dirty.  There were many other kids there.  And this little boy had his own little corner of the living room caged in by gates.  It looked like he lived in his little cage and I could quickly see that he was dirty and had a dirty diaper as well.  I was sick with grief over the conditions this child was living in.  I told Dale, “I want him.”  And we made arrangements to pick him up a few days later.  It turned out that he was only 2 days younger than Nathan.  They looked like twins, both having blond hair and blue eyes.  It also turned out that this sweet boy had Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, which affected his speech and motor skills.  We loved having “twins”.  I was asked all the time if they were twins, which I would reply, “yes”.  As much as we loved our new boy, we began to become angry.  When you have other kids in your home, you do not see them like you see your own kids.  Dave and I both felt this anger grasping at our hearts.  It was so depressing.  Here we were….rescuing a poor, helpless baby……and we were angry.  Talk about pathetic.  What kind of parents were we?  We loved on him and cared deeply for him.  But the anger was an indication that we had unresolved crap from our past.  This had nothing to do with our sweet addition.  It had everything to do with our damaged hearts. 

Enter the first, but not the last, birth mom that we would encounter in our 18 years of foster parenting.  Her story is so amazing that I need one blog just for her.  I’ll just give you a little hint….we hated each other!!!

The Motherless

It’s Mother’s Day.  Just like many moms, I am being spoiled and loved and graced with cards and food and gifts.  But my heart is also broken for the millions of kids without a home or a woman to call mamma.  Our church dedicated today to promote adoption.  Our pastor gave an amazing sermon that made me think even more.  He talked about how much God loves the fatherless and how He wants to be the Father to the fatherless.  But who is their mother?  It is the Bride of Christ.  In other words…you and me.  He stated some statistics and the one that caught my attention was that if we put all the orphans in one place, they would fill enough land to become the 7^th largest country in the world.  After the service, there were various agencies with tables who gave out information on foster care and adoption.  Throughout the foyer there were pictures of kids in Colorado who were waiting for parents to take them home.  All these kids were not going to go back to their parents and now waited to find a home.  They encouraged us to take a picture of one of the children to take home and pray over them.  There were about 100 pictures of various kids all around the church.  Does this seem wrong to anyone? Why is it that we need to take beautiful pictures, with their hair perfect and posing just right, and stick them up on the church walls to hopefully get them a family?  Why are there not droves of Christians clamoring to take one of these kids home?  Why do we need to dress them up and hope for the best?  This is not just unbelievable…it is wrong!  Where are you church?  Why doesn’t every single child on those church walls have a home?  I know we have our reasons.  We don’t have the money.  We can’t even handle our own kids.  We don’t have time.  I realize that not every family can take in a child.  Some are not in a place to do so.  But what about those who shut their eyes and ears to the cry of the fatherless? I know it’s scary.  I know it’s a risk.  I know it may fail.  God may not be calling you to take in an orphan.  But what if He is?  Have you ever asked Him?  Is your heart beating with His?  Even if you may not be able to take in a child, there is plenty for the church to do.  You can sponsor a child in Africa.  You can pray and be a mentor to a foster child or a foster family.  If you can’t be the mother or father, you can support those who can.  You can give money so a family can adopt a baby from China.  You can bring meals to that family who adopted 4 kids from the Ukraine.  You can listen to their cries and do something…anything. 

I know I’m being a bit harsh, but I believe something is wrong here.  There should not be kid’s pictures on the church walls who are homeless and family-less.  After all, God adopted you.  He adopted you when you didn’t look pretty.  When you were knee deep in sin. Even when you rejected Him, He called you Son and Daughter and gave you a home.  Can’t we as a church do the same?  We are the “mother” to the fatherless.  I know, not the feel good Mother’s Day message you were expecting.  But my “mother’s heart” is burning with conviction and urgency about these kids having a home.  Every child deserves to have a home. Not one should be left without a family.

Do not turn a deaf ear to the ones so precious to the God of the universe.

Listen to their cry.

Listen to His heart.

Hear what the Spirit is saying to church! Hear God’s heart for the orphan!

He loves them with a passion….will you?

Where is your heart?

I was having one of those days.  You know the ones.  You wake up in the morning and even though you drank your caffeine for the day, you are still not quite awake.  And then the kids get up.  They don’t put the cereal away and leave jam on the counter.  They need to get to school, but they act like they have 8 hours to get ready.  The youngest can’t find one shoe and my daughter is running late and doesn’t have time to make her lunch.  And here I am….still not awake and feeling overwhelmed by it all.  I am irritated.  I am tired. I am ready to run away from it all.  The reason I’m tired is because we have an almost 7 year old that still climbs in bed with us during the night.  And he is a cuddler (that is probably not a word, but should be).  He doesn’t just lie next to you, he lays ON you!  Now I will cuddle with him when I’m awake, but in the middle of the night? No way!  I want my space when I’m sleeping.  But he kept laying on me and I kept pushing him off me all night.  I was gearing up for a long day.

But then something happened.  Not a big something, but a few little somethings that turned my day around.  It started when I was in my bathroom getting ready for my day.  I heard my youngest yelling “MOM”….”MOM!”  So I followed the voice into the back yard where I found my boy at the top of a huge pine tree.  I mean it was taller than my house.  He was at the tippy top hanging on, in my opinion, to the flimsiest limb in the world.  But it caught me so off guard that I just laughed out loud.  He asked me take a picture of him before he descended to the safety of the ground.  I took one and it made me happy to see my son in that tree.  I don’t know why, it just did. 

On our way to school, we saw a hot air balloon in the sky.  Near where we live we see them all the time in the summer, but only occasionally in the winter and spring.  Every time I see a hot air balloon I smile.  Again, I don’t know why, but they make me happy.

After I dropped the kids off at school I had to go to an appointment and as I turned on the radio, Keith Green was playing.  He is my very favorite artist.  I am so challenged by his life.  But you never hear him on the radio anymore.  Then it hit me.  My attitude had changed.  I began to realize that the boy in the tree, the hot air balloon and the song were little gifts.  Gifts to be thankful for.  I began to praise God for these little treasures.  And my heart began to worship.  Being thankful can really change your day.  How about you?  Where is your heart today?  Can you think of little gifts in your day already that you can thank God for?  Tell me about what you are thankful for today.  I dare you!

My Story Part 6

Being married was everything I wanted and more.  I realized that I didn’t know how to cook, clean or manage my money.  The first thing Dave did after we got home from our honeymoon was cut up my credit card.  I learned for the first time how to save for things and shop for a good price before I bought.  I also learned how to clean, but not very well.  My lack of cooking and cleaning skills made for big conflict between us.  You see, my husband is what I call a “cleanie”.  He loves things organized and clean.  He felt disrespected when I didn’t put something away or clean it properly.  This was to become the biggest conflict in our marriage.  I’m happy to tell you that we have overcome this issue, with occasional back sliding.  I began to have panic attacks and tons of anger.  I had already been in counseling and it was bringing so much to the surface.  I was constantly fearful and did not feel God helping me.  With this turmoil coupled with the fact that I was less than the wife my husband desired, the shame reared its ugly head yet again.  I was trying to work through it and God gave me a lot of insight and truth during these years of self discovery.  Over time, the panic attacks ceased and my fear subsided….for now.

Then I got pregnant!  I was still at San Jose State and working part time as a medical assistant.  I was told when I was young that because of my illness, I should not get pregnant.  But I wanted a child more than anything.  When we found out, Dave went to the health food store and bought all kinds of veggies and healthy snacks.  In his mind, I was going to fill my body with good nutrition.  Then the morning sickness began.  Those of you who have been pregnant know that when you have morning sickness, you just want to eat what you want to eat.  So the veggies went out the window and Taco Bell became my best friend.  During my pregnancy, I was having kidney infections and high blood pressure.  I was taking antibiotics that I shouldn’t have been taking, but I had to take them to keep the infections at bay.  Because of my sickness, I had to quit college and put my job on hold.  When I was 31 weeks, Nathan Victor Reginato came into the world at 3lbs 12oz.  It was a traumatic birth and once again I felt that my body had failed me.  It is such a scary feeling when you don’t hear your baby crying after the birth.  They showed him to me for a second and then whisked him off to the NICU.   I told Dave to go with the baby, while the doctors and nurses took care of me.  They gave me a sedative because I was really upset.  I had hated drugs up until then.  But when that feeling of relaxation came streaming through my body, I was thankful for drugs.  I wanted to stay on those sedatives forever.  It was hours before I could see my precious Nathan.  When they wheeled me into the NICU and I saw him, I melted in sorrow.  Somehow I felt this was my fault.  He was naked and had tubes and wires all over him.  He had a tube down his lungs to help him breathe and the mask on his face seemed to take up his whole body.  I couldn’t really see him through the nurses that were working on him.  I cannot tell you the grief and despair I felt over seeing my tiny boy, strapped down in pain.  Oh, how this brought up the pain from my childhood.  How many times was I strapped down in my bed of pain.  I couldn’t bear to watch this happen to my son. How I anguished in my hospital bed all night.  I had to watch TV to distract me from my emotional pain.  I couldn’t even lie still in my bed.  I was writhing in anguish.  When they discharged me, I fell apart.  At least while I was in the hospital I could be with my boy.  But now I had to leave him with people who had total control over him.  They could mistreat him and he couldn’t even cry out for his mama to save him.  In my dreams, I saw myself being wheeled out of the hospital with my precious in my arms.  But instead, I was wheeled out with paperwork and emptiness.  A few days later I had a severe kidney infection.  It was festering for a while and I just thought the pain was from the birth.  So I landed back in the hospital on the same floor as my son.  It was so stressful to see Nathan make progress and then fail to progress. Nathan spent one month in the NICU and came home weighing 4lbs.  The NICU nurses made sure I got wheeled out with my baby in my arms this time.  I was so thrilled to have him home.

My Story Part 5

I lived a life of partying with intermittent trips to the hospital for kidney infections. I moved out again with my best friend, Marci, while attending college.  I met a young man who seemed to actually really care for me and treated me like a queen.  I began to realize that being treated like a queen equaled love to me.  He would shower me with his love and I ate it up.  He was in a band and had his pilot’s license so we had tons of fun going to bars so he could play in his band and then going on airplane rides to half Moon Bay for dinner.  I was happy and finally felt the love I craved.  This young man was truly a sweet, genuine person who really did love me.  But after 2 years of dating, we began to talk about marriage.  His family was of a different religion and I began to realize that if I married this man, I needed to understand what he believed.  So I went to his church and began to notice differences in what I had been taught in Young Life.  I went to the Christian book store and bought a book about his religion and what he believed.  Even with my limited knowledge, I realized that I couldn’t live with some of his beliefs.  This drew me more and more to God.  My roommate and I decided to go back to South Hills Church, where we attended Young Life meetings, to try out their single’s group.  We went to a small group that met on Wednesday nights.  The first person I met as I walked into the door was a man who had something I had never seen before…..GOD!  I don’t know how I knew, but his eyes lit up when he talked and I just knew this man knew God.  Now, you have to imagine this scene.  Here I am, miss party girl, with big hair (this was the late 80’s) and a tight skirt with an attitude.  And here was this engineer with a dark blue cardigan sweater with short black hair and preppy shoes.  He was SO not my type.  But there was something about him that drew me.  We really liked the bible study and began attending every week.  By this time I knew that I HAD to convert my boyfriend to Christianity.  I was so conflicted because here I found the man of my dreams that had long hair, was in a band and treated me like a queen.  He just HAD to accept Jesus!!!! So what is a young woman to do? I manipulated him to come to the bible study with me.  He came once and had no desire to convert.  My world began to unravel.  If I didn’t stay with my boyfriend, I may never be loved by another man.  Lest you have forgotten, dear reader, that I am ugly, shame filled and completely unworthy.  But yet I knew that I wanted God back in my life. 

One day, while I was reading the Bible, a voice called out to me.  It was not audible, but it was so clear in my heart that it could have been.  The voice said “It’s me or him, make your choice.”  I knew right away that this was God speaking.  And in my heart I knew I had to make a choice.  I couldn’t have my boyfriend and God too. He was forcing me to make a choice out of His great love for me. I chose God.  I broke up with my boyfriend.  It took a while because we kept seeing each other periodically because neither of us could fully let go. At the same time, I was still attending bible study and talking to this new guy that had God in his eyes. I found out his name was Dave Reginato and he was an engineer.  I also found out that he was not dating anyone because he wanted to get right with God and focus only on him.  So we became friends.  We did a lot of activities together with the singles group at church.  Almost every weekend we went to concerts, went on bike rides or hung out at a restaurant.  I was beginning to feel free. And God was growing my faith.  The seed that was planted through Young life was beginning to take root and grow.

After a few months of being “friends”, Dave asked me out to a Lockheed Christmas dinner.  OK….let me set the scene for you.  A huge room full of old men…..old, engineer men!  Enter Dave and Kathi.  Dave in his conservative suit and Kathi in a sexy bright red dress with spiked heels and big, blond hair!  Every head turned when we walked in to that room.  It was a bit uncomfortable and on top of it all, the waiter was hitting on me all night. Every time I got out of my seat, the waiter would slip me a note.  I was so flustered between the old men staring at me and the waiter hitting on me.  It was a complete disaster.  But after the dinner, Dave took me to a coffee house and we talked for hours.  I melted in his presence.  He was so confident and strong and good looking.  He had a true love for God and wanted to follow Him.  I had never met a man like him.  He was dreamy!  OK….I’m done now.

We dated for a year and half and we were both growing in the Lord.  I was getting counseling for my past and Dave was leading in many ways at church and being mentored.  I began to realize that my view of love was skewed.  When Dave didn’t shower me with gift, I felt like he didn’t love me.  He began to teach me what true love is.  That it’s a commitment and a choice.  That it was laying down your life for each other and working as a team.  This took some time to learn about love.  I wanted the gifts and attention.  But was realizing what I really needed was the unconditional love of God.  I was for the first time really falling in love.  Not just to get treated like a queen, but to give of myself for another person who I could trust and deeply commit my life to.  Then, we had the talk!  Let me digress for a moment. I love my husband dearly, so please do not judge him for what I am about to tell you. He was only trying to warn me.  OK.  So he took me to Round Table pizza and gave me this talk…..”I just want to let you know that if we get married we will not have a lot of money. I will never pursue money and if we get married, you have to be Ok with that.”  And in my dreamy state I said… “OK”.  Now that I look back, he could have said “let’s live in a hut” and I would have agreed. 

During this time of dating, I had to have my left kidney removed.  It was causing high blood pressure and I was getting frequent infections.  So I had yet another major surgery.  They made an 8 inch incision and removed my kidney.  The pain was horrible.  But I had Dave to comfort and encourage me.  Poor guy…he had no idea what he would be in for in the future concerning my health.  I really should have given HIM a talk….’My dearest David”, I would say, “I just want you to know that if you marry me you will have to live with having two children premature due to my health, more surgeries and infections and medication and you will someday have to give me injections of antibiotics and tend to my IV with the meds in my fanny pack and…..”   I’m glad I didn’t know what was ahead, he might not have married me.

One day, my roommate and her fiancé were going to look for rings for their wedding. Dave asked me if I wanted to go with them.  He didn’t say, “let’s look at rings” or “maybe we can try some rings on just to see how they look”.  He said nothing (I’m not judging, but…. typical engineer)!  So we went with our friends to look at rings. I was so nervous.  What was he thinking?  Why didn’t he tell me what he was thinking?  We went looking and periodically he would say, “do you like that one?”  Or, “let’s try that one on.”  It was so awkward.  At the end of the day, HE BOUGHT A RING!  Still, all the way home, not a word!  I know what you are thinking…..why the heck are you with this guy? You will never have money and his social skills are retarded.  But wait, it gets better!  So he takes the ring home and hides it.  And doesn’t mention it again.  So here I am waiting.  Is he going to ask me to marry him?  If so, when?  It was torture!

Finally a couple months later, we are driving up to Mt. Shasta to visit his parents and he stops the car.  We get out of the car and he leads me to a vista point on a mountain near his parent’s house.  He takes out the ring and proposes to me with beautiful trees surrounding us.  I was elated!  We went to his parent’s house and told them the news.  I came to find out later that he went to ask my parent’s permission before he proposed to me.  Ok…is he redeeming himself yet?  I told you it would get better.  We had my dream wedding, thanks to my wonderful parents.  There was just one problem.  During this time of dating and engagement, I was tormented with demonic oppression.  I will not share with you the details, but I was fearful almost all the time and could not sleep some nights.  Counseling was helping, but the enemy again became more real to me than God.  During my wedding, while we were saying our vows, I felt the oppression again and almost fainted.  Why was I being tormented again? Why didn’t the enemy just leave me alone?  I was so happy with my new husband, but confused about where God was in my life.

You are not my mom

Oh the words that I hate to hear and yet almost every foster/adopted child has spoken (or yelled) these words and they have stabbed like a dagger, straight through my heart. It happened again a few days ago. One of my kids was adopted at age 3 and before he came to be our child, he experienced so much domestic violence and some of it toward him. He came to us filled with fear and shame. He has healed much in the last 6 years and has grown into an amazing, fun, creative boy. But he still misses his birth mom. For those of you who are not familiar with adopted kids, most of them think about their birth moms every single day. So when I went into his room to talk to him about lying to me and to ask him to pray with me, he turned his back on me and said “you are not my mom”. AS many times as I have heard those words, they never cease to torment me. If I am not his mom, who is? Aren’t I the one who tucks him in at night and kisses him and plays with him? Am I not the one who feeds him healthy meals and drives him to soccer and looks at his creative inventions? The truth is that I AM his mom, but I will never take the place of his birth mom. That bond will never be broken. It will never be totally healed. We have formed a bond that I hope will last a lifetime, but it will never be enough. It reminds me of how God adopts us into His family. We want a new life, but we are bonded to this world. We want to be loved by a Father, but our birth father (the enemy) calls us to be satisfied with being an orphan. God, like a loving and faithful Father, waits for us to bond with Him. We want to come running into His arms, but we hesitate. Even if we came from drug addiction or domestic violence, it is still more familiar than the loving arms of God. As my heart ached from the sound of his words, I quietly left his room. About 15 min later he called me to come back. He said he was ready to pray. So we prayed the prayer of forgiveness and I gave him a big hug. Bonded. A little more today than yesterday. Are you living as an orphan? If you are a follower of Christ, you need not be. Claim your identity as a child of God and embrace the Father’s love for you. Yes, at times it is foreign and uncomfortable. But as you bond with Him you will find life! As much as I long for my son to love and bond with me, I desire even more for him to know my Father, who will kiss him and tuck him snuggly in his bed. And that maybe for the first time in his little life, he can feel wholly and forever loved. He could find rest for his soul. He could find home

My Story Part 4

I couldn’t figure out a way to tell you about how Satan has worked in my life thus far in my story. I really don’t want to talk about Him. But He is a part of my story and I’m hoping and praying that this will be edifying to those who have struggled in similar ways. So I’m going to squeeze it in here. When I was three years old, I fell off a two story building. We lived in an apartment (at this time it was with my mom and birth father) on the second floor. I piled up all my toys on our balcony and saw my mom going into the building beneath me to do laundry. Well, I toppled over the railing as I tried to watch my mom enter the laundry room and fell to the ground. Amazingly, I only broke my femur. But was in traction for a few weeks. I do not remember any of this, but putting this incident together with my illness and almost dying in the hospital, I kinda feel like Satan wanted me dead! You might be wondering how I came to this conclusion. Well, on top of these two incidents, when my mom left my birth dad, we went to live at a friend’s house. The woman of the house watched my brother and me while my mom worked. It just so happens that this woman worshipped Satan. She was into spiritual writing and rituals, which my brother and I were exposed to on a regular basis. She ended up going crazy and was put in a hospital. I’m not sure how long we stayed with them, but it was long enough to make a lasting impression on me. Since that time, I had numerous dreams that Satan was trying to kill me. I will spare you the details, but for much of my life, Satan was more real than God to me. But this plan of his will eventually become his demise in my life. My God did not forget me. My God did not leave me. I will discover that my God can conquer evil with his baby finger. But more about that later because Satan showed his ugly face again later in my life.

I barely graduated high school, but never got to walk at my graduation. You guessed it, I ended up in the hospital again. This time for a major operation. They would try once again to fix my bladder . This would be my 6^th surgery. So as all my friends were having parties and going to Hawaii, I was stuck once again in my bed of pain. This was a very depressing time for me. I was so tired of the pain. My body was the source of that pain and it never left me alone. I felt like I couldn’t look forward to anything anymore. It seemed like my body was my enemy. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get away from this body that tortured me. I hated it. I hated myself. I never knew when the pain would strike. During this time I began reading books by Joni Erickson Tada. She suffered from an accident and became paralyzed. I could relate to her. Her books were so encouraging to me. She gave me hope that God could use this in my life. That nothing is wasted. Even in this dark time, God was reaching out to me and saying “I’m here”!

Since I was “stupid”, I didn’t feel like I could fit in at college. I was really interested in the medical field and I went to Andon College where I became a medical assistant. I started working at 18yo and loved my job. I was extremely good with my patients. They all loved me. I understood their pain and had compassion for them. As I look back I was always very compassionate. I would constantly bring home stray animals and try to manipulate my parents to let me keep them. Most of the time, they allowed me to keep them. I always had this heart for the broken. The broken were beautiful to me. It’s amazing how I had so much love for the broken, but could not love myself. When my mom got mad at me, I would sit in my room as a child and think to myself “I am so bad. I don’t deserve to live.” Yet, it would bring me great joy to love the unlovable. I was still living in my parent’s house while I worked and it was still a place of tension because my brother was 16yo and in the thick of his rebellion. At this time I felt the need to move out. I had a friend, Brad, who wanted to move out as well. So I embarked on the journey called “living on your own” or as I like to call it, “the biggest mistake I ever made”. Ok, I know. We learn from our mistakes. But instead of making me happy and free, moving brought depression and fear. First of all, moving in with a boy was my first mistake. You, dear reader, probably already figured this out. He was messy and was never home so I was home alone most of the time with his mess all around me. At this same time, I had met a boy at camp over the summer before I turned 18yo and he lived in Southern California, but moved up to San Jose to be with me. He was my dream guy. He wrote poetry, was a musician and was super cute. He came up and rented a room so he could be with me. Then the controlling began. He began telling me where I could and couldn’t go. He would sometimes push me up against walls when I didn’t obey him. But I continued to stay in the relationship because of my shame and he just confirmed what I already knew….I was worth nothing. To be honest, I don’t remember much of this time because I was so lost in depression. We finally broke up and he moved back to his home. But his absence left a huge gap in my heart. He didn’t love me, but he was at least with me and sometimes would be kind and loving. Now I was utterly alone. I sat in my apartment and had a serious talk with myself. My life was going nowhere. I had a job I loved, but other than that I was stuck with little hope for my future. That’s when I decided to go home. I left the apartment of turmoil and went back to my parent’s house. I decided I would work and go to community college. So I enrolled at DeAnza College and started taking the “bonehead” classes for those who can’t even do basic math or English. I will never forget the day my teacher took me aside and told me that she felt I might have a gift for writing. I was shocked! It was the first time the thought ran through my mind that I might be smart. I loved her class and she didn’t know it, but a seed was planted deep in my soul that grew and is still growing to this day. I began taking other classes and I was doing well. I took a communications class where we needed to give a speech in front of the class. I was really nervous, but did really well. And my teacher in that class gave me an “A”. “Well”, I thought, “I think this belief that I’m stupid is actually a lie”. I thrived at school and couldn’t get enough. I then transferred to San Jose State and worked on getting my degree in Psychology. If you are a teacher reading this, please know that just one word from you can change a life.

After high school I fell away from the Lord. My Young Life leader was gone and so were the Bible studies. I was on my own and not sure how to proceed. So I hung out with friends and began to go to parties where there was drugs and alcohol. I have to tell you something weird about this. Although people around me were smoking pot and snorting cocaine, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I realized later that I was always high in the hospital on Morphine so I had no desire to do more drugs. This was a blessing from the Lord that I now see as His protection. Although I didn’t do drugs, I did start drinking alcohol. So I spent most weekends making out with boys and drinking. I was having the time of my life. Fun was my purpose in life. On top of that, the boys I liked had long hair and were in bands. I cannot tell you the places I ended up at listening to my latest “boyfriend” playing in his band. It was a miracle that I was not assaulted or raped. I am shocked now, as I look back at what I would do just to get a guy to pay attention to me. I learned that if I dressed sexy and flaunted it around enough times, a boy would take the bait. And I would reel him in and feel like I was loved for short periods of time. I also learned that beauty equaled power. I had never had power, so I used it with a vengeance. Even in this dark place God had His hand of protection on me. I could have gotten pregnant or a STD. I was looking for love. For worth. For hope. I was grasping for anything that would give my life meaning. But it eluded me.

My Story Part 3

In high school I was only occasionally in the hospital and had a fairly “normal” life. I went out with friends, skipped the occasional class and got my driver’s license. Being a cheerleader the year before opened my eyes to the fact that I was worth hanging out with. That I was a good friend. And that I was fun to be around. I enjoyed school enough to want to be there. But since I had been sick my whole life, I was really bad at school. The school system kind of just let me get by and graduate to the next grade even though I did not learn what I needed to know. So by the time I got to high school, it was apparent that I was stupid. And unfortunately, some of my teachers confirmed this belief. So the cycle of shame continued, just in a different form.

When I was a sophomore, my best friend’s sister invited us to attend a Young Life meeting at a local church near our school. We went together and I heard about God. They sang songs about God, did funny skits and taught us out of the Bible. I had heard about God before, but knew in my heart He must be mad at me because I was sick. The God they were talking about was loving and cared about the world. I continued to attend every week because it was fun. One of leaders, Cindy, took me under her wing and began loving on me. She listened to me. Prayed for me. I began reading a Bible and wanting to learn more about Jesus. I started attending a Bible study and learned more and more about how much God loved me. As you can imagine, this idea went against my belief about myself. But I was feeling accepted and listened to, so I continued pursuing God.

There was a brief moment when I actually felt like my beliefs about myself could possibly be wrong, or at least too harsh. But then reality would kick in as it always does and confirmed my demented beliefs. I would end up in the hospital again and the lies would win….I am bad, I am ugly. Things at home were rough. My parents both worked full time so my brother and I were home alone a lot of the time. A lot of time for him to get into trouble with the law. He began his descent to juvenile hall and would end up there more than once. There were many arguments between my parents as you could understand. They ended up at a Tough Love meeting and very soon, my brother began to run away. So between my illness and his trips to jail, we really never connected. On top of that there was the normal teenage angst with boyfriends and friends talking behind your back. Also, when I took driver’s education, the instructor made a pass at me and it ended up going to trial because apparently he made passes at other girls as well. This was all very traumatic for me and confirmed that there was really no hope for me. But I kept attending Young Life and opening my damaged heart to the Lord. There just HAD to be something more for me.

I was invited to go to a Young Life camp for a week. I was still in and out of the hospital, so this was a bit scary. But when you are a teenager, fun trumps fear! So off I went. I had a blast with friends and fun activities. One night, during the preaching time, we were asked if we wanted to give our lives to the Lord. I wanted it! I wanted it more than anything. So I raised my hand and prayed the prayer of salvation. I don’t remember everything that happened after that, but “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was playing in the background as we all prayed together. I don’t remember feeling anything dramatic. Just happy I made that decision.

After that, I attended more bible studies and Cindy, my leader, started a study for those who gave their lives to the Lord at camp. All my friends were in it so it was super fun. I would go through phases where I would believe the Word of God and feel tremendous peace. But then the lies would come knocking and I would not read my Bible for a time. This cycle continued for years. But God had a firm grip on my life. I am in tears writing this as I see how faithful and loving He has been to me all these years of suffering and turmoil. My heart is so grateful that He gave me new life and a new heart. That He was always there with me, even before I knew who he was. He is the reason I am writing this story. This story, my story, is not even about me. It’s all about what God can do with nothing. How God can do the impossible. How God can love the unlovable. AS I sit here writing all of this my heart is being healed. I told God many years ago that I would tell the world about all the wonderful ways He has miraculously worked in my little life! This book is a fulfillment of that promise. To be honest, I’m not sure that this will ever be published. But I can’t stay silent! I must tell of my amazing God!!

My Story Part 2

There came a time around 9yo that my hospital stays were less, but never entirely gone. Because my mom was a single mom and barely making it, we moved about once a year to a different apartment. Then when I was 9yo, my mom married a man 22 years her senior. This union was to be a blessing in my life as it gave me a stability that I never experienced before. We moved to San Jose, California where my new dad owned a home in a high class area with good schools and friendly neighbors. I could finally settle a bit, although our family life was stressful to say the least. Both of my parents worked as my mom still needed health insurance for me. So my brother and I were on our own after school. He did his own thing and I watched TV from 3:00 to 9:00 taking a break when the news came on. This pattern, which began in the hospital, would become my addiction. There were times my mom hired a “nanny” to watch us. I don’t know if there was a nanny shortage back then, but she seemed to hire overweight women who just sat around all day and did nothing. I remember wanting to shave my legs for the first time and our nanny drilled into my head over and over again that if I shaved my legs, there was no going back. She put the fear of the razor into my head! Of course, I ignored her. By the way, she was right….once you start shaving, you can never stop.

My brother and I had a strained relationship with our new father. He already had a grown son and I think being a dad again was difficult to say the least. He married the woman he loved, but gained a daughter who was sick all the time and a son who was struggling with his own emotions. I can only guess, since my brother has not told me, that his emotional turmoil was due to his anger and frustration surrounded losing his father to divorce and having to deal with a sister that was getting all the attention. I look back and wish I had loved him better. He really did need me. But I was not there…emotionally OR physically. So when he came into teenagerhood, he acted out in many ways which included drugs and criminal activity.

Being at a stable school and not being in the hospital so much gave me the opportunity to make friends. My first best friend was in my class in the 4^th grade and walked the same route home as I did. Because of my shame, I would never think of talking to her. Too scary! One day, she was walking up one side of the street and I was on the other. She yelled across the street, “Hey! Do you wanna come over tomorrow and see my new hamster?” And as any kid knows, that’s all it took. We were fast friends and still connect even today. Stability began to give me a slight confidence that I could manage this thing called life. There was school, friends, sleepovers, many trips to the candy store with my best friend riding on the back of her bike. Could I actually be normal?

Junior High was wonderful for me! I loved changing classes and was known for doing my hair a different way each day. I would use ribbons and flowers in my hair and get really creative. I still only had a few friends, but that is all I needed. The summer before my freshman year, everything changed. My best friend decided to try out for the basketball team. She asked if I wanted to try out too. As you can imagine, a small weakling like myself could get smashed on a basketball court. But I saw that there were also cheerleading tryouts. I do not know what came over me, but I decided to try out for cheerleading. Ugly me. I knew I wouldn’t make the squad, but something in me just pushed me to try. I practiced and practiced and practiced. My parents lived on a golf course and so they had a huge window that faced the golf course that was tinted so the golfers could not see in our house. I could see myself from the outside into the window so I used this as a mirror to get every move precisely right. The day of the tryouts came looming over me as I daily practiced my routines. The day finally arrived and I was so nervous as I walked to the gym. Why was I doing this? How could I be a cheerleader? But I gave it my best shot. I stood by myself in front of the current cheerleading squad with a few teachers. I went for it. I was precise. I was loud. I had spirit. I made two mistakes, but kept my composure through the entire, torturous routine. They thanked me and asked me to sit down. I had to wait for every single girl to try out and then we were told to leave the room so they could make their decision. I knew my mistakes cost me from being picked. I berated myself for making mistakes. Oh well, I thought, maybe next year. We were all asked to come back into the gym and get the results. They called one girl and she jumped up yelling and hugged all the girls around her. They called another. Same reaction. Screaming. Hugging. Then, to my utter amazement, they called me. I just sat there. I must not have heard them right. They called my name again. I stood up and jumped up and down. I think as I was in a daze as a couple of the girls hugged me and congratulated me. The rest of the names were called, but I didn’t hear any of them. It was like the room was moving in slow motion around me. This was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was a cheerleader! I was a cheerleader! Maybe I am worth something after all?

This new elite social position did wonders for my confidence. People started talking about me. They would say that I was cute. That I was pretty. This shocked me! Me, pretty? That’s impossible. But as the year progressed, these comments became more common and I began to entertain the idea that I might be pretty. My freshman year was amazing. It’s the year my peers saw me. It’s the year I began to look at myself…and not hate what I saw. But as you know, dear reader, shame can take many forms and is not easily extinguished.

Laundry

For those of you that know me well, you know that I HATE laundry. Having many kids causes my laundry to pile up unceasingly. If I do not do laundry every day, it becomes the Mt. Everest of clothes and I end up feeling helpless and powerless and will undoubtedly spend the whole weekend washing and folding until the cows come home (whatever that means). But today the laundry slightly redeemed itself. I was taking my 6yo son's laundry out of the dryer and lo and behold there was a name tag sticker on his shirt that somehow made it through the wash cycle AND dry cycle. Of course it was crusted on the shirt, stuck there for eternity. My first thought was to throw it away. Yes, I know, the easy way out. But something within my heart spoke to me. I had been asking God to show me how to love my kids...especially one of my adopted kids who hurts me constantly with words and actions. I have been so mad at myself because what is needed for this child is far beyond a mother's love. It is the love of Christ that is essential for this child to heal. But what do I do when I'm being yelled at? I want to run. I want to get angry. And I want to protect my heart. I know these feelings are normal and need to be felt. But I have a hard time getting over the hurt and rejection. I know I have the love of Christ in me and He can love this child through me. But there is an obstruction keeping the overwhelming flood of love from gushing all over this child. It is more like a trickle. So what does this have to do with laundry? As I looked at my son's shirt, I thought to myself. I can take the time to pick off these tiny pieces of paper and glue. This shirt is worth it and my son loves wearing it. So as I was picking off the gunk, it was if God were speaking to my heart. He said, you are worth it to me. I am willing to pick away at the tiniest pieces of gunk so that you will be free to love. But it will take time. It will take patience on your part. Just like it is taking patience to pick off this sticker (God knows me so well) on Caleb's shirt. So allow me to pick away at these stickers that are keeping you from experiencing the tsunami of my love. You will receive it. You will be free to receive my love. How do I know this was from God? First of all, I felt this peace come over me (which NEVER happens doing laundry). Second, I felt reassurance that I'm not this loser mom who cannot love a tough child. I am in the "picking phase" in God's gentle, but firm hands. I am being washed by the master dry cleaner. All the stains and tears are being healed and repaired. I am so glad that God jut doesn't throw us away when we have gunk stuck all over us. He loves us and we are worth saving to Him. Who knew laundry could be so healing.

My Story Part 1

I stood there in front of the house with the keys in my hand. Was I really doing this? How was I going to do this? Was I crazy? I am just a 43yo house wife with six kids. I didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t have a lot of time. I didn’t have a lot of experience. But still, there I stood wondering if I should even open the front door. I was scared. I had never taken such a big leap of faith before. All I could see was how this would all fail. But I knew that God had called me to do this. I had to believe that He would come through even with all my weaknesses. I knew in my heart that if this succeeded, it would be 100% Him! I didn’t set out to have a passion for women who are recovering addicts. I was never an addict, nor did I know many growing up. But here I stood, in front of a house that I was planning on filling with women in recovery and their children. I was hoping that if these women and children could experience being loved, feeling worthy and be given dignity, they would change. Not only would they change for themselves, but become the moms they wanted to be, have healthy relationships and contribute to society. Sounds lofty, doesn’t it? The problem was that I did not have the money to sustain a home like this. To pay rent, utilities and household items seemed overwhelming. And where would I find these women? I knew a few social workers, but who in their right mind would trust their clients to me? I am just a mom. But when God calls you to an insurmountable task, He truly is our strength. He meets ALL our needs. But I am getting ahead of myself. I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to open a home for recovering addicts. So let me go back a bit. Actually, to give you the background to this tale, I need to go WAY back…to a little girl in a hospital bed.

I was five years old and found myself waking up out of anesthesia with tubes coming out of my abdomen and bladder. You see I had a congenital defect where my bladder was deformed and did not work the way it should. Also, both of my kidneys were not working 100%. My mom found out about this while trying to potty train me. It just wasn’t working and when my mom took me to the doctor, she found out about my illness. I had one other surgery when I was 3 years old and it did not work. My mom took me to UCLA hospital and the Urologist wanted to do a new surgery on me that would fix my bladder. All I knew then was the intense pain! The surgery was a bladder reconstruction, which may or may not, the doctor told my mom, fix me. So here I was, a small child, connected to so many tubes and machines that I could not move. They tried to prop pillows all around me so I would stay put. It is difficult for an adult to have to lie still, but for a five year old? Impossible. I was in the hospital for 3 months. I remember being in pain all day, every day. All I wanted was my Morphine. Once I was medicated, I was going to be OK. But much more trauma was to come for this little girl while residing in her luxury suite at UCLA. Because it was a teaching hospital, I was poked and prodded all day and woken up many nights with five interns standing in front of me (in my 5yo mind there were 20 interns, but realistically there were five). My mom was a single mom, so she had to work during the day and had my little brother to take care of at night. She would stop by my hospital room after work each day to find that some days I had been mistreated. She found me one day with all 10 of my fingers pricked for a blood sample. On another day I didn’t get a lunch so I would be hungry. I can remember one time when the nurse wanted to give me my medicine, but I knew it wasn’t the right time for me to take them and the pills were not the right color. I told the nurse they were not my pills and she fought with me. We struggled as she tried to get them down my throat. She finally relented and checked my chart. It was the wrong medicine. I also remember a girl that was in the bed next to me. She had been burned by a vaporizer. Remember this was 40 years ago when they had those boiling water vaporizers for when you had a cough. Well, her and her brother were fighting over changing the TV channel (there were also no remotes back then either) and the vaporizer fell and burned most of her body. I can’t remember ever talking to her. I just remember her screaming in the middle of the night in pain. She was there for many weeks. I did not get much sleep. On top of that the nurses would wake me up every 4 hours. I would get so mad at them. Just when I was comfortable enough to sleep, the nurse would come in and wake me up to take my temperature and blood pressure. What? My little 5yo mind could not comprehend it! If I haven’t had a fever in week, why would I suddenly get one at 2:00am? No stupid nurse was going to wake me up. So the fighting began. The nurse would wake me up and I would not give her my arm to take my blood pressure. After a while I would give in. There were countless times when they would whisk me away for another X-ray or test. I never knew where I was going or when I’d be back in my safe little bed. I remember fighting the hospital staff and X-ray technicians to stop touching me. After a while I stopped fighting all together, stopped eating and fell into a deep depression. I had enough. I was done. Defeated. How does this kind of life affect a child’s heart and mind? What does this little girl think about herself? Where does she go for relief? I shut down. I don’t remember much of that time. Only that my mom and doctor would plead with me to eat. They brought me all kinds of delectable foods to tempt my appetite. Nothing worked. They tried rolling my bed out with other children, but it only made me worse. Many thoughts went through my little brain as I contemplated my life. Two of them stick out in my mind. One, you must have done something really bad to be stuck in this bed. Two, you must be worthless because others kids can play and run and have friends, but you can’t!

After a while, the fight for survival kicked in and when the doctor came in and told me he would bring me anything I wanted to eat I requested green olives. You would think a small child would crave ice cream, candy or pizza. No, not me. It was green olives. Please don’t ask me to explain to you my odd choice of cuisine. I can’t understand it 40 years later! But the jars of green olives came…and came….and came! The whole room was filled with jars of olives. Small jars filled with big olives and large jars filled with small olives. Some of them had bows on them. And I ate them like I would open a present on Christmas morning. I would eat not one or two, but half a jar at a time. And then I would drink the juice! Gross! After a while I was able to go home. But those two thoughts stuck with me and would end up defining me.

I would have many more chances to suffer in that hospital bed again….too many times to count. I would spike a fever and my mom would rush me to my all familiar bed of pain. Many times my fever would be so high they would lay me on a bed of ice naked (thank God they don’t do that anymore!). I remember hallucinating that there were spiders all over the walls and ceiling. I began getting chronic kidney infections and couldn’t wait to get my morphine. This happened over and over just confirming my belief that I was worthless. When I was at home, I had to wear a catheter and bag strapped around my leg because I couldn’t urinate on my own with my new bladder. Kids would see me and stare at me, not want to play with me or make fun of me. This caused a very powerful, insidious, paralyzing chain to wrap itself around my heart…shame!

I believed myself to be ugly and bad. If fact, I thought I was the ugliest child that ever walked the earth. Anyone who was sick all the time, could never have friends over and had a bag strapped to her leg? The only conclusion is….I am bad. And not just bad, but a horrible person who was worth nothing. So this tightly wrapped chain adhered itself to my heart for 35 years. What does trauma do to a five year old brain? How can this little one process what is happening to her? She cannot. So what this little five year old did was to cut off the pain permanently. I emotionally cut this traumatic part of my life out of my conscious mind. I decided to survive the only way a small child could. I would take the pain. I would reject the trauma. And a part of me would slowly fade away.