How I’m Doing...Really

     I was asked the other day, “If one photo could sum up the year, which one would it be?” As I looked through photos, I found the last family photo we took before transplant. It was a great pic, but we are not the same people we were in that photo. I scrolled back to even earlier 2019 pics, and I felt like the further back I scrolled the more unrecognizable we became. Then I remembered a day back in May, or maybe even June. I passed a framed picture that sits on my dresser. It is a funny pic of my brother and me for National Sibling Day. I am smiling and joking in it. I remember feeling the same way I do today - I don’t know that woman. She’s gone. I grieved the woman in that photo. For months, in fact. I remember thinking, “No one has died! How can I be grieving?!” What I eventually realized was that though I hadn’t died, I could never go back to being that woman in the picture. Life as we knew it was gone. It had changed.
     As I wrestled with grief, fear, and faith, one of our dear friends who had battled cancer said something that challenged me to my core. He said, “If you can walk through this, and allow it, you will be a better person on the other side.” I couldn’t see it. I was afraid of who I might become. I didn’t want my kids to look back and think, “My mom was never the same after our brother got sick.” Every plan, every ounce of control, every routine was gone. My sense of invincibility, gone. My ignorance, gone. The person in the photo, gone. My son was sick, my family was being affected, my focus was now channeled into one lane, and my plans, my dreams, were spiraling. How could this make me a better person? Sickness and disease are a result of living in a world affected by sin. It didn’t seem fair that this sinful state could take the life of my child.
     Then it came. The calm still voice that can quiet the fiercest of storms. “I understand. I know how you feel. Sin DID take the life of my child.” This truth pierced my heart. It didn’t bring guilt, or trump my grief. Conversely, it brought an overwhelming reminder of the love of God. The perfect love that he has for me, and the perfect love he has for my children. It brought peace, and in the months to come it drove out the spirit of fear time after time.

     These paragraphs written above cover only moments of the last year. They convey my weakest moments, my greatest fears, and my deepest hurts throughout this season. They have been brief, and I’m thankful for that. God has immediately met me in that place of fear and pain. He has shown me the love he not only has for me, but for my children. He has been faithful through the storm. He has been the strength in my weakness. He has opened my eyes and brought joy in what should have been a devastating trial. I’m not the same person I was. None of us are. Our family is forever changed. We can’t unsee the effects of disease. We can’t take back the days we were a part. We can’t go back. Our friend was right. If we allow it, if we embrace what God can do in such trials, we will become better people. I have held my child through chemo. My children have watched their brother deteriorate, and then be brought back. My husband has caught me as I buckled from the weight of motherhood. We have cried with other families and we have rejoiced with them as they walk similar roads. I have shared my faith more in the last year than ever before. We have grown closer as a family. We cry more and laugh more; we play more and reflect more, and we celebrate each day together because the reality is that we don’t know when that will change. The truth is, we aren’t promised tomorrow, and life’s too short to not live it well. We are still fighting the effects of disease. We are still searching for our new normal. We are still reaching for healing. But I will say this, what we have found is the faithfulness of God. We have found that letting go brings freedom. We have found strength in surrender. We have found joy amidst sorrow. We have found peace that is unshakable. We have found each other. We have found hope.
     So, how am I doing? Well, I am doing great. I have all six of my children under one roof. I have an amazing husband who sits next to me as we watch our kids play and laugh and learn what life is truly about. We have friends and family who have supported us and prayed us through the hardest thing we have ever had to walk through. And we have a God who loves us perfectly and completely. Do I still cry? Yes. Do I still get scared? Sometimes. The difference between me and that woman in the picture is that I can now rest in the evidence of God's faithfulness. I can rest knowing that whatever happens, in life or death, He loves us and will be there no matter what. I don't have to worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of itself. And that, my friends, brings a smile to my face and hope for the future.

Until Next Time...

 

Reaching for Daylight

 

     Humans have the innate ability to take things for granted. What does that mean? "Take things for granted." It means to accept or view said noun as a right or privilege. I'm not being unkind, but truly there are so many things we take for granted. I am realizing there are more things than I can count that I personally take for granted. We walk through life expecting certain things, and things go unnoticed because they are the standard - the baseline to life. I know that as life continues on, I will continue to take many things for granted, but I don't want to.

     We have been on 5200 going on 4 weeks now. That's nothing compared to some here, but a lot compared to pretty much everyone outside the unit. We have been separated from our family, our jobs, our lives, our dog, even the sun. Yes, I said the sun. Our son has been in this hospital unit being torn down and put back together. He has handled it amazingly well, but he has still missed being with his siblings, friends, dog, and yes, being outside. I will catch glimpses of him staring at the sky, or even out the window of our corridor. (Which, I'm pretty sure has scared the crap out of people passing by. Which I find quite funny. You have to find the humor in this place, or you won't make it. More on that another time.) We have come to realize that our lives, and the way we live them is not our right - it's a gift.

     Nothing showed me that more, than the experience we had yesterday. Yesterday, our son received a pass to go outside of the unit. He has been doing so well, that the Dr. decided he could go off the unit for 2 hours. He had been reaching for daylight since we got here, and now he was about to touch it. When we opened the door to exit the unit, Fenix slowly stepped across the threshold. You would have thought he was taking his first steps on the moon. In his mind, it probably felt like that. He turned to look at me, and I could see the smile behind the mask. I held back tears as we changed our shoes, and took our son to the elevator. He smiled the whole way down to the first floor. We walked to the door leading outside to the courtyard, and swung it open. The fresh air and sunshine blasted us in the face, and Fenix's smile got even bigger as he quietly said, "I'm outside!" He didn't care about the looks he got, or the smiles of sympathy given, our son was outside. Again the tears tried to block my view. Rude. I pushed them aside again and again as we made our way through the hospital campus. Just before going back to 5200, we decided to go up to the 9th floor to look at the helicopter on the roof. We saw one take off, and the other perched there looking quite heroic. At that moment, a woman walked in from the pad. She was so kind and welcoming. She checked a few things on the flight schedule, and then asked if Fenix would like to go out to sit inside the helicopter! I don't think she even finished asking before he blurted out, "YES!" She spent at least 20 minutes showing us the helicopter. She fastened Fenix in the seat, then let him wander about for a bit. She showed us the city from the rooftop, and when it was time to go, she gave him the sweetest hug as if to say she was sincerely glad she had met him. I think she was, and we were certainly glad to have met her. As we walked back to the elevators, he let out a huge sigh of sheer euphoria, and whispered under his breath, "That was so amazing!" Que the tears...

     We have been waiting for engraftment, which he achieved, waiting for healing which is in the making, and waiting for daylight which he found yesterday afternoon in all its glory. To say we take things for granted seems like an understatement to me these days. Our days and nights on 5200 has shown me that. I walk around completely unaware, or even worse, unappreciative of the life I've been given; unaware of the gifts that are bestowed on us each day we draw breath on this planet. I am choosing to pick my head up. I will choose to look and find the beauty in each day given. I will choose to see the mercy in the mess. And I will choose to find the joy amongst the pain. We have been given life. Some of it we have squandered, and some we haven't. My question is, "What are we going to do after 5200? What are we going to do when there's no more disease; when there is nothing holding us back?" The answer? We are going to live, and live well. We are going to run our race like we want the prize. And we are going to wake everyday reaching for daylight.

Until next time...

 

 


  

 

                     
 

 

And last, but not least...

                                                       

The sad, but possibly scary pic of a child peeking out of the “Restricted Area” corridor. 

P.S. The next big test is his chimerism. The engraftment says he has survived transplant. The chimerism tells us how successful it was. Prayers welcome!

Worship in the Waiting

                                                                         
     There is no better place to worship than in the dark. I don’t necessarily mean the physical dark, though you could. I mean seasonal, spiritual, or emotional darkness. Worship takes the focus off of the darkness, and invites the Light in. It changes our posture from being dominated by our circumstances, to being surrendered to the One who can carry them. Imagine being in a dark room. Once you draw back the curtain, not only does the light dissolve the darkness, but there’s a view of what lies beyond the dark room you’re standing in. Worship is that window to hope, perspective, and the light. It allows us to see past our hurt, our fear, or our circumstances, and see truth.

     Today is day +11. Fenix is doing very well. In fact, he’s doing so well, that the nurses and doctors are quite surprised. However, we have seen rougher nights. He has had nights of severe stomach pain when all he could do is lie in a ball and cry. He has had bouts of puking that have lasted all night long. There have been fevers. He has had fits of rage from the misery of taking meds and doing mouth care because it makes him feel worse. He’s now losing all of his hair. All this to say, he is still doing better than most. It goes to show how dark circumstances can get surrounding disease and treatments. The worst of nights he just had me crawl into bed and hold him as he suffered. Those nights I would just sing. As I sang I would worship the One who entrusted me with such a gift; such a calling. I would thank Him for my child, and even for the journey. I would sing, and as I sang our son would fall asleep peacefully. As the days got rougher, he started to ask me to pray with him each medicine he would have to take, or each mouth care he would have to perform. We would pray for the doctors and nurses, and for each child and family here. We would pray for healing and hope; blessing and favor. He is learning that even though there is pain, and even though there are things that he doesn’t want to go through, he can hold onto God. He can have hope. And he can even have hope for others.

     The truth is, we weren’t created to stay where we are. We weren’t created to remain hurt, broken, or carrying the burden of darkness. That’s not our bag to hold- it’s His. We were created for a purpose; for a mission. We were created to shine, and to reflect Him.

     So here we are - waiting. We are waiting for engraftment. We are waiting for healing. We are waiting for daylight, and we are waiting for the future. While we wait we will worship, because that’s what helps light up the dark, that’s what helps find truth, and that’s what helps employ strength. We were designed to worship, and so were you. Whatever you are waiting for, wherever your journey is taking you, you are not alone. We are all waiting for something. So while we wait for whatever breakthrough is coming, let’s worship in the waiting.

Until next time... “I will lift my hands while I’m waiting. Louder than my fears I will sing. May my heart ever be reminded, You are good, You are good...” - Life Church Worship
   
  https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=yspGtoYLbdE

From Darkness to Light...And the Shades in Between

     What do you do when one of your darkest fears comes to life? If you would have told me a year ago that I would be sitting next to my child while he gets chemotherapy, prepping for a bone marrow transplant, I would have never believed it. But somehow here we are. I’ve had moments of “why us?” and moments of “how did we get here?!” I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been scared or even angered at times by this whole mess. There have been moments when I’ve walked upstairs, my eyes have caught sight of him lying in bed, and I have become unable to move. There have been moments when “normal” has made me cry instead of exhale. There have been moments when I have gotten angry wondering why I am no longer God’s favorite child. I have had to answer the question, “Could I die?” from my son and his siblings. We have had to tell our family-loving children that there’s a big possibility that Fenix will not be able to have children. (We have caught many of their tears over that one.) We have had to reassure them that God has not left us, nor will he. God has not “done” this to Fenix, or our family. 

     In Romans 5 it says that “suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” I cannot explain the details of how or why this is, but it’s true. I think it plays out differently for each of us. Our family has/is walking through something that has caused a bit of suffering, but has prompted us to press on, while refining our character, and ultimately resulted in hope. Our hope has never been more secure. Or less for that matter. It has just become more realized in this season. The beauty is that while Erich and I are learning how to walk by faith in a season of darkness, so are our children. God has been here. He has gone ahead of us, and he’s been beside us each step of the way. We know it, and our children know it. We are learning what surrender means, and also realizing that surrender is an ongoing practice. I am learning to start my day with surrender. It means that I surrender control, surrender my life, surrender my fears, and surrender my family. I think that last one is the most challenging. I have always considered myself a woman fully surrendered to God, until hardship touched my family - more specifically, my child and children. This season has made me realize surrender is a process, not a one and done occurrence. Every hiccup, every tear, every pain, every insecurity my children stumble upon forces me to resurrender them to the One to whom they belong. 

     This year my children have been thrown into a new level of maturity. They’ve seen their brother go through some scary things, and have been involved directly by being matched donors. They have taken it like champions. I could not be prouder of them. We still have some rocky ground to cover, but we know God is faithful and he is right here with us. 

     So, what happens when our darkest fears come to life? Our faith grows, our family grows, and our hope grows. The darkness doesn’t seem so scary when you shine some light on it, so we will shine on. 

   “Mom, I can’t believe our family is going through this.”

   “I know. It’s kind of a dark time, but sometimes God allows us to go through dark times, so we can shine bright. Remember the Sermon on the Mount? ‘You are the light of the world...’ Where does light employ its purpose?”

   “In the dark.” 

“And where is light at its brightest?” 

   “In the darkest places.” 

“That’s right.” 

   “But what if it gets so dark he dies, Mom?”

“...We keep shining, love. God’s love and His light don’t go out when we die. They go beyond death. Even if that happens, we will keep on shining.”

Here’s the 411

     Many of you know that we have been battling some health issues with our son, Fenix. But what does that mean? What is going on? Well, I thought I would break it all down for you in this blog post, and update as we journey on. So, here’s the 411...

     In the last few days of April of this year, Fenix started to feel a little off, and then turned yellow. Big red flag, right?! Or should I say yellow. We took him to the pediatrician for labs. The following morning we called to let them know he had vomited the night before, and they told us they had received the results and we were to go to Duke Children’s Hospital immediately. Our liver levels should roughly be somewhere between 8 and 40. Fenix’s were 2,500. Long story short, they diagnosed him with Immune-Mediated Liver Disease. His immune system was waging war against his liver. There were many scary moments during that battle. One we thought we were losing him. It was a long 6 weeks, and we were two days away from starting treatment when his levels dropped, and his liver began repairing itself. That was one of the greatest reliefs of my life. 

     As mothers, we are our child’s biggest advocate. So, as the incredible doctors did their jobs, I did mine. I had been charting all the numbers everywhere. I noticed his blood counts had been on a slow decline, so I asked them to look into it. The next day I received a call we were being transferred to Hematology/Oncology. We met with them within days, and found out that his immune system had moved on to attacking his bone marrow. This happens sometimes with Immune-Mediated Liver Disease, and sometimes one can recover from it. It’s a lot like an autoimmune disease, but it’s a different set of cells attacking. We moved forward with biopsy number one just a week later. 

     Think of bone marrow as a factory. This factory is responsible for making our red blood cells, our white blood cells (we will focus on the neutrophils), and our platelets. There are all stages of maturity of the three in the marrow. A healthy person’s marrow is packed with cells. It has about 90% cellularity. Fenix’s first biopsy showed him having only 5% cellularity. That result along with very low blood counts confirmed the diagnosis of Aplastic Anemia. 

     When some hear anemia, they think, “Give the kid some steak, and he’ll be fine.” I thought that to some degree at first! I wish it were that simple. If the body continues to decline with no recovery, it’s not long before serious complications begin. The body cannot fight infections or germs of any kind without white blood cells. Neither can oxygen be sent throughout the body due to low red blood cells.  The risk of spontaneous bleeding with the smallest bump or injury increases drastically without platelets. The first sign of fever - emergency department. Odd bruising or a fall - call the dr. Paleness and shortness of breath - go to the dr. Put simply, #bubblelife. If left untreated, a person with Aplastic Anemia has about a year. The only real cure is to find a matched donor, and have a bone marrow transplant. So, that’s what we’re doing. 

     We all have been tested, and Roman, Corinne, and Gracie are all perfect HLA matches. After further testing, the drs decided to go with Corinne. Work ups began the week before last. We have been at Duke almost every day. So. Many. Tests. One of which was a second biopsy. That biopsy was to just confirm what we already know before moving to transplant. That biopsy, however, didn’t give the answers we were looking for. It was inconclusive. So, Fenix will go in for a third biopsy tomorrow morning, only this time they will go into two different places. If all goes as planned, we will get those results Wednesday, go into the OR for his central line placement on Thursday or Friday,  and begin chemotherapy on Saturday. Yes, I said chemotherapy. Fenix will have to go through chemo for 4 days before transplant to kill all existing bone marrow before receiving the new marrow. If he doesn’t have the existing marrow killed off, the new marrow won’t stand a chance. Though it’s only four days of chemo, he will still lose his hair, get very sick, and possibly be sterile. After chemo is completed, he will receive his sister’s bone marrow, and be on the road to recovery. There are weeks of that recovery that are going to be very rough on him. I won’t go into detail, but he will get sicker before he gets better. After about a six week stay in the hospital, he will be discharged to the Ronald McDonald House with us for another 2 months or so. It’s a long journey, but this procedure has a 95% success rate. We are so grateful for that! 

     This is a lot of info. I hope it paints a clearer picture as you follow our journey. We have had ups and downs, twists and turns throughout this entire year. It hasn’t been easy, but God has been right here the entire time. He has held us up and strengthened us in ways I never knew were possible. There have been really sucky conversations, and there have been opportunities to shine. I will try to keep you all updated as life unfolds. Please continue to pray for our family, for Fenix, and for the doctors as we walk the road ahead. We thank you for all of the love and support. There are no words to adequately describe our gratitude. 💕 

Until next time...

The Sun Will Shine Again

Dear Future Self,

     I am writing this letter to you as a reminder. Life hasn't always been easy, and we both know it hasn't always adhered to "the plan." It has, however, gone according to His plan. This is just another one of those seasons.
     We started planning 2019 back in 2018. We had almost the entire year planned out. We had trips planned to visit a bird sanctuary and coffee plantation in Colombia, South America, the beautiful Gulf Coast beaches in Florida, and the Footsteps of Paul in Greece. We were excited, and ready to take on 2019. What we didn't remember in all of the planning is that life happens. We didn't make our bird and coffee date, nor did we get to feel the sand between our toes. We also had to cancel our excursion to Greece. The famous phrase, "Change of Plans," seemed to govern 2019.
     In March, we decided to host a sibling group of orphaned children as well as another young lady, all from Eastern Europe, for the month of July. A few weeks before they were to arrive, the young lady received news that parental rights had been terminated. What deflating news for that poor girl. The glimmer of hope she had to be reunited with her mom had been put out. She wasn't coming back for her. She also wasn't going to be coming to America. Change of plans...
     April came, and we said goodbye to one of the greatest guys we've ever met. Cancer had paid a visit, and didn't want to leave. Five months prior, we said goodbye to his beautiful bride. Both farewells were quick and definitely not expected so soon. Change of plans...
     The day after we celebrated the life of our dear friend, our son started to get sick. He got very sleepy, lost his appetite, and turned yellow. We gave it the weekend, but no improvement. Monday came, and we went to see his pediatrician. The next morning we were called with his lab results, and told to head to Duke Children's Hospital immediately. After a stay in the hospital and many many tests, we made it through the month of May. He was diagnosed with Immune Mediated Liver Disease. What is this you ask? We don't really know. No one really does. It is a newly identified disease. We know that the liver has its own immune defense system and that it got all fired up. We also know that it has the potential to trigger other diseases and problems, but don't really know how or when. Change of plans...
     It's June. A few weeks in, and we have seen our son go from very sick and very yellow back to his feisty little self. His liver has calmed down, and his levels are returning to normal. Words can't describe what it feels like as a parent to see your son recover from a sickness that's attacked his little body like that. Our lab visits got spread out a little farther, and so did the doctors visits. We could start to see the end in sight. So we thought. Change of plans...
     Last weekend we noticed a slight dip in our son's health. Nothing too serious, but we called the doctor, and labs were bumped up. We received his results, and his liver numbers look beautiful. However, there is a hiccup in his blood count. Since the beginning of his illness his white blood cells have slightly dipped. That can happen when the liver gets inflamed, but now that his numbers are back to normal his blood counts should be also. They continue to drop, along with his platelet count. We have an appointment with the hematologist next week. Whatever was attacking the liver may have moved on to his blood system. We aren't sure. It may be something different altogether. Whatever it is, it's unknown at this point.
     After that news, I had to get out of the house, so I went out on the deck. The whole family joined me. They decided to grab the water balloons, and have some fun. It was great. It was cloudy because a storm was rolling in. I looked at my son. I realized how fragile my dreams are. My dreams about the future, about our present, all had been shaken in that one moment. I looked at him with the realization he might not be here forever. I looked at our other five, and realized none of us are promised tomorrow. Things happen, life happens, and plans change. The one thing that doesn't change is God. He is unshakable. He is unmovable and never-changing. He loves me more than I can comprehend. I know that. What He has shown me through all of this, is that He loves my son like that also. He loves my son more than I do, and that has blown my mind while at the same time given me immeasurable peace.
     Back to that storm...The wind was blowing pretty fiercely, and we were standing on the deck waiting for the rain and the thunder to ruin our family fun. The air was chilled, and we were all about to go in, when it happened. The clouds broke, and there was the sun. It was warm and seemed brighter than it had been in a long time. Every one of us stopped what we were doing to celebrate it. We looked up right at it and soaked it in. It lasted until it was time to go in for dinner. Whatever is going on, whatever storm we are in, or we are bracing ourselves for, God has a way of reminding me that the sun WILL shine again. It always has. (And it always will.)

Until Next Time, Beautiful...

Unplanned, But Chosen

     

     Like everyone else on the planet, I have a father. I also happen to have a dad who has been a father to me since the age of one. When I was born, my mother didn't know what to do with this tiny, unplanned human. (Shout out to all the unplanned humans!) My father took off to God knows where to do God knows what. It was a mess. My paternal grandma took us in. It was a package deal at the time. My mother just couldn't do it. So, I was left with an aging woman to look after me. Little did I know, God had already started writing an incredible story with twists and turns no one could have seen coming.

     Fast forward a few months, and through a friend of a friend of a cousin or something like that, word traveled from Texas to Florida that a little girl needed a home. A couple heard of the little girl, and with much thought and discussion decided to make her their own. That was only the beginning.

     I grew up knowing that I was adopted. Some kids ask about their birth story, but I always asked about the day they "got" me. My parents always told it with such enthusiasm, that I didn't know there was any other way to feel but proud and excited. I only ever knew them as my parents. As I got older though, there was something in me that started to struggle with identity. I think everyone goes through some form of that, but for an adopted kid it seems to strike you in not knowing your origin. It doesn't matter how much your parents love you or care for you, there is something that seems broken when who you came from remains a mystery. 

      Before I go on I have to say, my parents were amazing at disclosing all they knew, and were extremely supportive. My mom even kept in touch with my paternal grandma until she passed. However, when I turned 22 years old, I couldn't let it be any longer. I had to locate and speak to my biological mother. I needed to know. All these movies had come out about these girls who never knew their fathers, and they all turned out to be a princesses. What if that was my story?! It wasn't. It really really wasn't. If you are put up for adoption, chances are, it wasn't because your father was royalty. Just saying.

      I found my mother, and spoke with her. Long story short, it went like this, "What do you want from me?" Her tone was more frightened than annoyed. The truth is, I wanted nothing except to know. A few weeks later I received a phone call from my father. This stranger loved the sound of his own voice, and told tales of the life that he had lived. An hour passed, and we said our goodbyes and hung up. I sat there for all of about 30 seconds processing that painfully, yet humorous, conversation. Gratitude washed over me like a flood. I picked that phone back up, and I dialed my dad. The first thing out of my mouth was, "I just talked to my biological father. I have never been so glad in all my life that you are my dad." We laughed and chatted about it all, and we hung up. That was my moment. That was our moment. 

     I walked away from that moment never questioning my beginning. It didn't matter. It is part of me. It is the first chapter of my story. It was a huge chapter in my family's story. I was left, abandoned, socially orphaned, but God was weaving a tapestry that no one could see. So whether you grew up with a loving father, or you didn't, a biological father, or an adopted one, God is writing your story, and it's not finished yet. God saw me from the start, and He sees you, too. My father didn't plan me, nor did he choose me, but God did, and so did my dad. 

Thanks, Dad, and Happy Father's Day!

              

Until Next time...

     

One More is...One More

     I am an "all or nothing" kind of person. "Go big, or go home," is a common mindset that I find myself having. If I think back over the course of my life, I have had big dreams, big gains, big losses, and big failures. But if I'm honest, it's been the little things that have tipped the scales in big ways. I have recently entered a season where God is showing me the importance and the impact of the "one". It pushes against my natural drive for the whole, but the "ones" are what make up the whole in the first place.
     If you saw my last post, then you know that our family will be welcoming 3 orphaned kids from Ukraine into our home for the summer. The night we decided on the sibling group to be hosted, I sat with my husband scrolling through all the photos of all the kids waiting for host families. As I scrolled through what seemed to be an unending list of children, another young lady kept catching my eye. I decided to read her bio. It described her as funny and outgoing. It went on to say the she has a love for gymnastics and for music. There was a video of her singing, and she honestly has one of the sweetest voices I've heard. She had specifically requested a Christian family who loves music, which I found interesting because none of the others had made such specific requests. As I read on, I noticed something extra special about her. She had no left arm. I sat there silent for just a moment. In that moment I felt something swelling in my soul. There was sadness, which I expected, but what was rising within was faith. This young lady sat there so poised, and it was evident that God had gifted her with a voice. A young girl with such potential. If only there was someone who cared enough to believe for her more than she believes for herself. Someone to coach her along and cheer her on. Someone to recognize that there is more to her than what meets the eye. Someone who sees who God sees. To see beyond the orphan; beyond the broken. I wanted to be that person! I looked over at my husband and broke the silence by yelling out all of my thoughts. My kids walked by, and knowing their mother, said, "Dad, Mom wants to host all the orphans." They know me. He knows me. All or nothing, only in this case "all" was an impossibility, and "nothing" was out of the question. My husband looked at me and lovingly stated what I already knew, "We can't host them all, honey." I know. I know! The thought of leaving the one behind haunted me for the weeks that followed.
     As our journey to welcome the 3 kids from Ukraine progressed, I couldn't help but check the photo listings to see if more kids were finding host families. Every time I looked with the hope that the young girl had been hosted, and each time I saw that beautiful young lady still in waiting. A week  before the hosting closed, my son wanted to see if each child had been matched with a host family. As he pulled up the page, I asked him to please tell me that the young lady we had been praying for had been hosted. Sadly, she hadn't. I sighed. My son knew by that sigh what I was thinking.
     Shortly after, the phone rang. God shows up in all kinds of ways, but that day it was by cell phone. It was someone whose prayers had been answered, and by their prayers being answered, so were mine. My husband walked through the door at that moment, and I told him of all the ways that our God was moving. I also mentioned the young lady still waiting for a family. He looked up from an email with a smile I'll never forget. That smile said, "Oh boy, what are we in for?" My son then chimed in, and spoke words that I can't seem to shake. He said, "It's only one more, but one more is one more."
     One more is one more. I thought on those words for days. I found myself wondering, "What difference am I really making? Are we crazy to take on ONE MORE?!" Then I remembered that Jesus went after the one. I am only one person, but He came after me, and He changed my life. He came after a girl who was broken and orphaned, and He now calls me His own. He believes more for me than I do for myself, and sees me like no one else does. I want these kids to know that they matter. That they are seen. I don't want a single child to ever feel alone or forgotten, and yes, I would love to be able to love on them all, but I can't. I may not be able to achieve the "all," but I won't reach for "nothing." If we can make room for one more then we will because one more is one more.

Until Next Time...

P.S. So, pending our home study, we will be welcoming 4 children into our home this summer.  Please keep us and these wonderful kids in your prayers. You can follow our journey here on the blog as well as Facebook and Instagram. You can also check out our progress at https://openheartsandhomes.managedmissions.com/MyTrip/schultzerichalahna1
   

The Fatherless Have a Face

       This past Christmas some friends of ours hosted an orphan child from Ukraine for the holidays. It wasn't something I had ever thought of, or considered doing, but I was excited for them and that experience for their family. The young man arrived, and was so sweet and friendly. He had won the hearts of their family and unexpectedly impacted the hearts of those around them. One night just before his departure back to the orphanage in Ukraine, I was tucking my children in and saying goodnight. We always say prayers, and more often than not, we pray for orphans, widows, homeless, and those enslaved in human trafficking. That night was different than any other night. As I bent down to kiss my daughter, I heard sniffling. I asked her what was wrong, and her answer stopped me in my tracks. She wiped the tears that were streaming down her face long enough to explain. She went on to tell me that all of the times we had ever mentioned kids without parents, love, siblings, a family, or who go hungry, never really hit her until meeting this young man. She further explained that not only had she not realized what she had in her own family, but that meeting an orphan had opened her eyes to the orphans across the world. That there really are children with no home, no mom or dad, no family to show them love, or share Jesus with like ours. As she finished and the tears resumed, I felt a knot in my stomach as well as in my throat. She was not the only one who had been jerked into the fierce reality that the fatherless have a face. I sat there in the dark holding her and choking back tears. I reaffirmed that God holds the life of that young man in his hands just like he holds ours. I explained that God writes our stories, and though we may not always understand or even like some of the chapters that are being written, that in the end God brings good out of poor situations. I kissed her one last time, and went downstairs to continue processing all that had just taken place.
    In February we had our outreach conference for our church. We call it our ROC (Reach Out Celebration). We do this once a year to review all the amazing things God has done in our community and around the world, and we get geared up for the upcoming year of outreach and missions. Open Hearts and Homes for Children became one of our ministry partners, and our friends spoke of their hosting experience on behalf of that organization. As I sat there listening to the memories that they made, and the life change that took place, I was intrigued to at least check out their website. A week went by, and one day I was working around the house and I remembered I had wanted to check out the website to that hosting program my friends were part of. I looked it up and saw so many kids waiting to be hosted for the Summer. I am naturally drawn to sibling groups because I can't imagine our 6 ever being separated. I remember skimming through the pictures, and finding a cute photo of a sibling group. I casually mentioned it to my husband and the next morning they had been placed on hold to be hosted. I was happy for them! A few more days went by, and I found myself looking at those faces again. By now my kids had noticed what I was looking at and were wanting to host some kids in our home. I continued skimming through the photos. There was one group that I kept coming back to. I finally opened their bio, and upon reading those words it felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I read about their personalities, their likes, and what they wanted to be when they grew up. But the line that will forever stick with me is this one, "Her biggest wish is to have a baby doll and a stroller to push it in." I sat there silent. I was recounting all of the dolls and strollers we had purchased and played with over the years. All the toys that we have gone through, many barely played with. I sat there thinking of my own wishes, and how meager hers seemed compared to mine. I couldn't stop thinking of how easy it would be to fulfill that wish! I couldn't shake the feeling of needing to do something. I brought it up to my husband and he agreed to think it over. Through prayer and discussion we decided to step out in faith and host 3 out of the 4 kids. (The youngest is too young to travel.) I went through all the paperwork and those kids are now on hold because they will be welcomed into our home this summer.
     I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous and a bit scared. However, I am not scared about any of the things one might think. I am not scared of the language barrier, or how they may behave, or even the amount of kids that will be in my care. I am afraid of the hurt I might feel when we say goodbye, or the faces I may see as they turn to board the plane. I am afraid that our lives will never be the same. I am afraid of sleepless nights of prayer for them and others like them. Though even in the midst of all that, I can't turn away. The fatherless have a face. I have seen it. This summer we will experience it, and I can't look away.

Until Next Time...

P.S. If you want to follow our journey, look for more blog posts, follow me on Facebook or Instagram! Also check out our progress at
https://openheartsandhomes.managedmissions.com/MyTrip/schultzerichalahna1