#weneedoneanother | part 3: writing out loud

I’m back…finally. All that advent wore me out – ha! And then tending to daily life gets the best of me and my time, and then we’ve added the task of remodeling a home and all the fun and tedious decisions have soaked up my brain creativity and energy.

But in this last week of January, I wanted to say, HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I’m hoping to continue this #weneedoneanother series. If you’re just jumping in, WELCOME and it might be helpful to start here. If you’ve been traveling with me, so glad you’re still here. And breathing. And reading.

A huge THANK YOU to the six adoptive parents who I got to introduce to you this past November. I’m SO grateful for not only their words and voices, but the ways they are leaning in to the hearts of their adopted children. What a gift – to them, to their children. My hope is that each story spoke to you in helpful and hopeful ways. I know it was a risk to highlight the adoptive parent voice, once again, because I’ve come to realize that there have been and are many adoptees who feel like the adoptive parent’s voice has been raised and acknowledged and louder than the ones who have experienced the loss. My heart was to be intentional about highlighting adoptive parent stories who are awakening to the reality that “adoption isn’t just about adding, not just about gaining, not just about receiving…it’s also about losing and leaving and relinquishing and letting go of…everything.” These weren’t stories of “Look at what we’ve done” or “Look at how spiritual we are” or “We feel so good about rescuing a little baby who needed love.” These were stories of heart and soul, of journey and enlightenment, of pain and joy, of listening – to their own heart, to their child’s heart – and testifying to the reality that “holding the tension” and “listening” has the ability to honor both the adoptive parent AND the person who has been adopted. I want so much for adopted children and adopted adults to know that the landscape of adoption is changing, that there are parents who are listening to the hard as much as they are celebrating the good, that the adoption “process” is becoming more of a ground where seeds of truth and healing and redemption are being cultivated, where they are blooming. We have a long road ahead of us, so (again) I invite you – no, I beg you – no, I invite you, to “keep leaning in, keep being present, keep being still, and listen” to the heart of the adopted person…”because it just might change ALL OF US.” 

So, let’s just dive in to this “not-really-my-plan-for-the-next-post,” but since it came up on Facebook – I mean, since I brought it up on Facebook – I thought I would add it to this series. Because it’s kind of important.

I recently had a sweet adoptive mama ask me about some blog posts she wrote about her daughter, about how she was articulating her parenting story. I think that took TONS of courage! It was risky and I have a lot of respect for her – for being willing to gain an outside, adopted person’s perspective, but even more so, for following through on something that was stirring inside of her and for being open to a perspective she didn’t have, yet wanted to have. I loved her heart, her intent.

And out of that, like I do, I have some thoughts on writing and blogging “out loud.” I know this has been a BIG topic, a hard topic, a controversial topic. And that’s OK. Tension is OK. We don’t need to land in one place or in one stance or on one idea. We can be in process.

But let’s be moving, TOGETHER.

SIDE NOTE: We can only do so much “talking” and “processing” and “listening” online, on social media, via email, or even texting. Person to person is ALWAYS the best way. Feeling known happens in real time, with real people. (Later post on this.)

Relationships over rectangles. Amen? Amen.

So here’s my paraphrase of this adoptive mama’s question: Am I writing anything that would hurt my daughter 20 years from now knowing that nothing disappears on the Internet? I don’t want to hurt or damage our relationship because of something I wrote that she can read when she’s older. (Yes, I told this mom I was going to get some FB love and perspective on this.)

Here are some thoughts. My heart is to offer perspective, not tell you what to do or try to convince you to start or stop doing something. Just keep listening…

…to other adopted persons

…to your children

…to the voice within. 

This is an invitation to LISTEN, in a different kind of way.

And then…let’s all keep a posture of openness, because for all of us to keep moving forwards, together, we have to keep leaning in and listening, to one another.

When I read AP posts, I try to put myself in the shoes of their children, and at the same time, experience the post from my own perspective as an adult adopted person. I try to imagine what it would feel like to read the post – at age 5 or 10 or 20, or even today at 40 – as if my mom had written it about me.

When I read the parts where parents describe the child’s behavior that feels so hard, so annoying, so exhausting, it honestly makes me cringe a bit and I can easily conclude this:

ME + MY HARD BEHAVIOR = A BOTHER TO MY PARENT = BAD

Now as a mom of a 6 and 4 year old, I GET it. I’m WITH you. I EMPATHIZE with you. I FEEL your hard.

But…to have these “hard” or “bad” things written, about your child, in a public space…THAT is what feels hard for me (just as it would if someone wrote about a friend or spouse or coworker, just as it would if someone wrote about you).

Yes, yes, yes…we want others to resonate with and feel joined and understood. We want others to know that they’re not alone, that we’re in the trenches too, together. But my question is, “Is the Internet the BEST place to express this, about our children, using their ‘hard’ or ‘bad’ behavior?”

Ahhh! This is a really hard question to answer. So many parents and people are feeling understood via the internet in lots of good ways. But when it comes to the “personal” stuff, the personal “hard” stuff, about others (e.g. our children), is the Internet the best platform to help people feel joined? Does that become about our children? About others? About us?

I don’t know. I wrestle with it, even in my own writing. I could write SO much about my children and I often find myself pausing, wondering and imagining what they might think and feel if they read it and could understand what I’ve said about them and how their “hard” or “bad” behavior makes me feel (or even how it’s changing and growing me). They could perhaps interpret it as, “I am too much” or “I am not enough.” And I know from listening to you all that this is NOT the message you want to send your children, especially because we know that there’s something already inside of them that believes that lie. I think it’s imperative for us to think through “the message sent” VS “the message interpreted.” Just because we have really good and pure intentions, doesn’t ensure that someone won’t get hurt. So, since children are too young to process and talk through what is written about them, I default to the belief that it’s my job – our job – to protect them, their stories, but even more importantly, their hearts.

Oh, but wait…what if the “little girl” inside of me had something to say to you, too? Something like this:

“Mom/Dad – Why are you using MY hard to help others feel better about their stories? I can’t help that there’s so much hard in me, in my body. It’s not my fault. My hard is mine. And yours. It’s sacred and private – between you and me. So, even if you’re using it in a good way, it doesn’t always feel good to me. Someday I hope that I can use my hard, OUR hard, to help others, but please, please, please let ME be the person to figure out if/when/what/how to share it.”

So…

YES to helping others feel heard and understood and affirmed.

YES to offering stories of truth, of hope.

YES to discerning if/when/how/what to share on the internet – a public platform that will hold your words and stories and thoughts and pictures…FOREVER.

YES to finding creative ways to “post out loud.”

YES to being overly cautious rather than overly truthful…for them, for their hearts, for their dignity.

YES to fighting for our children’s hearts being more important than lots of comments on blog posts or LIKES on Facebook.

Sometimes giving our children YES’s means giving ourselves NO’s.

With much love and grace, from a truth teller who is learning every day what offering TRUTH in LOVE looks like and who is on this “writing out loud” journey, with you.

#weneedoneanother

MUSIC – I don’t have a song for this post, but I do have THIS video clip by Brené Brown called, “The Power of Empathy.” It’s brilliant. Perhaps what could help us in our discernment process of whether to post something about our kids or not, is to practice empathy. And after what’s inside of you connects with what’s inside your child, you’ll have a better understanding of what direction to go, to write, because you’ll have stepped into his or her shoes.

I would love to know what are you all doing and learning and changing as you write and blog and “post out loud.”

kindergarten? check.

Ahhh! It’s my first “end of school” week. All the marvelous 7.5 hours a day with her gone and just me and the little guy or me by myself, are winding down. Fast. Shoot!

I’ve absolutely and totally LOVED this school season – all that’s been a part of her world, all that’s not been a part of my world in those 7.5 hours. And I say that in a very grateful way, in a way that says I can be a mommy who absolutely adores my little girl, while at the very same time also be a mommy who absolutely can feel worn out by all the needs of my little girl.

Both/And.

I think about ALL that each adult person has offered her this year – academically, socially, emotionally, physically. And I’m grateful.

And I think about ALL that each little person has offered her this year – friendship and fun and social skills. And I’m grateful.

And I think about ALL that each caretaker has offered this year and I want to give a shout out to YOU – marvelous you. Thank you for what you’ve offered your kids this year: the someone’s-gonna-lose outfit picking process, packing lunches, getting them to school with or without teeth brushed or hair combed, managing crabby mornings, getting their buns in the car or on the bus, saying NO to yourself because you needed to say YES to their sports and music and taxi ride schedules, the hours of helping with homework that was SO like 20+ years ago for you (that you now realize you needed very little of), and all the other stuff that happens in between this stuff.

Whether you’re a “traditional” parent, single parent, grandma/grandpa caretaker, full-time working parent(s) – you’ve done your best. They made it. WE made it.

WE ALL ROCK!

Let’s step into this last week, these last days, with a sense of pride and gratitude because WE DID OUR BEST with what we had to work with. And that’s what matters.

So as they sing their end-of-the-year-program song or walk across that stage, stand up and cheer and clap and smile…for them, for you.

HAPPY END OF SCHOOL 2014!

 

life at six. a letter from her mama.

Dear Skyla,

Girrrrl…happy birthday! My heart is smiling as I watch you skip into six with all the passion inside you. This day…you’ve been ready for it forever! It’s amazing how you, my sweet girl, look forward to turning another page, another chapter of your life. You can’t get there fast enough. And me, your mama whose nearing forty, wants to keep the page secure and in place – for you, for me – because right now, the innocence and wonder and softness of this world feels just right for you, so natural.

I wanna stay. You wanna go.

There’s something in you pulling you forwards. There’s so much in me that pulls me backwards.

You and me – we have this little dance we do. The pieces of who you are draws me in, shapes the way I embrace mothering, and keeps taking me to places I’ve never traveled before. Our relationship reminds me that I’m brave in really ordinary ways, just as much as it reminds me of all the ways I can get stuck, all the places that still need healing. And then the parts of me that spill out onto you…they’re shaping you, too. I see it show up in how you talk and how you move, in what you care about and don’t care about, and in your little, big personality.

We dance, we disconnect, we come back together, over and over again.

And about this little, big personality…it intrigues me, it ignites me, it infuses into me. I see you. I notice you. I’m learning what it means to know you – what frightens you, what delights you, what hurts you, what your heart needs to soar, how your body and brain crave to feel protected.

You have this charm that makes those closest to you want to stay right beside you.

You have this intensity that goes into almost everything you do, which keeps your independence and strength fiercely untouchable. (We believe this will become an asset someday.)

You have a curiosity and wonder about the world that makes the simple, everyday things in life new and alive, waiting for you to discover and understand.

You have this certainty – that life and people are for you to embrace, wholeheartedly, with conceit.

You have a desire within you to feel safe – with your surroundings, in relationships. You always have. It shows up in unpredictable and surprising ways, knocking me off of my feet, just as much as I presume it knocks you off yours too.

You have this sincere honesty that never makes us question what you’re thinking or how you’re feeling. It’s up front and forthright, learning to wrap itself with grace and kindness and respect.

And then there’s this vulnerable and tender part of you. Sometimes I forget it’s there, but I see it. Oh, girl! I want you to know how much I see this part too. When it shows up, it melts away all the hard that comes with parenting in a matter of seconds. You let me in to the most true and sweet places of your soul, and it feels so good to be right there, with you. And even if it’s just for a few fleeting minutes, I hope something in you knows that during all the moments that this part of you is tucked away, it’s so worth it to wait for those few moments where it feels like we’re together, when all is right in the world.

And ohhhh, those milestones you reached this past year: switching from four wheels to two, losing your first three teeth, learning how to read, memorizing Christmas program songs, navigating around on the computer and iPad and TV, practicing “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you” and “Let’s start over,” and the way you’re just about to finish all-day Kindergarten with flying colors. Each progression is part of growing up and being human, yet each one in it’s own way comes with great bravery and perseverance and a new kind of freedom, both internally and externally. We celebrate these accomplishments and feel gratitude for what has needed to develop and mature in order to execute each experience.

Oh, Honey Bee, there’s so much I want to show and tell you about the world – to protect you, to prepare you, to help you learn what it means to offer your truest, most best self. Yet what I’m learning, what I’m being humbled by, is that you have to experience the shortcuts and mountains, the edges and crevices, the tension and restoration, yourself. I keep being reminded that this parenting journey isn’t about carving out a perfect path for you. I think Jesus had something up his sleeve when he gave me to you and you to me. However his sovereignty impacts us, I know that what we’ve shared in these six years, he’s using to make my heart soften so that I can awaken to my opportunity, not duty, to teach you less about “my” world and more about “his” world, and how he invites you to jump into it with all of who you are. He’s so good like that. And however it happens, as I parent you differently from my own experience, there’s this profound sense that God is mysteriously reparenting me in the fragile places where I need a bit more nurture and grace and love. Wow.

And I love…the way your affinity towards your brother keeps growing, how you make him laugh so hard, how you teach and tell him what to do and what not to do, how you help him and care for him and play with him. I’m grateful for how everything that you are adds to all that he is, and more. And, I love that all of who he is, adds to all of who you are. I love my Korean/Norwegian/Dutch sibs. So much.

And that daddy of yours…you draw him in. He’s so proud that you’re his daughter. He tells me late at night when you’re all tucked in and sleeping. I love hearing him talk about you and what enters his life because of your life – the challenging and confusing and hilarious and entertaining and special things. I’m so glad he talks to me about all of these things, because that’s what makes me know he sees all of you. The eyes of his heart are wide open, and I watch him offer something I wish I could do more of…so much grace, so much acceptance, so much presence. Girl, you’ve got your daddy’s heart.

So, year five leaves you stepping a little more away from our influence and protection. We’ve watched how the “outside” world grabs at you in subtly powerful ways as more experiences have found their way into “your” world, defining what’s cool and what’s not, new words and “bad” words and hurtful words, clothing style and lifestyles, peer pressure and paradigms. They just come in, unannounced and uninvited – through technology and public places and people. We pray for God’s divine discernment in how to respond rather than resist. We pray that your heart will be open to all the good that we have to offer, alongside of all the good the world has to offer. May you know, deep in your soul, what you have to offer – in friendships, in our family, in our community, for the kingdom. And, as the world flies by you or sticks to you or confuses you or pleases you, may you lay your head down on your pillow each night knowing how good your heart is, how loved it is – by him, through us.

So, together we skip right into six, with you. Taking all that has been with us, and allowing it to to complement and be used for all that is needed for this year, a new year. There are parts of me that wish we could stay right here, in this season, but onward we go. And maybe on the way, we’ll get a glimpse of Elsa’s Ice Palace, or maybe first grade, or maybe new friends, or maybe even more love.

So, let’s go, girl!

Love you…so, so much.

Love, Your Mama

***My song, this year, for you: Never Grow Up (Taylor Swift)

two years + five retreats.

“Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, and penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.”(Maya Angelou)

I love when people show up, especially women. I have a bent towards the feminine soul – how it uniquely bears the image of God. Oh, don’t get me wrong! I love the masculine soul, too. I guess you could say that I lean both ways. But, well…you get what I mean, right? (I’m laughing right now.) The thing is, as a woman, I most understand and resonate with a woman’s heart. And I love it. I affirm it. I admire how it longs and loves and leans towards “bringing forth life.” In others.

This past weekend (and in February), I got to be in the presence and aroma of 450 moms at the Created for Care retreat in Atlanta. And now, this week, I need a nap. I need to rest my heart for a while. I’m sure they do too. Because talking and listening and giving and receiving and crying and connecting can TOTALLY wear a woman out. In really, really good ways.

These moms – they stayed up way too late one day last August to register for what has become known as “the retreat you just HAVE to go to because you’ll feel like you just BELONG with all these other moms.” These women have met and connected all over the Facebook and blog worlds for months and years, and for many of them, meet at this retreat for the first time. And they immediately fall in love – with the feminine soul, with the unique hearts of other adoptive moms, with the stories of one another’s children.

They just “get” one another.

And I’ve learned to appreciate it…them…this love.

Because two years ago, I didn’t. I ran off to my room with cheesecake. And hid. And thought they were crazy.

But each retreat, each year, I’ve stayed a little longer. With them. Because we need one another. We need one another’s stories and mistakes and perspectives and truth-telling and strength and vulnerability and humor. We miss out on something huge when we try to do life alone. We actually may miss out on “bringing forth life.”

The adoptive parent needs the adopted person’s voice. The adopted person needs the adoptive parent’s voice. Because together, we can be known, we can love.

“…it is only when we are known that we are positioned to become conduits of love.” (Curt Thompson, Anatomy of the Soul)

NOTE: The “adoption world” also needs the birthparent’s voice…because there are many people in the adoption “triad.” This post, coming soon.

These past two years, I’ve been surprisingly invited to share my voice and step into the world of adoption. Still honored. Still blown away. And in each space, parents quickly begin sharing stories with me – stories of their adoption journey, stories of their child’s journey. I haven’t always known what to “think” or “do” with all of the details they share. Sometimes I feel like they want something from me that I can’t give them. Sometimes it feels like they’re searching for affirmation or encouragement or the “right” answer in order to prevent disappointment and heartache – for them, for their children. I’ve had to process these moments each time because usually, in my experience outside of the adoption world, people don’t begin conversations with me by sharing so much information about themselves and their children, within minutes of meeting me. So, it’s felt a little weird and awkward at times. I’m sure my little Asian eyes have widened as the stories have been told – eeek!

But here’s where I’m at today…

I sense that these adoptive parents are wanting someone to just “listen” to their story, to the miraculous ways they believe that God brought this sweet, sweet baby into their lives. I sense that they want to know how to love their children well, how not to “mess them up.” They want to heal their babies. They don’t want their babies to feel pain. They want their babies to know they are loved. They want to be “good” moms and dads, grandmas and grandpas. They want to know that their choice to adopt matters, that love will change their child’s story. They want ALL of this, for their child, with EVERY. OUNCE. OF. THEIR. BEING.

I’ve learned to honor that. I’ve come to respect that. I’m learning to listen – to their stories, to their longings, to their fears, to their miracles. Because you know what? I long for the very same things for my children. I think most parents do.

And so I’m learning that I don’t have to “think” or “do” anything. Or, teach or tell. All I can offer is me and my listening heart. And join them. And then maybe, offer a response – a blend of honesty and grace, a glimpse of an adopted person’s heart, a belief that the feminine soul was crafted in ways that can bring forth life in others, and specifically in their children.

But, my voice is only one voice. There are many voices and many experiences that can be invited into the conversation. I hope we’re listening to those voices too.

So after reflecting on these past five retreats with all of these tender and tenacious and beautiful mamas who hold some of the fiercest love for their babies that I’ve known, I have a few responses (below). Maybe they will be helpful. Maybe not. Either way, I feel deeply honored to have shared space with you these past two years, having my voice invited to speak into your stories, while at the same time allowing your voices to speak into my story. The Created for Care space has felt so safe…to be heard and understood, to feel loved and affirmed, to be known. THAT, crazy mamas, is a gift I hold onto tightly. Forever.

So, my message remains the same as it first spilled out during my first March 2012 retreat:

Please listen to the story and voice and heart of the adopted person. Because it matters. Deeply.

The adopted person’s voice…let’s keep finding it and listening to it and leaning into it.

The adoptive parent’s voice…let’s keep equipping it and supporting it and encouraging it.

The advocate’s voice…let’s keep using it to fight for what’s good and true.

Let’s keep sharing with one another – not just the easy and fun and good stuff, but also the hard and hurting and hidden stuff, because then we will know the places where life needs to be breathed in…gently, compassionately, graciously.

Let’s keep writing this story together – not just the adoption part of the story, but the whole story – the one that begins with loss and ends with redemption.

You, I, we…get to be a part of that story!

So, so grateful to have you journeying with me as I continue to learn how to articulate what’s inside of me, as I continue to experience more of God’s love and grace and healing.

Thank you, from the Korean adoptee, the marriage and family therapist (don’t forget those holidays and birthdays), the glow in the dark fox, and the mama who is cheering all of us on as we, together, create sanctuaries and cultivate shalom all over the world, in our homes.

With deep gratitude and respect, Carissa

So…a few responses to what I hear from the deep hearts of adoptive parents. I’m always allowing ideas and information (and theology) to work themselves out within me, with God, so my disclaimer is that I don’t have anything “figured out.” I’m in process, with you. I just might have the crazy notion to actually write and say some of these things out loud! Ahhh!

Let’s keep the conversation going. Let’s keep moving, forwards, together.

• There’s nothing that’s hard or bad about your child’s story of loss that takes away from all the good and joy in your decision to adopt. Nothing.
• Adoption includes both beauty and brokenness, gain and loss, suffering and redemption.

“My story bears too much heartache to be ignored and too much beauty to be hidden.” (Dan Allender)

• Parenting is not the process of figuring out how to do things “right” so we won’t mess her/him up. It’s about entering in – into their pain, into the brokenness, into their GLAD, MAD, SAD, SCARED. It’s about going to the hard (and good) places, with them. I think we’ll be blown away at what happens in our own life and story when we do that, and how it will change our capacity to love. When our hearts enter into another person’s story, it will just know how to “be.” It won’t be focused on what to do or say. The control will be gone, but the healing will be initiated.

“To console does not mean to take away the pain but rather to be there and say, ‘You are not alone, I am with you.'” (Henri Nouwen)

• Jesus – He does the healing. All we have to do (get to do) is create the kind of space for healing to happen.
• You don’t have to, but you get to…you get to offer a sacred, stunning, glorious, beautiful picture…of Jesus, of shalom.

 

perfect pictures.

NOTE: a bit late, but you know how life goes.

We love seeing them. We hate seeing them. We think all sorts of thoughts when our eyes fall upon those perfect family/kid/selfie pictures swirling around on Facebook, on Instagram, on Twitter, on Christmas cards. What is it about all those pictures I post (I mean others post) that makes people’s minds turn from the story and life behind the eyes to the judgment of the intent?

I get it. I really do. It’s so easy to impose meaning and messages behind what we see over social media – pictures of people’s kids and in-laws and food and double dates and guys/girls nights and vacations and pets. I think most of us love the “real” pictures – the ones that help us believe that our “friend” or “follower” is just as normal and human as we are, our life is. We have a responsibility to discern if/what/how/when to post pictures – ones that tell true stories rather than give a false identity or appearance. And then take note of how our brains are interpreting them.

We see SO much.

So here’s my sidetrack thought for today…

First, a confession: I totally blow up people’s phones on IG and I totally hold back on how many pictures I post on FB. In fact, I don’t even have my IG settings set to automatically post my pictures on FB. Why? Because I don’t want people criticizing my love and gratitude and celebration and momentous moments with my kids (or my life). I don’t fear criticism of my pictures, I fear the criticism, by adults, of me, my intent of why I post each picture. The thing is, I hear women all the time saying nasty things about other people’s pictures on IG and FB. It’s so easy to be critical of how much and what kind of pictures are posted. And each time I hear a negative comment I think, “But what if there’s more behind why that person posted that picture?” Because actually, I may be that person.

Here’s what I know…There are lots and lots and lots of parents whose lives are spent managing really, really hard stuff with their kids – tantrums and meltdowns and dis-regulated emotions, shame and blame and self-harm. They’re engaging in “investment parenting techniques” (thanks ETC!) which takes tons of time and lots of grace. They’re trying to move their kids to brush their teeth and hair and eat and get dressed without them falling apart, and in fact, they’re trying themselves to not fall apart! There are lots of moms (or spouses) who stay at home with the laundry and dishes and toys and school work and stove – with the mundane. And, there are lots of moms (and spouses) who go to work everyday who aren’t with their kids, and still come home to all of the above. And, I’m finding there are lots of stay-at-home parents who are struggling to find their identity and calling (outside of being a parent) now that their children are in school (or out of the house). And yes, we know, that there are lots of people who are just plain bored and dissatisfied and jealous and use social media sites in really unhelpful ways.

We all have a lot going on.

When you’re in the season of growing and cultivating “family,” it’s so, so easy to forget the tenderness and vulnerability and fragility and goodness behind your children’s eyes, deep in their souls. We get weary. We get discontent. We get frustrated. We get busy. We crave anything that reminds us that we’re breathing and beautiful and that our life has a purpose beyond taking care of other people’s needs. And so maybe, just maybe, when we post a sweet or silly or amazing or entertaining picture of our kids, it’s because we need to visually be reminded of why we give…our hours and intention and body and money and emotion, and maybe even our mental health – ahhh! And maybe, for one moment, we catch a picture of our child’s true self, the child that we believe in and love with all our heart – the brave and precious and focused and listening and joyful parts – that maybe don’t show up as often as we would hope, or as often as our friend’s or sister-in-law’s child does. And for a split-second, or 15 minutes, we can breathe because the fear and shame and anger and guilt and “I don’t know if I can make it through this day” subsides.

We see him. We see her. We see what’s happening…

…and it’s a defining moment in the day. And it makes us smile. Gratitude swells, perspective returns, the re-set button gets pushed. And we move forward. Again…and again…and again.

Maybe all these pictures people post help remind them of the story they’re in, but also of the bigger story – that the loneliness and longing and really hard days – the ashes – can be and are being transformed into beauty…in their our children, in them us, one snap shot at a time. And I think we would all agree that the more glimpses of what’s true and beautiful and good in this world we can get, we need to take. Amen?

There’s always a story behind what we see with our eyes – at church, at the grocery store, at school, at Christmas parties, on platforms. No family or couple or parent or child – or day – is perfect. Right? So, let’s not even go there with our minds. Let’s remember that every family is experiencing their own challenges. They all wake up with bad breath, bed heads and clothes they would never dare wear in public. Every home is rupturing just as much as it’s finding its own way to repairing and reconciling. Maybe we could try to halt our evaluation and criticism and jealousy, and instead, celebrate what lies behind the eyes and smiles and smirks and poses of those pictures – pure goodness, pure “life” – and then celebrate it…that family, their story.

So keep posting, people! Mark your significant moments and days and people with photos. Let’s cheer each other on. Let’s celebrate the “life” in one another’s homes. We need one another in the outrageously grand moments of life just as much as we need one another in the most boring and hard, soul-sucking moments.

NOTE 1: Please, please, please, don’t ever, ever, ever replace your human relationships with social media relationships. (Someday I would love to write a post about this!)

NOTE 2: There might be some unwritten rule about over-posting, but don’t send it to me – ha!

So here’s a slide show of our “perfect” pictures from 2013. A few years ago we started the tradition of making a slide show to send to our friends and family instead of a Christmas card. Nothing against Christmas cards, but in hopes that they would see and sense the story building in our family, behind our eyes. But know that behind all the fun and joy and activity you see in these pictures, there is also the reality of our bad breath and scraggly hair and piles of toys and dishes and laundry and dirt behind toilets and numbing out with rectangles and multiple mornings when we groan for our children to sleep through the night, and…a longing and desperation for more healing and hope.

But, here we are, another normal breathing family, sitting in the reality that both brokenness and beauty exists, together. And that’s a good thing. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t have one without the other.

May this year bring you a refreshed sense of self, a new perspective of others, a deeper love for God, and a growing belief of his deep love for you.

Happy, happy new year!

Love, The Woodwyk Family

Woodwyk 2013 Year in Review Slideshow (plays better on computer than phone and you should hear music).

 

trust.

I just returned from a little trip to Dallas, a little Tex-Mex food, a little speaking, a little fun with friends, and a whole lot of vulnerability practice. Loved it all. (Well, maybe not the crying in front of hundreds of people part.) It was worth it. It was worth finding more of myself so that I could offer more of myself to the gracious audience at the Tapestry Conference – a ministry and team who I have developed such a respect and admiration for the ways in which they are serving the adoption and foster care world. I want to live by them, laugh with them and enjoy them EVERY day! I continue to find healing by being in relationship with them. Deeply grateful for the opportunity to be hosted by such fine Texans, both this year and last.

This time when I spoke, I revealed all the ways and reasons why it’s really hard for an adopted person to trust…people, God. I shared how awful it feels when people leave, fall passive – physically and/or emotionally. And then, how when that happens, the human heart is left fearful of people and wandering – by itself, unprotected and without direction. How does/why would, a heart trust when it begins believing so early that it needs to navigate life and relationships and its feelings…alone?

How does a heart learn how to sink and soar when it has no place, no one, to explore from and return to?

And then, because you can’t leave hundreds of people in despair during a keynote, I shifted my focus from sharing all the ways that I had labored so hard in order to not need people, to how it was only in my awakening to the reality that I actually needed Jesus more than people when my process of learning to trust could begin.

The lies I’ve believed are being named.

The truth of how God sees me is being heard.

The veils my heart have worn for so long are being removed.

And then compassion…God’s compassion, his “rachum.” Oh, how it’s pouring over me. Oh, how it’s beginning to settle in me. The kind of compassion that was designed to flow like a mother’s love to her baby, in the womb – the very space a child is most vulnerable. That’s what I’ve needed. That’s what I’ve longed for. That’s what we all were created for – to be loved like that. To sit in that tender space that rests between us and God…and receive…perfect love, the kind of love that drives out fear. To allow a holy and sacred exchange to happen…of giving, of receiving…so that trust can emerge. And then, offer that kind of space in our relationships, with one another, to our children.

Trust begins with a holy and sacred exchange.

Parents – we need you. We need honest, vulnerable, forgiving, restorative relationships where our healing has a place to work itself out. You are the people I believe God is calling to be a part of your children’s healing. God will do his part. All you have to focus on is your part. And here’s your part…practice entering into the tender and intimate space that God has created between you and him. Practice spending time with your advocate. Practice listening to what he is whispering to you, what he is speaking over you. Practice spending time without your veils. Practice being loved, so that you can be love. Allow the holy and sacred exchange to happen. And in doing so, I believe that in that space, you will begin understanding what trust truly is. And then, because you know what that space feels like and because you know how good it feels there, you will begin realizing that perhaps trust is nothing that can be proven or earned. It’s only something that will happen when a space is created for love to be experienced. And then, create that kind of space for your children, invite them in. Show them how loved they are. Maybe as our children witness our belief, our trust in God, it could pave the pathway for their belief, their trust, to form and deepen with that kind of God, in that kind of love.

Maybe all of this good movement forward, this progression in the parent-child world, is directly related to the extent in which we as the parents, we as the advocates, allow ourselves to be on a healing journey too. We get to model God’s love – how deep and wide it is – and the mystery and beauty that he is, and who we need, to experience trust.

Maybe, trust transforms. All of us.

You create the space. Let God do the healing.

With much love and gratitude for not only the ways you are “listening” to your children, but also “leaning in.”

 

day one.

She did it. She stepped into the world of academia. With flying colors. Four days down. Nine months to go.

We’ve been praying and preparing for this day…school shopping and conversations about friendship, what it would be like in the classroom, in the lunch room, at recess, on the bus. The focus has been on treating others with love and respect, especially the ones who look like they’re hurting or shy or being picked on, instead of focusing on all the potentially hard and scary stuff (at least for now). We’ve reminded her of how special she is, and then how special EVERYONE is, and that it’s her job, her opportunity, to treat them like Jesus would treat them. And, of course, we reviewed what to do if and when the butterflies should appear in her tummy (thank you, The Whole-Brain Child).

The night before, one more pep talk, then we tucked her and her stuffed bunny and blankie into bed. And one last word from her to me, “Mom – if I sleep in, it’s OK if you get me up so I don’t miss the bus.” We knew she was ready ’cause this girl NEVER sleeps in!

The sun rose, she arose. GAME ON. Clothes, teeth, hair, sparkly lotion, tiara, breakfast. The house was calm, yet laced with anticipation and excitement and adrenalin, for all.

Pictures galore. Princess back pack. Packed lunch. Ready.

To the corner of Hope Street we went…skipping, running, smiling. Her eyes on the 5^th grade neighbor boy. His eyes on the big yellow school bus.

Without hesitation, her little feet strided right up to the bus, turning around for one last picture. A smile, a wave, an eager walk to the back of the bus. And then, the bus took off…with our little girl – our innocent, naive, sweet, sassy, independent, feisty, hilarious, realistic, energized, loveable, capable little girl – who in that moment had just become a school-ager.

And the heaviness in my chest came. I felt it. I noticed it.

Perhaps it was the feeling of relief that she actually made it through the morning without any kind of push back or fear or attitude. Perhaps it was that I knew she had just stepped into the real world, the dangerous world, the exciting world. Perhaps it was a healthy fear of what could happen to her, who could hurt her. Perhaps it was the realization that our world with her as we’ve known it was done, completed, history…and we now step into a different kind of world – harder in some ways, better in other ways – and totally foreign. Perhaps it was the Holy Spirit resting upon me because there was this sense of gratitude and satisfaction in knowing that these past five years, although done, have been good (so, so good) in the midst of how hard (so, so hard) it’s been, and that I made it – I made it, to school, with her. All the make-my-hair-gray and body-fall-apart years – the past five years – are done. We close the door on them, we say goodbye. And if God works this way, I feel as if when my eyes followed that bus forward, he was standing right there, right beside me, whispering, “She did it. You did it. We did it. Together. I gave to you, you gave to her, and she takes ALL of that with her. She’s gonna soar.”

We returned to the house, my husband left for work, my son played with his race cars, and I went and sat on our deck, with my coffee, alone.

And I just breathed. No meaningful or profound thoughts. I just breathed. And it was good. So, so good.

And then he and I played and went to the park and looked and listened for bears on a nature hike. I didn’t really do much that day. Perhaps my mind and body and spirit just needed to rest…and perhaps numb out. And so it did.

The bus returned. She wore a smile. I knew it had been a good day. She ran to me, we hugged. I said “Hi girl!” and she showed me a piece of gum some kid on the bus gave her, and then ran down the sidewalk, to the house, and got her bike. The “show” began for the neighbor boys and within minutes – BOOM! She fell. Sure enough, the sidewalk won. Her face lost. Intense crying began, neuropathways started to disrupt and re-route. All that good? Well, it fell apart.

Shoot.

Comfort, nurture, empathy. The crying stopped. We washed and treated and bandaged the wound. And then those words came out of her mouth, “Mom – I can’t go to school looking like this!” Oh, my heart! When did self-esteem and self-image show up at my house? A five year old just told me that she was concerned about what other people thought about her looks. My heart sank a bit, but we quickly came up with some responses she could say to people who might ask. She was a bit satisfied, but still concerned. I added that boys might think it’s cool because sometimes they look at scars and scrapes as having been brave. Hmmm…not sure if that was helpful, but that’s what came out.

She recovered. We recovered. We rested on the couch. All my questions about her day went on pause. The routine evening activities unfolded. The puffiness diminished. The first layer of scab began to emerge. Clothes laid out, back pack ready. Stories and kisses and hugs like we do, and then she slipped off, deep into her dream world.

And it was good.

And that was the day in the life of my Kindergartener.

**Our Smilebox video here.

one month. labor free.

It’s been one month of no work. I’ve absolutely loved it! Taking off the counselor hat has felt refreshing in glorious ways. But, I’ve also missed it. I’ve missed entering into life with my clients and speaking truth into their souls. And, I’ve wondered, how they’re doing, how their hearts are hurting and healing, and how God is moving in their lives. And then I found this…these sweet, blow-my-hair back “reviews” from some of my clients, sharing what that space has meant to and done for them. And I smile…SO big. Not because of what I have done or said, but because of what God has initiated and taught and revealed and whispered to them. I just got to be a part of it! Oh, my heart. What a gift to be a part of this…movement and healing and restoration, the mystery of how God works.

Read here. (Brings me to tears.)

So, what have I been doing?

I’ve been playing…with her. She’s loved it. I’ve loved it. We’ve gallivanted around our little town and the cities close by – laughing, exploring, enjoying, talking, watching, eating, learning, shopping, swimming, creating, holding hands. LOTS of hand holding. That’s been my favorite part. Why? Because for me, it makes all that we’ve experienced together not just about “doing,” but about “being”…together.

We’ve shared a total of eight days all to ourselves. Lovely, isn’t it? It’s been almost three years since it’s been just the two of us. I’ve missed that and I know she has too. The places and moments and feelings – they’re seared into my memory, tucked away in a special and sacred place. And I hold them tightly, close to me. They’re a gift.

And tomorrow, she’ll step onto that bus, walk into school, right into the world. I’ll choose to let her go. I’ll choose to release her into a new space that will be a part of teaching her, shaping her, creating her. And that will be hard. So, so hard. I’ll choose to trust – a bus driver, a teacher, a system, a curriculum, and 20-some other 5-year-olds – to be her guides. Her world will expand. She’ll be exposed. Her eyes and ears and mind will be enlightened. She’ll practice using what’s inside her. She’ll find more of who she is. She’ll begin soaking in so much of what she needs to navigate through this world.

Without me.

And then I’ll choose to trust the One above who gave me these first 5+ years to be her first model and mentor and protector and advocate and safe place to push on and crumble with, that he is WITH her and that he SEES her and that he is ROOTING for her, and has been, and will be.

And then I’ll (try to) believe that the work he has done here in our home, between us, will be carried forward with her and through her, working itself out as it comes and is needed, maturing and strengthening in just the right doses and in just the right time.

My lands! I have A LOT of trusting to do!

But then, I might turn a little music on, a bit louder than usual, shake out some dance moves, because my days are going to be HUGELY different and quieter and a bit easier and there will be more time to work on the things that I’ve needed to set aside for five years. Oh! I cannot wait. Can I get a hallelujah!!!!

Oh, but there’s a little man who is about to turn three that’s still in my care. He’ll still be hanging out with me most of the week. I’ll play race cars with him until I have a low turbo murmur coming out of my ears, and experience a new kind of joy as I uncover more of his sweetness and energy and personality and masculine soul.

But, I’ll still be dancing. Maybe with him, maybe in my head.

So, as we celebrate this Labor Day – a day dedicated to the “social and economic achievements of American workers” and pay tribute to “the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of our country,” my tribute turns a little different direction. It’s a direction that points to the “contribution” of what I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of – the hard “heart work” that my clients have courageously accomplished in order to remove the obstacles in their lives that have perhaps been barriers to deepening their relationship with others, with God. And, towards those in my life and my family’s life who have, and will, so graciously contributed to and strengthened our well-being.

Thankful. Grateful.

Let’s welcome our final summer days, soaking in the remainder of the shining sun and bike rides and sandy beaches and green trees and fresh produce and deck nights with lights.

And then, let’s roll onward to what’s ahead.

But today…rest, relax, pay tribute to what matters most to you.

 

children of light.

Thrilled to introduce you to Jen Wise, a woman who’s voice invites me to lean into more of our Creator through story and food and reflection and beauty. I have the privilege of being a part of an amazing team of writers for Restoration Living, of which she is the wise and inspiring gatekeeper that pulls us together, keeps us in line, rallies our voices (aka Managing Editor). So, after a year-and-a-half of writing for her, I thought it was time to ask her to write for me – so I could share her voice with my little world, and her passion for people and wholeness and truth and living life to the full. So, what better topic than parenting as we approach summer and the shift that happens when the kids come home…to us, to our care. I know you’ll be moved and challenged and empowered to offer your best self, your whole self…to your children.

“Sir, are you really calling the police because there is a squirrel with a long tooth in your yard?” – Police Department to my husband.

In his defense, he had to call. It was Saturday morning and we were wrapping up a leisurely waffle breakfast when I noticed a new squirrel in our backyard. This little guy stood out because he was eating his waffle (don’t judge – it’s their weekend too, you know!) on the right side of his mouth. Sticking out of the left side was a gigantic tooth that looped up and around, rubbing the fur off his face. A quick Google search told me that this squirrel was not going to survive unless someone caught it, sedated it, and trimmed that crazy tooth. I knew we needed to get help – call animal control – this is an emergency!

My husband didn’t share my concern.

That’s when the tears started. First me. Then the kids. Then he caved.

As it turns out, the Police had absorbed Animal Control due to budget cuts. To say they weren’t concerned would be an understatement. We were to “let the squirrel take its natural course”.

This, obviously, led to more tears.

I know what you’re thinking: It’s a squirrel, toughen up, this is life. And you’re right – this is life. And that’s why I cried. Hard.

SPROUTING

There is something heart wrenching about watching your children stumble upon the realities of our world. Sometimes bad things will happen. Sometimes there’s nothing we can do. Sometimes (many times) other people aren’t going to care about what you care about.

So yes, I cried about a squirrel… but really it’s so much more than the squirrel. It’s grieving what’s broken in the world. It’s grieving that this world is broken at all. It’s grieving that my young idealistic children are slowly making this realization.

And don’t most of us go through this ourselves? As our lives sprout we believe that if we’re good, the world around us will cooperate. We believe that if we’re kind, others will respond likewise. We believe that if we do the right thing we will be safe and successful and life will play out the way we believe it should.

By the time we have roots and branches we’ve seen and felt enough to know better.

EYES OPEN

An introduction to brokenness comes as a tidal wave for some: sexual abuse, chronic sickness, natural disasters, or the death of a parent. I cannot even pretend to understand the profound impact these events have on a young heart. For most of us though, our realization is more of a trickle. Throughout our days we encounter moments that highlight the truths we’d rather have kept in the dark.

Our family has walked through many of these ‘enlightening’ moments over the last few years, necessitating some difficult and sometimes painful conversations. Some of these include being hurt by friends, the disparity of wealth in our community, and the death of a family member. Beyond that, the extinction of dinosaurs, where meat comes from (and what makes it more or less ethical to purchase), the marketing and selling of things that are bad for us, and the sickening reality that some people just want to hurt kids.

The thing is, no matter how much I want to tell my boys that the world is whole – no matter how much I want to shield them from knowing that it’s not – I can’t. And I shouldn’t.

We keep media to a pretty innocent level in our home – there are certain topics we generally steer away from – and we don’t alert them to every tragedy that crosses our headlines. Still, we don’t lie to them. We do let them know, on their level, what disappointments and dangers loom. We are open about the brokenness that they are sure to bump up against.

UNSHAKEN

Rather than a reactive stance of explaining-away or putting a rosy spin on everything, we take a proactive stance of preparing our children for what they will inevitably discover. We take opportunities now, while they’re young and under our care, to get their toes wet. We let them experience a bit of unfairness. We encourage them to take risks with new opportunities and face fears out of their comfort zone. We resist the (very strong) urge to protect them from every feeling of discomfort or pain.

Help them face fears and hold up against disillusionment now while they have the luxury of your support. They’ll be better equipped to remain grounded in the years to come.

And this goes for us as well. Step into that new social scene – take on that project that’s a little intimidating – volunteer in a place you’d rather pretend doesn’t exist. It’s good for us, it’s also good for our kids to observe us stepping forward, taking risks, opening our eyes, facing fears and coming out the other side.

FORWARD, UPWARD

Ultimately, the key to coming out the other side well, as children and as adults, is a deep understanding of identity and purpose. When we know who we are and the value we hold – when we know why we’re here and the role we play in all of this – we’re less likely to be thrown for a loop when the landscape shifts.

There are so many opportunities to help your children understand their identity, for us these moments are some of the strongest. Upon every hard realization, every burden, every tear, we have a chance to invite our children to walk with us – a chance to remind them that this is why we’re here, this is what this is all about. We’re binding wounds, working for wholeness, bearing light, and loving this world.

This points them forward, upward. It helps them, and us, have a grounding that is not dependent on a pain-free sheltered life. It turns those moments from despair and disillusionment to moments that propel us forward, stepping more fully into who we are, stepping more confidently into our role as healers.

Our family has an identity, we know who we are, we know our role in the world – the darkness does not change that. The bad things that we see from our path, that cross our path, and that sometimes will explode on our path do not change who we are, what we are called to, and what we are working towards.

When this is rooted in our souls – we aren’t easily shaken.

May we embrace who we are and our role in this world. May we walk confidently forward with eyes wide open to see the brokenness around us and where we can extend healing. And may we, with grace and strength, invite our children into the process of restoring their world as well.

Jen is a compassionate theologian, obsessive foodie, constant hostess and voracious reader. She attended Cornerstone University and Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary earning a MA in Theology. Jen is the managing editor of Restoration Living. She lives with her husband and their two sons in Philadelphia. Catch up with her on twitter @jenlwise.

year 10.

May 15, 2013

Dear Mom,

I miss you.

I can’t believe it’s been 10 years this week since you passed away, since we said goodbye to you, since you got to hug Jesus. Each year the calendar turns to May, my thoughts return to you, especially those last weeks with you…watching your body fade, missing your facial expressions, listening to you breathe, watching the lake water out the living room windows, curious about what you were thinking and feeling, observing dad offer every ounce of himself so you would feel comfortable, wondering what you were thinking of and wishing for and remembering…about life, about me. Your skin was soft, your hands were weak, your spirit was weary. I can still close my eyes and be transported right back into your living room as if it were yesterday.

That year, it was Mother’s Day that Sunday, your 60th birthday that Thursday, and then Jesus took you home that Saturday. I was young. I was quietly in shock, absorbing what life was giving me.

Each year, each May, I find myself reflecting on and remembering and honoring you.

This year, this May, I find myself wondering…what would you think of me today, 10 years later? I could easily get lost in my mind thinking about this, but today, this day, your birth-day, I wanted to share with you a few ways that I’m finding you in me – ways that have surprised and humbled me, ways that are bringing out the best in me, ways that have helped me see more of you, more of Jesus.

So, a little birthday letter to you…

I started a tradition with Skyla and Zane of writing them a letter each year for their birthday. It’s a way that I can sum up how I’ve experienced them throughout the year and what has made my heart leap because they’re in my life – the hard stuff, the silly stuff, the surprising stuff, the divine stuff. Obviously, it’s more for me at this age, but I hope that someday they will read them and know my heart for them as I watched them grow and learn and become. It’s a way to help me stay grounded and grateful because as you well know, parenthood can be utterly crazy and hard and wondrous and life giving all in the same day, sometimes even in the same breath.

Skyla’s birthday was last week. Every year I’m so grateful for the gift that God gave to me by bringing her life into our life in the very month that had felt so heavy and sad and hard. He’s sweet like that. It reminds me of how both death and life can exist together. It reminds me of how sitting in that reality, in that tension, gives me the opportunity to experience more of him.

I so wish you could experience our kids. I so wish I could experience you experiencing our kids. They’re full of life and passion and energy – both of them. People have opinions about who each one takes after, but I think they’re a great blend of us both.

Let me tell you a bit about Skyla because she has been the one that has initiated my reflections on you the most. She just turned five and the way she steps into life is determined and cautious and innocent and sweet and expectant. She radiates the feminine soul with her love for beauty – in her shoes and clothes and hair and glasses – fake glasses – and lip gloss and princess attire. She’s a playful realist.

Her strength, her fear, her resilience – they show up in unique ways that I know you also experienced as you parented. I wish I knew then how weary you felt, how lonely it must have been, perhaps maybe even how you doubted yourself and your parenting ability, how keeping life simple was necessary and good, how easily it was to isolate yourself because all your energy went into protecting your children and home, how much courage it took to say “no” to the things that may have brought you life because you had to bring forth life in our home, but…how losing yourself led to finding yourself through the desperation of falling into the arms of Jesus, because there were most likely days you had nothing left but what he could offer. And then, you kept going. Whatever you found in his arms, it sustained you – hour by hour, year by year. Not only do I have a clearer and subjective understanding of that now, but a deep respect for what you went through, how it drained you, how you allowed it to bring out the good in you, and for what you sacrificed and offered on behalf of our family. Thank you…from the bottom of my heart.

I know you would love being with Skyla. I think you would understand one another. I can’t adequately describe her, because I think you just have to absorb her to know her. I’m certain that you would be teaching her how to cook and how to throw an amazing dinner together so that people could gather around a table and share a meal with one another – and have a name card by each plate. You would show her the difference between “top cleaning” and “deep cleaning” and when each was needed. You would take her shopping and find the best deals. You would treat her to a special lunch, maybe even one with tea cups. You would instill in her the importance of chores and hygiene and self-care. You would remind her how important it is to have good manners and send “thank you” notes and cards in the mail. You would model dignity and grace and the importance of wearing the “right” colors and that it’s not polite to chew gum in social settings or church. And, for sure you would show her how to walk and sit with good posture! Oh, mom…you would have so much to offer my little girl! You would teach her what it means to be a lady, a woman. And, my prayer is that, as your gifts and strengths poured out into me, that I am offering her some of those very things…in intentional ways, gracious ways, kind ways.

I wish I had you here. Some days the wish is for practical reasons – to call with a recipe question, or ask you to help watch the kids while I step out into the world, or hear your perspective on things I need to make decisions on, or how to get chocolate out of clothes. And then some days, my wish is for the more unseen things like listening to me vent about what’s wrong with the world, or how to best meet my kids’ emotional needs, or how to respond to a marital disagreement, or reminding me of how capable and strong I am. Your voice would be one of belief in what I have to offer the world – the encouragement and support that only a mother can give. In your absence, I’m so, so grateful that God has given me some amazingly beautiful and strong women who are living life “ahead” of me, who encourage me, believe in me, teach me, mentor me…who cheer me on. They offer a maternal voice just when I need it most. I’ve come to believe that God shares mothers with those who don’t have one.

So today, I honor your life in the midst of missing your life here on earth. Thank you for choosing me – not just the little Korean baby you saw in my first picture, but for choosing to love me in the way you best knew how to love a daughter. I’m learning to love and accept and forgive and trust and lean…on God. I fail and I flop, but I’m finding God’s grace in those moments and he always brings me back to life.

Happy 70th birthday, mom!

Love, Carissa

Celebrating our little girl…her life, and all the life I find in her.

Skyla Rae – month one

Skyla Rae – year one

Skyla Rae – year one 1/2

Skyla Rae – year two 1/2

Skyla Rae – year three 1/2

Skyla Rae – year 4

Skyla Rae – year 5

Skyla & Zane – year 5

Skyla & Zane – year 5

Skyla & Zane – year 5

Skyla Rae – year 5

Skyla Rae & Daddy – year 5

Skyla Rae & Mommy – year 5