I’m grateful he keeps saying yes to something that makes him uncomfortable, because He loves God and others more than he loves his own comfort. I’m grateful he’s opened his heart and home to all of the children who’ve come in and out. I’m grateful that he’s followed The Father’s example and become a father to the fatherless.
In three weeks a judge will take away her legal rights as this little girl’s mother. In a year, our daughter’s birth certificate will show my name as her only mother. This woman was first stripped of her relationship as mother, will soon be stripped of her rights as mother, but nothing can take her biology as mother.
I discovered that as I began to really share my heart, God began to really change my heart. Instead of regurgitating rehearsed words, my prayers became declarations of the beautiful truths of God’s character. And I started to believe them. Instead of being so-afraid-of-asking-for-the-wrong-thing-that-I-ultimately-asked-for-nothing, my prayers became times of just telling my God what it was I really wanted. And I started to want what He wanted even more. Instead of carefully crafting my words, my prayers became a child’s begging. And I started to trust Him as my Father.
In a very real sense, all of the children in my home are “mine.” In another—maybe even more real sense—none of them are mine.
Beach reads = books that can be easily placed face down whilst rescuing your child from a mouthful of sand and be just as easily picked up and re-captivated by. I jam to Tolstoy and David Foster Wallace, but I don’t typically lug those around in my beach bag. So that you don’t have to participate in the heresy of quitting a book or the heartbreak of wasting your time on a less-than-great one, I'm sharing a list of my favorite beach reads.
I am passionate about being just an ordinary mom to my 4+ bio/adoptive/foster children. Loving my two foster daughters well is the best thing I can do to “fix the system.” But I am also passionate about helping give a voice to the other 150 million children who don’t have a mom loving them well. This is why I love The Archibald Project.
RANDY ALCORN shared my story on his blog. If you’re wondering how in all the world this happened, I’ll tell you exactly how it went down. I wrote my little blog post and sent it to him, 100% sure that he would never lay eyes on it but figuring I had nothing to lose. This is what is known as “swinging for the fences.” That was a sports analogy. I believe it was a baseball analogy.
James 1:27 is a call to VISIT orphans. It’s a call to spend time with, to play with and hug and feed and serve and know and care for orphans...If you have a burden for children in foster care but can’t be a foster parent, maybe you’re meant to be a foster “carer.” (Yes, it’s a real word. No, do not look it up.)
Many of my readers have asked questions about becoming licensed as foster parents, so Britt and Andy have volunteered to allow me to follow them through their licensing process. They've signed on to become the first official Foster the Family “reality blog” stars. You can just call them the Kardashians.
I'm thankful that every word I speak, every dish I scrub, every diaper I change, every spill I clean that's done out of love for my Savior is divinely transformed from a mom’s chore into a daughter’s worship.
Moms of many littles, you have your own list of in-public-alone experiences, you've felt the watching eyes, you know the cast of characters you meet. Each “people group” has its own ways, and 95% of the time the behavior of members of each group falls predictably within their demographic’s conditioned response.
“I need beautiful photos. Tomorrow morning. You will get 0 dollars and 0 fame. Interested?” I drive a hard bargain. She agreed.
To this little girl, “mommy” meant the female adult of the house, the lady who reached something you couldn't and refilled your juice. Having five “mommies” in five months, she hadn’t had the chance yet to learn what mommy meant.
“He who did not spare His own Son but gave him up for us all…” This is WHY I can give up a child I love. This is HOW I can give up a child I love.
This post is not a light-hearted story about my penchant for fainting. This post is about a call I just received. A six month old boy is being released from the hospital tomorrow...
While his little body should’ve still been safe in his mother’s womb, he was lying in a plastic crib, fighting off the poison he’d been fed for 32 weeks. At four weeks old, he was suffering through the painful withdraw that conquers grown men. At four pounds, his little heart was fighting to beat, his little lungs fighting to breathe.
What is a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom for those who don’t frequent mommy blogs or have a penchant for annoying acronyms) of four littles doing at a restaurant by herself in the middle of the day? I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I am unapologetically running out the last hour of the clock on my babysitter.
