Miriam's tree died. I don't know why. And I haven't been able to talk about it much. In all the bitterness we experienced, this often felt like the biggest slap in the face. So often in my life I have stumbled, yet still been carried by mercy to goodness and grace. I've doubted, been neglectful, even made giant blunders, yet somehow things have pretty much worked out just fine. Dozen of plants and trees I've planted have pulled through for me despite my neglect, always feeling like a testament to God's mercy and love for me.
My pregnancy with Miriam and subsequent loss of her didn't fit in a tidy package. It still doesn't. The dead tree reminds me of that every time I gaze at it outside my window. It's not only dry and dead, but flopped over toward the ground.
Miriam's tree might be dead, but out of her ashes has come some good, perhaps things I never would have considered, paths I never would have trod. And along the way, little by little, my faith is being restored. It's a different faith. Less blind, perhaps more jaded, but still there.
The first was my work with refugees through Refugee Services of Texas. The day we gave birth to Miriam I got word that the welcome team I had organized was assigned to an Afghan family of six arriving the following week. Literally sitting in bed with my laptop as I healed physically and emotionally, I organized my community to furnish their apartment and welcome them. It gave me purpose in the midst of the pain. The family's mother's name is Mariam.
Three months later we welcomed an African family of nine. Single mom, adult son, and seven daughters. They still struggle with money and health problems, but spending time with them gives me such gratitude and perspective. By November I found myself working full-time at Refugee Services while the volunteer coordinator was on maternity leave. I loved it. I trained and managed hundreds of volunteers, I wrote passionately in weekly emails to garner support, I made good friends from all walks of life, and I earned money. It felt purposeful, focused and challenging in a way that I haven't experienced for a while.
A few weeks after the volunteer coordinator came back, and my time at RST ended, we received our foster baby Riley. She was seven months old when she came to us, wide-eyed, red-headed, brave, and beautiful. She has been with us 2.5 months, and will likely be with us until February 2018, or even forever, though I don't dare count on it. It doesn't feel right to hope to gain a child by hoping for a loving mother and father to lose their beloved baby. They look just like her, and they drive all the way from Killeen every week to spend two hours with her in a cramped room with an observer.
When Riley first arrived, I spent some time sitting on the couch with her, weeping. Weeping for the sad situation she and her parents are in, in which they cannot be together. I wept for my own loss of Miriam, while still feeling so much joy and gratitude for the chance to have this little soul in our home for this season. When she came to us she wasn't even sitting up or eating baby food. Now she crawls around the house exploring all day, babbles like crazy, and pulls herself up and down from standing with ease. She loves people, and everyone in our family is head-over-heels in love with this sweet girl.
I do not know what the future holds. I am no longer naive enough to expect life to hand me tidy packages with perfect gifts inside. I know what I can count on is things turning out differently than I had hoped or imagined pretty much all of the time. And I'm coming around to being okay with that, maybe even welcoming it.
My pregnancy with Miriam and subsequent loss of her didn't fit in a tidy package. It still doesn't. The dead tree reminds me of that every time I gaze at it outside my window. It's not only dry and dead, but flopped over toward the ground.
Miriam's tree might be dead, but out of her ashes has come some good, perhaps things I never would have considered, paths I never would have trod. And along the way, little by little, my faith is being restored. It's a different faith. Less blind, perhaps more jaded, but still there.
The first was my work with refugees through Refugee Services of Texas. The day we gave birth to Miriam I got word that the welcome team I had organized was assigned to an Afghan family of six arriving the following week. Literally sitting in bed with my laptop as I healed physically and emotionally, I organized my community to furnish their apartment and welcome them. It gave me purpose in the midst of the pain. The family's mother's name is Mariam.
Three months later we welcomed an African family of nine. Single mom, adult son, and seven daughters. They still struggle with money and health problems, but spending time with them gives me such gratitude and perspective. By November I found myself working full-time at Refugee Services while the volunteer coordinator was on maternity leave. I loved it. I trained and managed hundreds of volunteers, I wrote passionately in weekly emails to garner support, I made good friends from all walks of life, and I earned money. It felt purposeful, focused and challenging in a way that I haven't experienced for a while.
A few weeks after the volunteer coordinator came back, and my time at RST ended, we received our foster baby Riley. She was seven months old when she came to us, wide-eyed, red-headed, brave, and beautiful. She has been with us 2.5 months, and will likely be with us until February 2018, or even forever, though I don't dare count on it. It doesn't feel right to hope to gain a child by hoping for a loving mother and father to lose their beloved baby. They look just like her, and they drive all the way from Killeen every week to spend two hours with her in a cramped room with an observer.
When Riley first arrived, I spent some time sitting on the couch with her, weeping. Weeping for the sad situation she and her parents are in, in which they cannot be together. I wept for my own loss of Miriam, while still feeling so much joy and gratitude for the chance to have this little soul in our home for this season. When she came to us she wasn't even sitting up or eating baby food. Now she crawls around the house exploring all day, babbles like crazy, and pulls herself up and down from standing with ease. She loves people, and everyone in our family is head-over-heels in love with this sweet girl.
I do not know what the future holds. I am no longer naive enough to expect life to hand me tidy packages with perfect gifts inside. I know what I can count on is things turning out differently than I had hoped or imagined pretty much all of the time. And I'm coming around to being okay with that, maybe even welcoming it.
