Running In Granny Shoes - The Beginning of a Journey

First written May 15, 2011
I am a bit out of shape. My once trim and attractive figure has morphed into something I'm so not proud of. My clothes fit snugger than they used to. The needle on the scale swings a bit higher than it used to. I can pinch more inches than I dare to share. In short, I have needed to make some changes, especially in the area of exercise.

I used to exercise regularly. Actually, I used to be pretty fit. My diet has remained healthy, but my exercise routine has diminished to the point of being practically nonexistent. Other than the walking around I do to maintain order in our house, I have done very little to tone up my muscles. But, in my defense, I have a lot of good excuses...

1) My athletic shoes are worn out...

2) It's cold outside...

3) I'm tired...

Okay, so they aren't really good excuses at all. I need to start exercising and I know it. But I really didn't have any athletic shoes until ...

One day at church my aunt asked me what size shoes I wore. I told her and she gleefully thrust a Walmart bag under my nose. Inside was a pair of baby blue granny shoes, complete with a wide velcro strap. Her daughter-in-law had purchased the shoes for her grandmother, who wisely never wore them. This was evident by the tags still attached. "Maybe you can use them?" my aunt hinted.

I gulped, remembered my list of shabby excuses, and forced myself to reach for the bag. I told myself that these monstrosities would encourage me to finally purchase my own pair of chic athletic shoes and finally get into an exercise routine.

That was several months ago.

Today, I decided I would start. Mindful of the granny shoes still in their bag in my closet, I decided I would run early in the morning so as not to frighten my neighbors. No such luck! By the time I finished my devotions, got the kids breakfast, and took care of a few odds-and-ends, it was 10:00 a.m.

But I was determined to start anyway. If I didn't start today, when would I? I would only push it off again and again. Resolutely, I slipped on my granny shoes, secured the velcro straps, and headed for the front door. Besides, they weren't really that bad, I consoled myself. Okay, maybe they were...

My 5-year-old stopped in mid-sentence, mouth agape, to give me a critical once-over. My husband, who never, ever comments on my clothing, asked if I was going out "...like that?" My teenage daughter stifled a giggle. My resolve began to weaken. Should I or shouldn't I? Frantically ping-ponging arguments around in my head, I decided that if I didn't start today, I probably never would. Praying silently that no one would step outside of their homes until I had safely returned to mine, I took off.

It was exhilarating to be running again! I loved the feel of my feet pounding the pavement, the wind blowing through my hair, my lungs filling with crisp morning air. I was alive! I was free! I was running!!!

And then I hit the ninth house.

Gasping for breath, I slowed to a walk. Multi-colored spots blipped before my eyes. My knees turned to jello and my legs wobbled beneath me. My heart thumped crazily in my chest and resounded through my ears. Careening like a drunk, the world spinning dizzily around me, I began to feel sick. Then faint. And, a little like I might keel over and die on the spot.

But, I was wearing those awful granny shoes and was too embarrassed to be seen, let alone rescued, with those attached to my person.

So, bolstered by pride and pride alone, I continued to trudge on.

Somehow, I regained enough composure to wave weakly to an elderly couple out walking their dog - who didn't even blink when they saw my granny shoes! They also didn't seem to notice the alarms going off all over my body as my internal systems scrambled to recover from that initial shock. Emergency response teams were mobilized. A host of other first-alert responders raced around within me to stabilize my heart-rate, strengthen my legs, and pump oxygen to each and every neglected square-inch of my being. I made the executive decision to spare my body any more trauma. There would be no more running for me today. I would just power walk stagger back home.

Then the wave of discouragement smacked me upside the head. Hot tears of failure stung my eyes. What was I thinking?! I couldn't run to save my life!!! I hated my body and, obviously, my body hated me back. I wanted to quit.

But "quit" is a four-letter-word.

Fast forward ten months:
Today is March 11. When I finish this blog I will lace up my snazzy athletic shoes and go jogging. (I chucked those granny shoes long ago.) I will feel the wind in my hair, breathe the crisp morning air, and feel energized and alive! Even after I pass the ninth house!

I made some mistakes at the beginning of my quest to regain physical fitness. But I didn't give up. Granny shoes and all I continued to walk daily and then run. I began to eat smaller portions, focusing more on eating a lot of fresh fruits and veggies. (Approximately 75% of each of my meals is raw - either salads or fruit/veggie pieces.) I cut waaaaay back on anything fried. Already nearly vegan (the only animal products we consume are the eggs our chickens lay), I continue to cook 95% of our meals from scratch. I do this, not because I enjoy cooking (I hate it, actually), but pre-packaged and processed foods contain so many additives/preservatives/artificial etc. that they just aren't healthy. My beverage of choice is simple - water. Juices are treats. Sodas are reserved for extremely rare occasions of celebration.

And the pay-off? In the past ten months I have lost seventeen pounds. Yessiree! Count 'em! One-seven! That's more pounds than I have fingers to count on! It's fun to shop for clothes once more, because they are actually starting to look good on me again. I still have some more to lose, but the last ten months have shown me that with hard work and determination, it's possible.

One final word:
My dad was a runner. Six days each week, I awoke to the sound of his footsteps racing around the track he had built in our backyard. When he got too old to run anymore, he walked. He stopped walking only months before he died last August.

When I began my journey back to fitness, I would call Dad after nearly every jog to share with him how far I had run. He was always encouraging. Always supportive. His encouragement has stayed with me. Now, on the days when I don't feel like jogging, I remember the words he gave me shortly before he died. They still carry me.

We all need some encouragement to do something that's hard for us - like starting an exercise program. Moms, especially, need this. We give out so much to our families that we sometimes forget to care for ourselves.

Hmmm...

I think I might just have the beginnings of an idea ...

Who's Stalking Your Child Online?

The following clip is absolutely frightening and a must-see for all parents. While the online community is a wonderful way to connect, there are also incredible risks. As parents, especially those of us who blog and share photos of our children, we must be informed. I knew some of this information, but I must admit, I learned even more after watching this! Take a moment to educate yourself and protect your kids.

Wearing Black Again

A little over six months ago, I rifled through my wardrobe looking for black to wear to my father's funeral. Black is a color of mourning. It mirrors the feelings of the heart. Today, I am again looking for black clothing to wear because I am mourning the sudden loss of my uncle.

Just ten days ago I sat in his home in California browsing through old picture albums. He, the historian of our family, shared many family stories and humorous anecdotes with me. He was happy. Upbeat. Alive.


Today, he's gone. My uncle, a former foster child, is at rest. There's more I want to tell of his story from foster child to family man, but not now.

Now I mourn.

And look for black.

(Photo taken on February 19, in California. My uncle and my mom - brother and sister - separated in foster care and reunited as adults)

Get Your Kleenex Out - And Say "Yes"

Warning: Watching this will cause great big tears to well up in your eyes and fall down your face. You may also experience an uncontrollable urge to jump up and run to the nearest phone to call your local adoption agency and fill out endless stacks of paperwork. If these symptoms continue to persist for an indefinite period of time, do NOT call your doctor as this condition is completely incurable. :)

Seven Again

We are blessed with five adopted children ranging in age from 23 to 5. Throughout the years we have also collected several other children. These kids, for one reason or another, have either lived with us or somehow become an integral part of our lives. They feel like family and so they ARE family. We call them our heart kids.

Most of them are old enough to live on their own now. Some already have kids. Some are, like toddlers, just taking their first tremulous steps into the adult world while we watch, arms outstretched, ready to catch them should they tumble.

Billy is one of our heart kids. Originally, he stayed behind when we made the big move out to Georgia, wisely avoiding the cross-country trek. During that time he stayed with a friend of the family, volunteered at a school, and kept up with his physical therapy sessions (he's recovering from a broken leg - long story/short landing). A month ago, he asked to join us.

Last Wednesday, Andriana and I flew back to California to collect our four cats and Billy. We returned to Atlanta International Airport at 6:00 Tuesday morning. We were a sight to behold! Billy hobbled on crutches, while Andriana and I, bleary-eyed, wrinkled, and grumpy, toted several overstuffed suitcases and four bewildered cats. Thankfully, my husband collected us all and we were soon on our way home.

Home. It feels a little more complete once more. We are seven in the home again. Our four cats have staked their domains. Billy has started working at the school where I teach. We're signing him up for music lessons. He's planning to start college next semester. We're thrilled he's with us. Welcome, Billy!

Every Child Deserves a Home

Love the message here...

The Orphan's Song

Doubtless, you've seen this clip. But it's one to watch again. And again. It's the heart-cry of an orphan seeking love and recognition in a world that has abandoned him. But this time, the world has stopped to listen. Is it possible that in his voice they hear an echo of the millions of orphans around the world also calling out for recognition? Can you hear it? Listen!

Back!

It's been three months and fifteen days since my last post? Really? Where has time gone?!

I've been trying to get on my feet again since our big move from California to Georgia.

It's taken a bit longer than I expected.

It's been a bit harder than I expected.

But, through it all, God has been so good to us...

Just as I expected He would be. :)

Here is a photo recap of our last few months of transition.

Saying good-bye to sweet friends at the party thrown for us by our dear friends, Rick & Jeannette.

Packing up our stuff...

Driving endless miles across a seemingly endless continent to the tune of an endless round of "Are we there yet?"

Enjoying brief visits with family and friends along the way made things so much better!!!

Quick stop at Laura Ingalls Wilders' home in Missouri...

Being welcomed, at last, to Georgia!

Visiting with East Coast relatives (and one from Estonia)...

Flying back, two weeks later, to the West Coast to assist my foster daughter with her second baby...

Helping my girls enter an art contest...
(Maya won third place)

Teaching!!!

Welcoming my mom out for a visit - soooo wonderful!!!

Vacationing in Florida - NIIIICE!

Finally, finally, finally getting our PODS delivered to our front door.

Getting the kids ready for their school's winter concert.

(Andriana played a violin solo and with a string ensemble.)

(Maya played recorder with her little group. Most of them could only blow and someone had to help them with the fingering. But Maya didn't want or need my help.)

And now I am getting ready for another trip to California. This time I'm going to get our cats.

It's good to be back.

Thanks for your patience.

Meeting Birth-Mom; My Joy, Her Pain - Pt. 2

Meeting Brittany, our girls' birth-mom, was an emotional roller-caoster. What exactly do you say to someone who is giving up their children and telling you they want you to care for them? "Thank you," doesn't even suffice. For weeks afterward I hit such extreme highs and lows emotionally that I was a wreck.

I felt joy that the girls we loved so much would become ours.

I felt guilt for feeling any joy about something so tragic.

I felt sorrow for the pain Brittany was experiencing in losing her girls.

I felt peace that this decision was not ours.

I felt regret that we had not been able to help Brittany keep her girls.

I felt jealousy that I would not be the only Mama in the girls' life.

I felt happiness that we could continue contact with Brittany.

I felt confused because none of this was easy for anyone involved.

In the weeks and months that followed, we visited with Brittany. Two strangers in love with the same kids can make for awkward conversations. Then again, two strangers in love with the same kids can bring two strangers close together. Brittany's life is not stellar. She has many issues to deal with and clean up. But being able to continue being a part of her girls' lives offers her the hope she needs to keep striving for a better life.

Before leaving for Georgia, we had a last meeting with Brittany. As expected, it was emotional. (Not for the girls, mind you. They seem to have adapted to all of this rather well.) It was hard for Brittany and me. When she called me afterwards, I offered to let her talk to the girls again, but she declined. "Sometimes, I just don't want to talk to them or see them anymore," she said. "It just makes me sad to keep being reminded of how much I messed up my life." I gripped the phone as a new feeling crept into the salad bowl of emotions I kept in my heart - panic. She wasn't going to leave them, was she?

I understood very well how she felt. My mother had been a foster-child and I knew a lot about the feelings of guilt and remorse that surround the loss of a child to the foster care system. But I didn't want Brittany to quit on the girls either. They regarded her as a regular part of their lives. She was making progress in many different areas of her life. She was trying hard to get on the right track. For their sake ... for her sake ... I didn't want to see her step out of their lives.

"Don't leave them," I nearly pleaded into the phone, "They need you!" God had brought me to the point where I knew I would never be their only mother. They would always have two. Although, I had struggled to come to that decision, I had never once regretted it. And now I feared I was losing her. I needed her to still see the importance of her role in their lives. We talked for a little while longer about it. "Maybe," Brittany hesitated, then continued, "Maybe you can keep encouraging me, even while you're in Georgia?" "Absolutely!!!" I promised.

After I hung up the phone, I sat thinking for a long while. Adoption is horrible. No! Adoption is beautiful. The sin that causes a need for adoption is horrible. But God can still take something that is so heart-wrenchingly painful and transform it into something of exquisite beauty. That's my prayer for Brittany. That's my prayer for all of us.

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me ... to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor." Isaiah 61: 1, 3

Meeting Birth-Mom - My Joy, Her Pain, Pt. 1

Not everyone can or chooses to meet the birth parents of their adoptive children. Each situation is so different. I have been privileged to meet at least one of each of each of our children's birth parents. The following is a flash from the past. It's something I wrote immediately following my first visit, nearly two or two-and-a-half years ago, with the birth-mom of my youngest three girls when they were still in foster care. I will call her Brittany.

*****

When Shawn and I first began our journey towards adoption, our thoughts were only about the children. We wanted to help them, care for them, give them a family to love them. We never thought for a minute about the birth-parents connected to those children.

On that happy, and somewhat chaotic, day when Nikki, Alyssa, and Maya danced through our doorway, our hearts soared. Our prayers and efforts were coming to fruition. We felt Heaven’s smile. Never did we think that somewhere a birth-mother was broken.

The bonds of love began to grow, knitting heart to heart. These were not our children by flesh and blood, but they were ours nonetheless. We helped them where they were behind. We rejoiced with them when they triumphed. We loved them. Tighter and tighter those bonds grew and our joy knew no bounds. Never did we dream that somewhere a birth-mother was weeping.

Once each week our happy schedule was interrupted when we drove to the social services department so the girls could visit that mother. For me it was merely a building where I dropped off the kids and then picked them up an hour-and-a-half later. It was a chore that had to be done. Little did I know that for their birth-mother it was the one bright spot in her week.

Nikki asks a lot of questions. “What’s going to happen to my birth-mom?” was one she asked at bedtime one night after I had once again explained why she could no longer live with her birth-mom. Nikki’s eyes searched my face in the deepening shadows. I was silent. I didn’t know how to answer that question. I breathed a prayer Heavenward. But suddenly Nikki brightened. “I know,” she grinned. “I’ll get to live with her in Heaven!” With that she kissed me good-night and flopped her head down on her pillow. She had her answer and she was content.

Troubled, I rose to leave her bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me. My mind was filled with my own questions. From the little I knew about Brittany, the girls’ birth-mom, she did not sound like one who even wanted to go to Heaven! Her behaviors, her choices and subsequent consequences, reflected that, I thought rather judgmentally. She and I have lived our lives a hundred lifetimes apart. Our lifestyles differ wildly. Our social groups would never mix. We are polar opposites. And yet, I began to feel a tug at my heart, there are similarities too.

In the middle of our two vastly different worlds stand three beautiful girls who were beginning to pull us together. We are, in fact, two mothers who deeply love these girls; two hearts fearing the unfathomable pain of losing our children; two daughters of the same Heavenly Father; two sinners in need of a Savior's love, forgiveness, and mercy.

After a little while, I knew what God was asking me to do. I so wanted to be their only mother, to forget they ever had a birth-mom. But God needed me to push my selfishness aside and offer the gift of salvation to the birth-mother of my little girls. For their sakes, I needed to make sure she knew about Jesus. I emailed the social worker and requested to meet Brittany.

It is not required for potential adoptive parents to meet the birth-parents. Most adoptive parents never do. (This was the first time our social worker had ever scheduled a meeting like this.) But I live on both sides of the adoptive world. My own mother was raised by a foster family. I maintain relationships with my biological family and my foster family and believe myself to be richer for it. Could I deny that privilege to my daughters? Could I be so selfish as to keep them to myself and simply “forget” about the woman who gave birth to them? Is this whole process just about Shawn and me getting kids or is this the way God is reaching down to touch the life of one of His lost lambs?

I didn’t sleep well the night before my meeting with Brittany. In the morning I tried to concentrate on getting odd tasks accomplished. I didn’t do very well. My mind was whirling. My stomach was in knots. Why was I so nervous?

Dropping off the girls was a familiar enough routine. That eased some of my anxiety. But the butterflies continued to multiply in my stomach. “Please, God,” I pleaded, “tell me what I should say.”

The social worker led me down a long hallway to the conference room. I chose a chair facing the door and waited for Brittany to come. Waiting is torture and during that time more questions filled my mind. Would she hate me? Why was I doing this? Why didn't I just take the easier road? What would I say to her? I couldn't very well say, "I love your kids and don't want you to get them back," (Even though it was really how I felt.) The clock on the wall tick-tocked the long minutes away. I rapidly fired off more anxious prayers Heavenward. "God, I need You here!" I breathed.

And then, she was there and she looked just as nervous as I felt. I stood to greet her not knowing whether I should hug her or shake her hand. I gingerly offered my hand. “Can I hug you?” she asked. I embraced her and the tears of pent up emotions spilled out. Heart to heart, mother to mother, each understanding what the other was feeling and enduring, each offering comfort, we stood there for a long while.

“Thank you so much for taking care of my girls,” Brittany began when we finally sat down. She wiped away tears as she continued, “I know they are happy with you. You are giving them what I never could. I can barely take care of myself! I can’t offer them anything. But the thought of never seeing them again…” Her voice trailed off as the tears once more began to flow.

“Brittany,” My voice trembled a little as I spoke, but God gave me the words. “I want you to know that we love your girls very much. But you are a part of them and that makes you very special to us also. We really want you to do well. We want to continue contact with you because we feel it would be best for the girls. And we really want what’s best for them.”

After some more discussion and story swapping about the girls’ personalities and traits of character, the social worker asked if it would be okay for the girls to come in. We agreed and soon the sound of little feet and children’s laughter was heard approaching the door. In burst three bright-eyed girls. The two older girls, Nikki and Alyssa, looked a little confused at seeing their two mommies in the same room, like they weren’t sure who to go to. Maya immediately made her way straight to me, well, as soon as she could get around the long conference table and all the chairs. Alyssa, focused her eyes on me, then slowly sidled up to Brittany and sat in her lap. Nikki kind of stood awkwardly between us for a little bit. Her loyalty to both mothers was evident. Finally, she snuggled into my lap next to Maya. We all chatted happily together for a little bit, the social worker got us all together for a group picture, and then it was time to leave.

It was a long and emotionally draining day, but I am thankful. Brittany kept saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” I believe that to be true. When I think back to the way it worked out that we got this particular set of kids, I know that God had this day in mind. His ways are higher than my ways and He knows what is best – always.

Someday soon, when we get to Heaven, I think Nikki will find her mansion right between Brittany’s and mine. And she will be perfectly happy with the arrangement. I will too.

To be continued...