I am going to tell you a story.
I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly. But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well. So, here goes nothin...
It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game. He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.
When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news. So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory. I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid. I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship. And he's free. He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.
So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.
The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow. I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did. He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free. He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble. So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice.
The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth. And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single bullet through the front door.
One bullet.
One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated. But only one life was ended. My only brother, my parents only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble. He was gone.
His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.
Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck. It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma. The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready.
So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 31 years old... outliving my big brother by 14 years. I need to do something. I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression. So, I accepted an invitation from two beloved friends, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people. 31 days of kindness toward others.
Day One: a total bust. I woke up with two fractured hips and a migraine. Welcome to October. Okay, not real fractures... but, something in my back is out of whack and my hip is paying the price. I did not leave the couch today except to go to my first round of physical therapy with my friend Marci who braved the battlefield of bad insurance companies that (I am certain) is run out of a basement in Philly. There is no actual coverage happening. We are always billed. Nothing is ever actually IN network. But, she got me pre-approved and she zapped my hip with a buzzing thing. So, my first chance to randomly act kind toward a person in the outside world, was to give her a headband... my only current useful skill is making accessories, so I acted at random with as much kindness as my old hips could muster. I think she liked it.
I have no idea what this 31 day challenge is going to teach me. And I have very little faith in my ability to stick with this. So, this is me going on public record promising to let these next 31 days not be all about me, and all about memories and sadness and lost life. Rather, I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done if his life had not been cut short. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 31 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing.
October 1, 2012
September 27, 2012
The Lie That Love is Enough
Five years ago today, I met my son.
No, I didn't bring him into this world five years ago, another Mama did that. I just met him. I went and got him.
So, we call today his Gotchya Day, and we celebrate it with a donut in bed. I tell him the story of his birth (the little that I know) and the story of our first meeting him. He loves every minute o it and thinks he is awesome.
Something in the back of my heart is keenly aware, though, that it won't always be this easy, or this fun, to tell his story. My guess is that he will reach a point in his pre-adolescent identity crisis where a donut and a story from his white mother won't cut it.
In a way I look forward to the day that we will hash this thing out, the day when we talk about the tragedy and the miracle that is adoption. It will almost be a relief to say out loud that being separated from the woman who grew you into a person is an actual tragedy. It will be a relief to affirm what I assume he will always feel but not be able to articulate.
I say it will be a relief because I feel so much pressure to do this adoption thing right. I just want to do it honestly, and give him permission to do it honestly. To grieve, to be angry, to be thankful, and to forgive... just to feel whatever it is, with authenticity and unabashed freedom. I will feel relieved when the temptation to shape his perspective on his experience is gone. I will always want to positively shape his experience, but I look forward to no longer having any say over his perspective.
Gone will be the days when he asks me "is it hard when you don't match your mommy and daddy?" By then, he will know that it is, his perspective will be formed and there is something freeing about that. As terrifying as it is, there is something appealing in just getting to that hard truth of it all and taking it from there.
I am certain that some of you may be thinking what many have already said to me: "Does it have to be such a big deal? Can't you just parent your adopted children the same way you parent your biological children? Isn't love what matters? Isn't love enough?"
The answer is no. Love isn't enough.
Sorry to blow the fairy tale wide open, but the way people love - the way I love - just ain't gonna cut it. People love too imperfectly to heal wounds that deep. People love with expectations and selfish motives and busy schedules and fearfulness and baggage of their own. At my best, I got donuts and a desire to do life and adoption honestly. At my worst, I am totally useless. I don't know what the fairytalers' lovin' looks like, but in my world... love isn't even close to being enough.
So, we did donuts and the story of how we "Gotchya" and for the first time, we watched the home video of meeting Harper. And holding him close while he saw himself as a newborn for the first time, it was sacred.
The thing I realized today was that not only is love not enough, but all of my intentionality and my effort and my communication isn't enough either. The bottom line is that nothing I try to do will prevent Harper from experiencing the pain he will eventually have to process. Love isn't enough, and neither are hope or good intentions.
So I thank the God I love for being enough. For being the one and only one Parent that has been with him, start to finish. I thank Him for His love, which is perfect and pure and whole. I thank Him for creating such a remarkably gifted boy, and for the joy and responsibility of raising him.
Saying "love is enough" is a joke and a lie and it sets us all up for some serious disappointment when we are loved well by another person, and still feel broken and empty. So, I thank God that He actually is enough, so that my love doesn't have to be.
No, I didn't bring him into this world five years ago, another Mama did that. I just met him. I went and got him.
So, we call today his Gotchya Day, and we celebrate it with a donut in bed. I tell him the story of his birth (the little that I know) and the story of our first meeting him. He loves every minute o it and thinks he is awesome.
Something in the back of my heart is keenly aware, though, that it won't always be this easy, or this fun, to tell his story. My guess is that he will reach a point in his pre-adolescent identity crisis where a donut and a story from his white mother won't cut it.
In a way I look forward to the day that we will hash this thing out, the day when we talk about the tragedy and the miracle that is adoption. It will almost be a relief to say out loud that being separated from the woman who grew you into a person is an actual tragedy. It will be a relief to affirm what I assume he will always feel but not be able to articulate.
I say it will be a relief because I feel so much pressure to do this adoption thing right. I just want to do it honestly, and give him permission to do it honestly. To grieve, to be angry, to be thankful, and to forgive... just to feel whatever it is, with authenticity and unabashed freedom. I will feel relieved when the temptation to shape his perspective on his experience is gone. I will always want to positively shape his experience, but I look forward to no longer having any say over his perspective.
Gone will be the days when he asks me "is it hard when you don't match your mommy and daddy?" By then, he will know that it is, his perspective will be formed and there is something freeing about that. As terrifying as it is, there is something appealing in just getting to that hard truth of it all and taking it from there.
I am certain that some of you may be thinking what many have already said to me: "Does it have to be such a big deal? Can't you just parent your adopted children the same way you parent your biological children? Isn't love what matters? Isn't love enough?"
The answer is no. Love isn't enough.
Sorry to blow the fairy tale wide open, but the way people love - the way I love - just ain't gonna cut it. People love too imperfectly to heal wounds that deep. People love with expectations and selfish motives and busy schedules and fearfulness and baggage of their own. At my best, I got donuts and a desire to do life and adoption honestly. At my worst, I am totally useless. I don't know what the fairytalers' lovin' looks like, but in my world... love isn't even close to being enough.
So, we did donuts and the story of how we "Gotchya" and for the first time, we watched the home video of meeting Harper. And holding him close while he saw himself as a newborn for the first time, it was sacred.
The thing I realized today was that not only is love not enough, but all of my intentionality and my effort and my communication isn't enough either. The bottom line is that nothing I try to do will prevent Harper from experiencing the pain he will eventually have to process. Love isn't enough, and neither are hope or good intentions.
So I thank the God I love for being enough. For being the one and only one Parent that has been with him, start to finish. I thank Him for His love, which is perfect and pure and whole. I thank Him for creating such a remarkably gifted boy, and for the joy and responsibility of raising him.
Saying "love is enough" is a joke and a lie and it sets us all up for some serious disappointment when we are loved well by another person, and still feel broken and empty. So, I thank God that He actually is enough, so that my love doesn't have to be.
September 23, 2012
Baby's First Blasphemy
Me: Jesus is who?
London: God!!
Me: And what did God make?
London: He made all thingth!!
Me: Why did God make all things? He did it for His...
London: ...For hith private awea!!
Ooooh... We were looking for "glory" on that one. Jesus did all things for His glory, never for His private area.
Perhaps this is indicative of the age, with all the focus on potty training and privacy and what is and isn't appropriate, but I can't help but wonder what on earth she could possibly be thinking!
Meh, two out of three is a good start. We will keep working on (survey says...) "glory!!" You don't need to go to seminary to know that survey doesn't ever say "private area."
London: God!!
Me: And what did God make?
London: He made all thingth!!
Me: Why did God make all things? He did it for His...
London: ...For hith private awea!!
Ooooh... We were looking for "glory" on that one. Jesus did all things for His glory, never for His private area.
Perhaps this is indicative of the age, with all the focus on potty training and privacy and what is and isn't appropriate, but I can't help but wonder what on earth she could possibly be thinking!
Meh, two out of three is a good start. We will keep working on (survey says...) "glory!!" You don't need to go to seminary to know that survey doesn't ever say "private area."
September 13, 2012
My Daughter's First Real Kiss
Almost nine years ago, when I was in labor for Annalee, my firstborn daughter, I had no clue what I was doing. I knew a few things: I knew that it was going to hurt (because during my whole pregnancy that seemed to be all people could talk about... but when it was actually game time, all I could think was "How come nobody warned me it would hurt this bad!") I also knew that I wanted to have a natural delivery, with as little intervention as possible. And, I knew that I wanted to be strong and controlled, and I wanted Tom to be proud of me.
I achieved my goals and was able to give birth three times with no medical intervention or pain medication, and I will happily speak for Tom and say "Was I proud!? (Guffaw) Proud is an understatement, Lara is my hero, and she should be your hero too. And she gets more attractive with age, in fact, I don't see any sings of aging at all. And she is a delight to live with, and at weddings, her dance moves are superior to all others."
Aww, isn't he sweet?
Anyways....
I achieved my big goals. Each birth was amazing and wonderful (except with Marlie, when I threatened to kill Tom because he ate pretzels. In his defense, the whole thing lasted 32 hours and the poor guy needed a little snack. In my defense, I made a person from scratch. And her way of thanking me was by attacking me from the inside out.. for a day and a half. Aaaand pretzels are the crunchiest food you could ever eat, and nothing infuriates me like a crunch while I am laboring.)
I knew that these experiences would be precious and rewarding, but one thing I did not expect to come away with was a little red dot on under my right eye. This little red annoyance was a just a tiny capillary that had broken when I was pushing. It really didn't bother me, I was even a little proud that I had a visible war wound as a reminder that I did it, I actually birthed someone.
It wasn't long after Annalee was born that my little badge of honor healed up and turned peach again. At some point during the 32 hour delivery with Marlie, it came back with a new sense of commitment, and it hasn't even considered the option of going away. It was not as tiny as the first time around, and I am not as pleased as I was then. Now, it is just another reminder that 1) Not all concealers are created equal, and 2) Behind every pretty face there is a (proverbial) broken capillary or two.
This little flaw has been on my face for the better part of nine years, so I hardly think twice about it... or at least I wouldn't think twice about it if London didn't ask about it once every 48 hours.
She calls it my booboo and she is very, very concerned. Tonight, when I was tucking her in to bed, she grabbed my face between her two chubby hands and she tilted her head to one side, and leaned in, like she was ready to give me the closed-mouth-Disney-finale-kiss, and she said "Oh my Mama LyLar, (which is how she says Lara) I love you and yoy sweet hoyt and all dis booboo in da whole whole woyld." And she Disney-frenched my little wound with such passion that I think she might have made it worse.
She proceeded to kiss every possible bit of face that she could and tell me that I was "so happy bout dat."
And she was right, I was really happy 'bout dat.
I am so blessed to have had the gift of biological children, AND the gift of adoption. I feel like I have been given such a rare, but full look at all the different ways that God loves us, and chooses us, and brings us to be known as His children. I know what it is like to labor and wait and break parts of yourself to bring a child into this world, and I know what it is like to sacrifice your comfort and security and your finances to wait for someone else to bring a child into this world and into my heart. It is such a picture of what Jesus did for us, to bring us into His family by blood and by choice.
I don't know if I will ever feel loved the way I would like to feel loved. I honestly don't know if I am even capable of feeling loved the way God intends me to be, but one thing I am learning is that I AM loved, whether I am capable of accepting, acknowledging and feeling it or not. The way I delight in my children, and they way London delighted in me tonight is such a picture of loving in spite of flaws and scars and broken places. It is the spirit of adoption; loving by choice, and loving on purpose.
If I died tonight, I would go with a full heart and thoroughly kissed face, and I would rejoice in meeting the One that created me - flaws and all - the difference in that moment would be that when He held my weary face in his pierced hands, each kiss actually would heal and perfect me, and I will finally feel as loved as I already am.
I achieved my goals and was able to give birth three times with no medical intervention or pain medication, and I will happily speak for Tom and say "Was I proud!? (Guffaw) Proud is an understatement, Lara is my hero, and she should be your hero too. And she gets more attractive with age, in fact, I don't see any sings of aging at all. And she is a delight to live with, and at weddings, her dance moves are superior to all others."
Aww, isn't he sweet?
Anyways....
I achieved my big goals. Each birth was amazing and wonderful (except with Marlie, when I threatened to kill Tom because he ate pretzels. In his defense, the whole thing lasted 32 hours and the poor guy needed a little snack. In my defense, I made a person from scratch. And her way of thanking me was by attacking me from the inside out.. for a day and a half. Aaaand pretzels are the crunchiest food you could ever eat, and nothing infuriates me like a crunch while I am laboring.)
I knew that these experiences would be precious and rewarding, but one thing I did not expect to come away with was a little red dot on under my right eye. This little red annoyance was a just a tiny capillary that had broken when I was pushing. It really didn't bother me, I was even a little proud that I had a visible war wound as a reminder that I did it, I actually birthed someone.
It wasn't long after Annalee was born that my little badge of honor healed up and turned peach again. At some point during the 32 hour delivery with Marlie, it came back with a new sense of commitment, and it hasn't even considered the option of going away. It was not as tiny as the first time around, and I am not as pleased as I was then. Now, it is just another reminder that 1) Not all concealers are created equal, and 2) Behind every pretty face there is a (proverbial) broken capillary or two.
This little flaw has been on my face for the better part of nine years, so I hardly think twice about it... or at least I wouldn't think twice about it if London didn't ask about it once every 48 hours.
She calls it my booboo and she is very, very concerned. Tonight, when I was tucking her in to bed, she grabbed my face between her two chubby hands and she tilted her head to one side, and leaned in, like she was ready to give me the closed-mouth-Disney-finale-kiss, and she said "Oh my Mama LyLar, (which is how she says Lara) I love you and yoy sweet hoyt and all dis booboo in da whole whole woyld." And she Disney-frenched my little wound with such passion that I think she might have made it worse.
She proceeded to kiss every possible bit of face that she could and tell me that I was "so happy bout dat."
And she was right, I was really happy 'bout dat.
I am so blessed to have had the gift of biological children, AND the gift of adoption. I feel like I have been given such a rare, but full look at all the different ways that God loves us, and chooses us, and brings us to be known as His children. I know what it is like to labor and wait and break parts of yourself to bring a child into this world, and I know what it is like to sacrifice your comfort and security and your finances to wait for someone else to bring a child into this world and into my heart. It is such a picture of what Jesus did for us, to bring us into His family by blood and by choice.
I don't know if I will ever feel loved the way I would like to feel loved. I honestly don't know if I am even capable of feeling loved the way God intends me to be, but one thing I am learning is that I AM loved, whether I am capable of accepting, acknowledging and feeling it or not. The way I delight in my children, and they way London delighted in me tonight is such a picture of loving in spite of flaws and scars and broken places. It is the spirit of adoption; loving by choice, and loving on purpose.
If I died tonight, I would go with a full heart and thoroughly kissed face, and I would rejoice in meeting the One that created me - flaws and all - the difference in that moment would be that when He held my weary face in his pierced hands, each kiss actually would heal and perfect me, and I will finally feel as loved as I already am.
August 26, 2012
I'll Tell Ya Where You Can Put That Cobbler, Marsha.
I keep telling myself that life will settle down. Or, that I will spontaneously develop a remarkable skill set that will allow me to manage life better. And that my house will stay clean. And since we're throwing out total pipe dreams, in all these scenarios, my hair will be long and flowing.
As it stands, life is full of tragedy and my hair is refusing to budge past my shoulders. I just want to swish it back and forth like Marsha Brady, that witch.
Where was I? Oh yes, all my shortcomings. So, I am just not the superstar I want to be. I want to be one of those wives that says things like "Oh honey, don't be ridiculous, I've already bathed all the children! Aaaaaand I've made cobbler." Or maybe even something like "Who wants some cobbler that I just made?" Or, let's say that this has nothing to do with cobbler, and that maybe I just have a hankerin'. Either way, I want to be the kind of wife who has all the laundry put away and has things to say about cobbler.
I realize that I am at it again. Comparing myself to others. Or to the idea I have of others. It was just over a year ago when I wrote this post about the comparison trap. Here I am a whole year later, and I have made almost zero progress. It comes in waves, and it is particularly worse when I am overwhelmed with everything on my plate. Perhaps that is why these were both August posts... as fall looms before me, I realize with great clarity that apart from God, I am helpless to successfully accomplish even the most basic task, let alone do everything required to run a household, small business and family of six (almost seven!) I become so aware of my limitations that I shut down a little. (so much more than a little.) I shut down because this life is hard and painful.
I spent last night in the emergency room with Harper because he couldn't breathe properly. Pneumonia and asthma combined caused his oxygen levels to plummet. I laid with him on the stretcher watching his little chest retract as his body tried in vain to suck in as much air as possible and his belly moving in and out so fast and his heart pounding from the steroids and he just laid there with these big, brown eyes that pleaded, "Mama fix it."
I couldn't fix it. I couldn't do anything.
I do not have what it takes to navigate this life and this world, not without Jesus. I really do not understand how people do not have faith. Don't get me wrong, it is not a judgmental thing at all... I mean I get WHY people don't believe in God. I just don't get HOW they can survive. I just know that I need Him. I can't get the laundry done, I can't do an at-home dance party without crampin' up a good amount, I can't stop comparing myself to others, and I can't fix broken lungs. I can't give my friends the babies they want but can't have, and I can't give back the babies that my friends had, but lost. I want to fix all the lungs, and the brains and the hearts that are broken in my life... but, I can't do Anything. At. All.
Apart from Jesus, my hope would only be in this world, and I would be in for some serious disappointment. So, I choose to believe. Even when it makes me look stupid, and even when I am totally alone in that belief, I choose to believe. So, I am kicking the habit again. I quit comparing. I am all done beating myself up for what goes undone and I am done expecting more from myself than I am even capable of giving. I am clinging with total desperation to my capable God, the God who sees. And if He sees, I am banking on the fact the He probably also cares...about lungs and lost babies, and maybe even laundry.
But, probably not about swishy hair and cobbler. That might be pushin' it.
As it stands, life is full of tragedy and my hair is refusing to budge past my shoulders. I just want to swish it back and forth like Marsha Brady, that witch.
Where was I? Oh yes, all my shortcomings. So, I am just not the superstar I want to be. I want to be one of those wives that says things like "Oh honey, don't be ridiculous, I've already bathed all the children! Aaaaaand I've made cobbler." Or maybe even something like "Who wants some cobbler that I just made?" Or, let's say that this has nothing to do with cobbler, and that maybe I just have a hankerin'. Either way, I want to be the kind of wife who has all the laundry put away and has things to say about cobbler.
I realize that I am at it again. Comparing myself to others. Or to the idea I have of others. It was just over a year ago when I wrote this post about the comparison trap. Here I am a whole year later, and I have made almost zero progress. It comes in waves, and it is particularly worse when I am overwhelmed with everything on my plate. Perhaps that is why these were both August posts... as fall looms before me, I realize with great clarity that apart from God, I am helpless to successfully accomplish even the most basic task, let alone do everything required to run a household, small business and family of six (almost seven!) I become so aware of my limitations that I shut down a little. (so much more than a little.) I shut down because this life is hard and painful.
I spent last night in the emergency room with Harper because he couldn't breathe properly. Pneumonia and asthma combined caused his oxygen levels to plummet. I laid with him on the stretcher watching his little chest retract as his body tried in vain to suck in as much air as possible and his belly moving in and out so fast and his heart pounding from the steroids and he just laid there with these big, brown eyes that pleaded, "Mama fix it."
I couldn't fix it. I couldn't do anything.
I do not have what it takes to navigate this life and this world, not without Jesus. I really do not understand how people do not have faith. Don't get me wrong, it is not a judgmental thing at all... I mean I get WHY people don't believe in God. I just don't get HOW they can survive. I just know that I need Him. I can't get the laundry done, I can't do an at-home dance party without crampin' up a good amount, I can't stop comparing myself to others, and I can't fix broken lungs. I can't give my friends the babies they want but can't have, and I can't give back the babies that my friends had, but lost. I want to fix all the lungs, and the brains and the hearts that are broken in my life... but, I can't do Anything. At. All.
Apart from Jesus, my hope would only be in this world, and I would be in for some serious disappointment. So, I choose to believe. Even when it makes me look stupid, and even when I am totally alone in that belief, I choose to believe. So, I am kicking the habit again. I quit comparing. I am all done beating myself up for what goes undone and I am done expecting more from myself than I am even capable of giving. I am clinging with total desperation to my capable God, the God who sees. And if He sees, I am banking on the fact the He probably also cares...about lungs and lost babies, and maybe even laundry.
But, probably not about swishy hair and cobbler. That might be pushin' it.
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