.For Her on Mother's Day.

He is hers, and he is mine. He is ours. Her incredible loss was my incredible gift. And while I cannot imagine my world without him, poverty robbed her of life with him. There is not a single day that goes by that I do not realize this. It is a gut check every single morning. It makes for very complicated feelings in my heart. What if the roles were reversed? What if it was I who was there, struggling with starvation and preventable diseases, struggling with poverty and injustice squelching out my dreams? What if she was the one gifted with raising my children?

She is my link to his past, and we are eternally entwined. She is the only one who knows the way those first bumps, kicks, and wriggles felt inside of her swollen belly. And I am the one who knows the tears he cries for her, and how her pain is reflected in his heart. She knows the anguish of laboring him to life; while I know the anguish of laboring him here. She has all of his yesterdays, the ones I will never, ever know. I have all of his tomorrows, the ones she will never, ever know. She knows the dreams and prayers she breathed over his newborn face. She knows his first cry and first gasp for breath, and I wonder even in those first moments, if she knew that their time together was fleeting - flowing through her fingertips like fine grains of sand. I wonder if she breathed in his curls a little longer. I wonder if her tears came hot and fast as she wondered where the food would come from, and how she could feed herself in order to feed her son. I wonder if she was scared. I know her heart was breaking. I wonder if she held him tight to her chest and pleaded for his life.

With Jamesy's first steps my heart soared and then peaked at the knowing that she was missing it. I squealed for both of us.

When Habi scored that first soccer goal for his school team, my eyes burned with tears. She wasn't here to shake that cowbell and make a wild scene for our boy. So I did for both of us.

When the doctor told us Jamesy could see, rivers of scorching tears trickled the curves of my cheeks, and I begged God to let her know that our boy with the shaky gorgeous eyes could SEE.

When Habi's blood tests all came out clear and negative, I wanted to dance with joy for her, knowing that she knew more than anyone in the world what a miracle that was.

With every new word that Jamesy gains, and every time his deep brown eyes find mine and he says Mama, my heart skips a beat, and I cherish it for both of us.

With every I love you, Mommy, I reassure Habi of my love and her love. Two women fiercely in love with the same boy.

Every time I tuck them in at night, stroke their curls, kiss their lids, I linger longer for her. Every milestone, accomplishment, late night talk, hug, kiss, kitchen dance, giggle is all soaked up for both of us. She is a part of them and a part of me. Two different Ethiopian women and then American me. Two brave, courageous women that poverty has stolen what was most precious to them. And while adoption is the most beautiful experience I have ever been inside of, it is also the most horrific and ugly as it is mottled with so much pain, so much loss, so much injustice. This is not how it should be. Poverty should not rob a child of its mother and a mother of its child, and while by the time I entered the picture for my boys it was too late, and the only thing left to do was what we did, for many children and mothers living in poverty, it is not too late. It is not too late to give these mommies the chance to experience first steps, first giggles, first day of school, bedtime kisses and prayers. It is not too late to allow a child to grow up in his or her beautiful culture and be adored by birth family and surrounded with love. As a mother to two birth children and two children born only in my heart, this is something I am passionate about. While adoption is viable and necessary in cases like my sons', the best and most ideal situation is to keep children with their birth families when possible- despite poverty. Poverty is not a reason to separate families.

This Mother's Day, rather than giving that special mother in your life flowers or jewelry, why not give her the gift of supporting mothers and children surrounded by poverty, so that they can stay and flourish together? Jesus can offer these moms hope that life can be different. I want to be part of this difference.

This is why we are so passionate about keeping families together in Ethiopia. There are some fantastic organizations that are keeping families together, and we have the hope, dream, and prayer that Mercy Branch Inc., while partnering with God and His Kingdom, will be equally fantastic at putting broken families back together. In the simplest terms, this is why Mercy Branch Inc. exists. We think that family is so important that we are devoting our lives to this.

My heart is for these mothers - these brave, beautiful, courageous mothers, who daily battle things that I could never dream of battling, all while I sit in my safe, comfortable home sipping coffee. Today I want you to think about these mothers - sisters across the world. What if it was you? Let's link arms and fight for these women to have a chance to love their babies to adulthood. Let's not close our eyes, turn our heads, and be silent.

Today I write this for her and for her. To Habi's first mommy and to Jamesy's first mommy  - Happy Mother's Day - you are forever in my heart. Every time I look into his eyes, I see you there. I love him for the both of us, and he will know of your love in my touch, in my words, and in my heart for him. This is for you and for you.

.For Her.

He is hers, and he is mine. He is ours. Her incredible loss was my incredible gift. And while I cannot imagine my world without him, poverty robbed her of life with him. There is not a single day that goes by that I do not realize this. It is a gut check every single morning. It makes for very complicated feelings in my heart. What if the roles were reversed? What if it was I who was there, struggling with starvation and preventable diseases, struggling with poverty and injustice squelching out my dreams? What if she was the one gifted with raising my children?

She is my link to his past, and we are eternally entwined. She is the only one who knows the way those first bumps, kicks, and wriggles felt inside of her swollen belly. And I am the one who knows the tears he cries for her, and how her pain is reflected in his heart. She knows the anguish of laboring him to life; while I know the anguish of laboring him here. She has all of his yesterdays, the ones I will never, ever know. I have all of his tomorrows, the ones she will never, ever know. She knows the dreams and prayers she breathed over his newborn face. She knows his first cry and first gasp for breath, and I wonder even in those first moments, if she knew that their time together was fleeting - flowing through her fingertips like fine grains of sand. I wonder if she breathed in his curls a little longer. I wonder if her tears came hot and fast as she wondered where the food would come from, and how she could feed herself in order to feed her son. I wonder if she was scared. I know her heart was breaking. I wonder if she held him tight to her chest and pleaded for his life.

With Jamesy's first steps my heart soared and then peaked at the knowing that she was missing it. I squealed for both of us.

When Habi scored that first soccer goal for his school team, my eyes burned with tears. She wasn't here to shake that cowbell and make a wild scene for our boy. So I did for both of us.

When the doctor told us Jamesy could see, rivers of scorching tears trickled the curves of my cheeks, and I begged God to let her know that our boy with the shaky gorgeous eyes could SEE.

When Habi's blood tests all came out clear and negative, I wanted to dance with joy for her, knowing that she knew more than anyone in the world what a miracle that was.

With every new word that Jamesy gains, and every time his deep brown eyes find mine and he says Mama, my heart skips a beat, and I cherish it for both of us.

With every I love you, Mommy, I reassure Habi of my love and her love. Two women fiercely in love with the same boy.

Every time I tuck them in at night, stroke their curls, kiss their lids, I linger longer for her. Every milestone, accomplishment, late night talk, hug, kiss, kitchen dance, giggle is all soaked up for both of us. She is a part of them and a part of me. Two different Ethiopian women and then American me. Two brave, courageous women that poverty has stolen what was most precious to them. And while adoption is the most beautiful experience I have ever been inside of, it is also the most horrific and ugly as it is mottled with so much pain, so much loss, so much injustice. This is not how it should be. Poverty should not rob a child of its mother and a mother of its child, and while by the time I entered the picture for my boys it was too late, and the only thing left to do was what we did, for many children and mothers living in poverty, it is not too late. It is not too late to give these mommies the chance to experience first steps, first giggles, first day of school, bedtime kisses and prayers. It is not too late to allow a child to grow up in his or her beautiful culture and be adored by birth family and surrounded with love. As a mother to two birth children and two children born only in my heart, this is something I am passionate about. While adoption is viable and necessary in cases like my sons', the best and most ideal situation is to keep children with their birth families when possible- despite poverty. Poverty is not a reason to separate families.

This Mother's Day, rather than giving that special mother in your life flowers or jewelry, why not give them the gift of supporting mothers and children surrounded by poverty, so that they can stay and flourish together? It is as simple as making a one time donation to Compassion in honor of the special mom in your life, or partner with Compassion's Child Survival Program in ongoing support. Jesus can offer these moms hope that life can be different. I want to be part of this difference.

My heart is for these mothers - these brave, beautiful, courageous mothers, who daily battle things that I could never dream of battling, all while I sit in my safe, comfortable home sipping coffee. Today I want you to think about these mothers - sisters across the world. What if it was you? Let's link arms and fight for these women to have a chance to love their babies to adulthood. Let's not close our eyes, turn our heads, and be silent.

Today I write this for her and for her. To Habi's first mommy and to Jamesy's first mommy  - Happy Mother's Day - you are forever in my heart. Every time I look into his eyes, I see you there. I love him for the both of us, and he will know of your love in my touch, in my words, and in my heart for him. This is for you and for you.

.My Bleeding Heart.

I am a bleeding heart. I always have been, and I probably always will be. This is how I was created. I can be excessively sympathetic and empathetic - to a fault. I wear my heart and emotions on my sleeve. My skin is thin, and I get hurt easily. However, I also feel other people's pain. I remember telling my husband this when we were dating. The conversation went something like this:

Jim, I hurt when other people hurt.

Huh??!!  Blank Stare. {crickets}

But in the ten years that we have been married, he now believes me. He has seen me physically hurting because of someone else's pain. He has shouldered the tears that I cry for other people's hurts. It's partly why social gatherings are hard for me (the other part is because I was also created as an extreme introvert and prefer solace if truth be known). When I am in a room of people, my mind is constantly putting myself in everyone's shoes. I am trying to see who is uncomfortable, who is hurting, and I transfer those feelings to my own heart. The entire time I am focused on what others around me are feeling, and being that I am also fairly intuitive, I am usually pretty good at reading other people's feelings and emotions. It's a bizarre thing that I do not know how to turn off, and many times I leave those situations exhausted and drained.

However, it has served me well during many moments of my life. It taught me compassion. Because of this ability to feel other people's hurts, I always, always root for and am drawn to, the underdog. Way back in elementary school, I can remember being a first or second grader and befriending that one trouble-maker boy in school. The one who, looking back now, probably had some sensory issues like my Jamesy, or maybe he was simply not wired for a classic classroom situation. The one who could not sit still in class and was always getting in trouble, and the one who other kids picked on because he was somewhat of a misfit. Every morning I would walk over to him and pat him on the back and say, Ward Carl, you can do it today. You can listen to the teacher and sit still. I know you can. I will play with you at recess. (Ward Carl, I am sorry if you are reading this. I am sure you grew up to be a great man!) I would constantly encourage this boy. I remember him getting into trouble and crying in school, and there I sat crying at my desk because I could feel his embarrassment and pain and it was too much. I was never teased or made fun of in school, but I might as well have been, for the many times that I cried and hurt for the ones who were.

This has followed me right into adult life. I believe this is why Ethiopia had such an earth-shattering impact on my heart. The hundreds of hurting people that I encountered exploded my heart with pain. Pain that I carried home. I believe this is why God chose me for the ministry of adoption, because He knew that I would shoulder the pain of the orphan and it would spur me to fight and advocate - it would make my feet and mouth move. I believe this is why God placed Habtamu in my path, because his transferred pain and loneliness on my heart, would not let me forget him or sleep at night until he was safely tucked into our home. This bleeding heart has given me courage that I would otherwise never have. It has been a gift in many ways.

But this bleeding heart also has exhausted me and been a burden. As an adult - in a ministry as a pastor's wife, as an orphan and adoption advocate, as a mommy to four children - one of which has severe special needs, two of which have experienced trauma that tears me to pieces, and two of which have had their lives turned upside down because of decisions that Daddy and Mommy made to follow Jesus - there is, and never will be, enough of me. I cannot give enough to everybody who needs it. Every single day I fail someone. Sometimes I fail the precious people right inside these four walls. I have emails unanswered, private messages unopened and phone calls not returned, because I feel like my heart has reached maximum capacity - it cannot possibly bleed any more. My heart needs a break. I cannot be everything to everybody or even everything to anybody. While compassion and empathy are godly characteristics to have, many times I let them go to an extreme and they cripple me. There is nothing godly about that. I need to remember to take a deep breath and ruminate on the fact that it's Jesus who is enough, for me and for them. Sometimes Jesus does want me to be His hands and feet and shoulder other people's hurts. I know that. I have seen how powerful this is in my life. But sometimes, it is okay to just give Jesus all of the hurt, to realize I am not adequate to save the world, and that I have never been asked to. A quick prayer, some encouraging words, and letting Jesus shoulder the pain is okay.

This week God has been impressing on my heart how much this all has been impacting me - impacting me in a negative way. The truth is I can never please everyone or help everyone. I can't and neither can you. I can try and try, and I have tried. However, there will always be someone who will find something to criticize, there will always be someone that I did not do enough for, there will always be someone hurting, and there will always be someone who needs more help than I am capable of at this point in time. There will always be parts of my life that people misunderstand. Nobody walks in my shoes, nobody has access to my heart and the intimate ways that God is leading me - specifically and personally. I am trying to learn how to navigate this life as a bleeding heart, but I know this to be true:

God is the One who saves.

He is the friend Who sticks closer than a brother.

God heals the hurt and erases the pain.

He will come through.

God never asked me to be anybody's everything. I can't. Only God can.

A tough lesson for a bleeding heart, but one that I need to learn.

.The Least of These.

[repost from after my first trip to Ethiopia, Africa in 2011.]


I did not know my eyes could see that way. They burned and throbbed in the seeing for real. I blinked hard at the pain of having the scales fall away and the view that was before me. My mind swirled with the statistics. Statistics that I have been clinging to for nine months, statistics propelling me forward inching me closer and closer to Ethiopia. Flesh and blood and hallow eyes, and empty hands reaching through the van windows desperate for food. They both destroyed and gave life to all of the numbers bouncing in my head.

When did we in America - when did I replace living, breathing children, and people with numbers? Or did we never replace them, were they always figures to us? Is that how we manage to wash our dishes, kiss our children's foreheads, drive to the grocery store without a thought for the least of these? It must be what I did.

It took ten days of having my heart trampled and bruised from witnessing things that keep me up at night and unable to know when and how to tell others what I saw with my new eyes. It took ten days of finally understanding the least of these, and knowing that they are the most valuable in the eyes of the One who gave His life for them. It took ten days of agony as my eyes were pried open to the horror and the beauty mingled in human form not arbitrary numbers.

And now, now I am wondering how to be here. How do I tidy and pretty my home when I now know that I saw children living in trash heaps, surviving on sidewalks parallel dirty, busy roads? How do I tuck my children into bed at night remembering the beautiful faces of the children in the orphanages who sleep two to a bed, bunked in a tiny, cold room - locked in until morning. There is no Dad , no Mom to tuck them in, not even an adult in the room to calm a nightmare. They were just numbers to me before I met them, and now I lay down at night on my pillow and I hear their cries of terror, their pleas for love and something so simple as family. I remember their hurts.

What am I doing here? What am I doing for the least of these?

I remember the little boy in the denim jacket. The way he looked at me as I handed him some treats from my bag. His smile warming me as he clutched the treasures. Those eyes locked mine, and through the language barrier, I knew what they begged.

Are you the one I have been waiting for? Are you the one to end this nightmare and make me a son once again?

And now I live with the knowing that I am not the one - at least not for him. I was chosen for other boys. But the images of he and his friends are sewn into my heart, my mind. I won't forget what I saw, what I know. I promised them that I would tell others, that I would advocate for them. I don't know how though. I fall short. I cannot let these little souls be lost in the overwhelming numbers, and yet I am not the One who opens the eyes and softens the heart.

Perhaps that is one of the hardest lessons I have yet to learn - figuring out what to do with the knowing.

Because one day I will stand before Jesus....

I doubt He will ask me how many times I dusted my home, or if my children were dressed in GAP, or even did I homeschool?

He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:33-40


No, I can't save the world, but I can clothe, feed, and give a home to some and tell them of the One who came to save the world. Because when I looked statistics in the eye, all of my excuses escaped.

.My Words Won't Come.

I am sure that most of my friends read Ann Voskamp. She is one of my favorites. Most of her posts find their way right into the depth of my heart. Recently Ann went on a trip for Compassion International. I have devoured her posts since then. I just want to know what it is like to experience another country and poverty and then come back to....this excess. I am trying to prepare my heart for our trip to Ethiopia. I already do not fit in here anymore. I truly feel like a square peg in a round hole. Jim and I used to whisper into our pillows and each others ears about our plans to remodel our home to make it bigger and better. What kind of vacation we would save up for next, and what new gadget we needed to purchase. Now we fall asleep whispering to each other about how many more orphans our home can hold or dreaming about selling everything and moving to Africa with other families whose heart beats in the same rhythm as ours.

Yesterday I read Ann's post, and I cannot get this out of my head and heart.

“The world, your community.. even your family — they are going to try to push you back to the middle. North America feels pretty comfortable in the middle. Balance, everyone says. I don’t know what Jesus is going to say to you.. How He might direct your life now… just don’t assume He wants you to live in the middle. Be open to the possibility …. Of something radically different.” (This was said to her Compassion group as they were leaving by Shaun Groves.)

I feel a lot more waiting to spill out, but for now my words will not come. Please go to Ann's site and read this beautiful post.

(And I would love to discuss with any of you that have gone before me and are living this new reality. I will respond to comments here today.)

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