Love Letters

In my mom’s final weeks of her life, she made me a promise.  She told me that when she got to heaven, she would ask God, if she could send me a “love letter”.  We were in her room.  She was sitting up in her wheelchair, a prayer shawl wrapped around her small frame. I was kneeling in front of her, holding her hands.  She always had such pretty hands.  Her skin was so soft and warm.  I rubbed my cheek across her palms.  Laying my head in her lap, I wept.  “Please send me a love letter” I whispered.

I didn’t know it at the time, but The Lord was already working on a love note for my mom to send.  As I prepared to say goodbye to the only mother I’d ever known.  Christ, was preparing my heart, to say hello to the mother who knew me nine months longer than anyone else.

  I had always wondered about my biological mom, for as long as I can remember.  In kindergarten my teacher, Mrs. Vos, had us write a letter to Jesus.  In mine, I asked him what my biological mom looked like and if I would see her in heaven.  I still have that letter.

  As a young adult, I began to seriously think about looking for my biological family.  Imagining all types of scenarios in my mind. How would it go?  What would it look like?  But the timing was never quite right.  I just wasn’t ready.

I don’t know what changed for me…no scratch that.  I know exactly what changed.  In the blink of an eye, I was 36 with children of my own.  My mother was dying.  My own health at risk.  I needed answers. I needed to know if my children could get sick.  Did cancer run in my family?  Who did I take after?  Could “they” love me?  Could I be a part of “their” family?  I needed that final puzzle piece that had been missing from my life.  How it would go. What it would look like.  The timing was now. I was ready.

So, in the spring of 2016, shortly after my cancer diagnosis, I began my search.  It started slowly.  Poking around the internet for clues.  Pausing for doctors’ appointments and surgery.  Picking up again, during my recovery.  Joining 23 and me, a genetic service.  Because who knows, maybe I’d find a DNA match.  Stopping yet again to care for my ailing mother.  In June I stopped twiddling my thumbs, and contacted Bethany Christian services (the private agency used for my adoption) directly.

In June I spoke with the Post Adoption Center at Bethany and was matched with their post adoption specialist, Suzanne.  Perfect at her job, Suzanne walked me through the process of opening my closed adoption.  Over the next six months, paperwork would be submitted, emails were exchanged, phone calls were answered and questions fielded.  A relatively easy process, the hardest part was the waiting.

On August 9, 2016, my mom lost her battel with cancer.  My family and I laid her to rest and I returned home, trying to piece back a life that had been shattered by her death.  By November life was starting to feel a little more “normal”.  My kids were back in school and are daily routines were in full swing.  On the morning of November seventh, I was enjoying the quiet and my second cup of coffee, while my kids were at school, when my phone rang.

 It was my love letter.

“I spoke to your biological mother today.”  Suzanne said.  “She would love to speak with you, meet you…she’s open to it all…she’s been waiting for you.”  I can’t even begin to describe my emotions.  To this day I still don’t think I’ve fully processed them.  A life of never ever knowing, became of life of knowing it all…in an instant!  But first, let’s just start with her name.  Teresa. 

My love letter began.  “Hello Rachel, it’s mom” it said.

Suzanne made plans for Teresa and me to speak over the phone in two days.  It allowed us time to gather our thoughts and process this new beginning.  It was the longest two days of my life!  The day arrived and I nervously made the call.  She answered on the second ring.   We spoke for three hours that morning.  Never a lull in conversation, it was full of joy and tears.  Like Mary I treasured it all up and pondered it in my heart.   

Over the past seven months, my relationship with Teresa, has gone from carefully and slowly, to weekly phone calls, emails, pictures and care packages.  After one particular call, I learned she didn’t have any baby pictures of me.  Not a lock of hair, a baby foot print, nothing.  I decided I would create a photo album for her on Shutterfly.

Bound and determined, I turned my house inside out, searching for my box of childhood photographs.  After squeezing my not so small body, into our very small crawl space, I found what I was looking for!  I happily lifted the lid, and the first thing I saw were some folded pieces of yellow notebook paper.  I opened it up and immediately recognized my mother’s handwriting.

 It began.  “A letter to Rachel’s birth mom – Today – Rachel’s sixteenth birthday I am filled with pride and joy.”  It was a letter!  An actual letter, written for Teresa, by my mom, on my 16^th birthday. A perfect gift to add to the photo album.  I slowly read it aloud. Tracing each word with my finger.  Straining to read the crossed out lines. I held the crinkled papers to my chest.  No tears came, just joy.

My love letter continued.  “I love you Rachel.  Jesus loves you.  I’m ok now.  I am with you.  God is always with you.”

In a few weeks my family and I will be traveling to the east coast to meet Teresa in person.

My love letter goes on.  I don’t know what it has to say yet.  I will keep you posted.

Planting in Tears

If you’re anything like me, then you can probably remember the first time you ever had some serious hair envy.  When I was a little girl, my first long haired idol, was my older sister, Becky.   I can still remember wearing towels on my head.  Dreaming of the day when I could boast the same flowing, silky, Farah Fawcett hair that she did.  Instead I rocked my little fro, that my mom “swore” was all the rage.  Being mistaken for a boy and sitting thru painful comb outs.  I cried for my towel.

Cut to adulthood and some regrettable hairstyles on both our ends.  My sister continued to rock long and gorgeous hair.  My envy turning to adoration for the big sister I love.

November of 2016, my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, after a routine mammogram found a lump in her left breast.  She was forty three years old.  Becky would need a mastectomy and chemotherapy.  I know it’s superficial, but I couldn’t help thinking about her beautiful hair.

In February, 10 days after Becky’s first round of chemo, I left my husband and three kids in Virginia and made the 4 hour drive to Kentucky to be with her and her family…to be with her. It was one of the best weekends of my life.  Don’t get me wrong it was tough and exhausting.  It hurt to see my sister living with cancer.  This was no girl’s weekend away in Las Vegas or Palm springs.  But it was precious and important. It cemented an already strong bond I have with Becky. The kind of bond only sisters can share and suffering can bring. 

“Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy.”   -Psalm 126:5

The morning I arrived, I was greeted with coffee brewing and chocolate croissants baking.  Becky is always five steps ahead.  Caring for others, her home is the kind of place you love to visit and never really want to leave.  She had cut her hair into a cute little bob, anticipating the hair loss.  I was surprised to see a full head of beautiful hair and became hopeful it wouldn’t fall out after all.   

Unfortunately, when my sister showered that morning, her hair began to fall out in clumps.  This was incredibly traumatic and made the cancer visibly obvious. We planted in tears.  When I decided to have my brother-in-law shave my head in solidarity (and he gave me a “Storm from the X-men Mohawk”, before taking it all) we harvested shouts of joy.  My sister looking in the mirror, starring at her bald white head, her disease looking back at her… planted tears.  Driving to Jerome’s Beauty Boutique in Lexington, trying on some fabulous wigs that had us looking like Beyoncé… shouts of joy!  Going to dinner with friends that night, facing them for the first time with no hair. Tears.  Wrapping Becky’s head up in a beautiful scarf from our incredibly stylish sister-in-law, Michelle.  Joy!  That whole weekend God restored us in our sorrow.  In our grief he gave us joy.  No matter how silly or insignificant.  It was real delight and we found ourselves rejoicing.

So what does it mean that those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy?

I absolutely LOVE what John Piper has to say:

“So here’s the lesson: When there are simple, straightforward jobs to be done, and you are full of sadness, and tears are flowingly easily, go ahead and do the jobs with tears.  Be realistic.  Say to your tears: ‘Tears, I feel you.  You make me want to quit life.  But there is a field to be sown (dishes to be washed, car to be fixed, sermon to written.)  I know you will wet my face several times today, but I have work to do and you will just have to go with me.  I intend to take the bags of seed and sow.  If you come along then you will just have to wet the rows.”

 Life comes fast and hard for all of us.  So let it. 

When the Going Gets Tough - the Tough Run to Jesus

March is Colon Cancer awareness month.  I never knew that before.  Until, coincidentally, in March of 2016 I was diagnosed with stage 2 colon cancer.  Up until then I think I only knew that October was breast cancer awareness month.  Its ribbon color pink.  (I love seeing the big NFL players rocking pink jerseys and socks in support.)  My ribbon color is blue.  I know that now because that’s what happens when your diagnosed with a major illness.  There’s a moment when everything changes… almost instantaneously.

Looking back my moment before was 36-year-old wife, mother of three. Daughter, sister, friend.  Extrovert!  Introvert depending on my mood.  California girl, reluctantly turned southern belle.  Lover of Oscar parties, fashion and Target runs.  A BELIVER.

And then suddenly your told you have Cancer and... well...yeeeaaah.  Still all of the things listed above but you start to worry and wonder about your mortality.  Well your family be ok if something were to happen.  Target runs are exchanged for CT scans, blood work and iron infusions.  You feel sick because you are sick, and you have pain and you’re tired and your “normal” is replaced pretty quickly with a “new normal”.  One that is riddled with doctor’s appointments, surgeries, insurance companies and concerned family and friends.  You begin to really miss your old life, you begin to forget what your life was like before.  “Was I always sick?”  You ask yourself.  “Surely there was a time when I was healthy.”  It’s all a bit of a blur.

I’ve gotten ahead of myself though so let me back track a little.

I started to get really sick in December of 2015.  The first time it happened I chalked it up to food poisoning or maybe the stomach flu.  But then it kept happening.  I couldn’t keep much of anything down, most of what I ate made me really sick.  On the plus side I lost 20 pounds!  On the downside I’ve since gained it all back.  But I digress.  Lauren my person and fellow blogger suggested I see a doctor…because perhaps 5 episodes of “food poisoning” in one month isn’t’ actually food poisoning.  We would joke later that she saved me life, but in fact she just may have.

So, I saw my doctor and within a few weeks I was scheduled for an endoscopy and colonoscopy.  Hooray!!  Not once during this process did I ever suspect cancer.  My mom was battling parotid cancer, my sister had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.  The chances of me having cancer, well that would just be cruel.  Or suggest we grew up on a nuclear power plant.  Besides, I had Web MD and my very own nursing expertise to rely on.  Crohn’s disease, IBS, stomach ulcers, or possibly a food allergy all seemed like some proper diagnoses’, although, none of them fun.

The morning of my procedure, my husband Greg and I joked and laughed that it took a colonoscopy for us to have a date.  We left our children in the care of my parents and planned where we would have lunch after I was done.  When I woke up from surgery, I was loopy and happy.  Apparently, I announced to all the medical staff I was married to a doctor… Greg is not a doctor.  The actual doctor entered the room forlorn and serious.  “I have good news and some bad news.” He said.  I couldn’t believe that was actually a thing, it felt like a line out of a movie.  “The good news is your endoscopy was clear, the bad news there is a large mass in your colon and its cancer.”  That was it.  I didn’t even get to choose what news I wanted to hear first.  “Is it serious?”  I asked.  (That was the drugs talking.)  “Yes!  It’s very serious.”  He said.  “Well at least I’m already bald!”  I joked. (Drugs again…I had shaved my head two weeks prior in support of my sister.)  The doctor did not find it funny.  We were told we would hear something in the next week or so about surgery, more tests other doctors and that was it.  We were sent on our way, my new illness in tow.  No other information.  What stage was it, had it spread, would I need chemo, radiation…was I going to die?

Looking back that was the hardest part.  The not knowing.  The waiting.  It was like I was in limbo.  Not knowing cancer purgatory.  It was also the part that threw me into the arms of Jesus.  I would imagine myself at his feet, weeping, tears wetting his toes, clinging to his robes and I felt his presence.  His peace, his calm, his LOVE.  Why does the hard stuff build so much character, why do we have to grow and be challenged?  I say to God all the time…” I really, really love you Lord.  I’m not going anywhere I promise.  If you just want to make life really easy for me, that would be fantastic.”  But the reality is I take my eyes off of him daily but he never loses sight of me.  Going through the fire stinks!  But going through the fire with Jesus can bring us so close to him.  It makes our relationship with him and others rich, and deep.  It can make us faithful and God is always faithful.

My cancer was stage 2.  No chemo or radiation needed.  They removed my tumor laparoscopically and I recovered relatively quickly.  I have been in remission for two years and continue to see my doctors regularly.  I know that is not always how the story ends.  I don’t know why my story ended this way and others don’t.  Those are the really tough questions in life and perhaps it’s not for us to know and understand.  What I do know is God is with me, you, us.  Whatever you are going through, whatever troubles you, rub to the arms of Jesus, weep at his feet.

Sticks and Stones: the First Time I was Called the "N" Word

The first time I was called the “N” word, I was in the third grade.  

I was at a high school football game.  My Alma Mater had just scored a touchdown, and as a long standing tradition went, the cheerleaders threw candy into the stands to celebrate.  As kids we would run underneath the bleachers and greedily collect any fallen goodies.  My friend Jenna and I (always together, never apart) walked side by side around the perimeter of the stands, looking for any lost treasure, when a voiced yelled out “Nigger!”  We turned abruptly to a group of three high school boys and one little boy no older than six standing about ten feet away.  One of the teenagers leaned in towards the little boy and said “say it again.”  So he did.  

They all laughed.  I watched the young boy look proudly at the teens giddy in their acceptance.  I looked directly into the ring leader’s face and he smirked at me, challenging me to say something.  His distaste for me palpable.  I shrank, I looked at the ground, and I felt ashamed.  I didn’t say anything, I didn’t dare.  Because that’s what supremacy does.  That’s the point of oppression.  It can cause damage and wounds so deep that sometimes you can’t stand up for yourself.  

But you know who did stand up?  Jenna.  (Just a couple of years older than me, a best friend from grade school, who remains a friend today and happens to be white.)  Her feet firmly planted in the ground and a head held high, she wrapped her arm around my defeated shoulders and said “Nope!” “Not ok!”  With courage and love Jenna took a stand and she did what was right, no “but’s” about it.  Because she was my friend and she loved me.   Because that’s what we are called to do as sisters and keepers in Christ.

We walked back to the bleachers, seeking the safety of our parents.  My small frame cloaked in Jenna’s protection.

 Something forever changed in me that day. I was eight years old, full of light and joy.  I was always aware of my brown skin as I navigated a world in which I was adopted into a white family and raised in a predominantly white community.  But suddenly my skin color was a “bad” thing, in an instant that innocent light inside me was extinguished by one vile word for absolutely no reason.  From that point on I would/will have to choose my battles.  From that point on I would be called “n” word again and again.  From that point on I would be followed around by sales clerks while shopping.  From that point on I would be pulled over by the police for no reason and never be given one.   

Please understand I’m not complaining and for someone who can have a flare for the dramatics that’s not what I’m attempting here.  In fact compared to many I have lived and continue to live a fairly privileged life.  I also realize this was a long time ago and my oppressors were children themselves.  I certainly can’t blame a five year old being taught a racial slur. But this was a small private Christian school that we were all students at. The young men that were taunting me were classmates of my older siblings, and students of my mother who was an English teacher at the time.  Sixteen or Seventeen years old they were at an age to know better.  A racial slur was being taught to a child, precious and innocent and I wondered who had the older boys learned it from?  And now in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks in Charlottesville, I wonder how many members of the Alt right movement, KKK and Nazi Groups started out as young kids yelling racial epithets as a dare.

I reflect on all this now because after a girls weekend in Colorado with a bestie and her incredible family, I was greeted on Sunday night not just by the arms of my children and husband.  But also by the devastating news of Charlottesville, filling my inbox and flooding my social media feeds.  The past three days I have found myself crying out to God for justice and peace.  My emotions flip flopping from, sadness, anger, despair, hope, then back to sadness.  I find myself tucking my kids in at night and dropping them off at school, telling them to remember that Jesus loves them, they belong to him, he is in their hearts and that will never change, so overcome by emotion that I begin to weep.

Yet again it feels like my “light” has been blown out by hatred and terror, the wounds and damage so deep it’s hard to stand.  All around this country the light and love belonging to marginalized groups is being smothered out by darkness.

We are all covered by the same Christ, we are all one in Christ.

“So in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”   - Galatians 3:26-28

In heaven we will all worship the Lord together.

"As the new heavens and the new earth that I make will endure before me," declares the LORD, "so will your name and descendants endure.”   - Isaiah 66:22

Let’s worship the Lord together here, now.  Let’s reclaim the light.  Filling the flames with love, kindness, friendship, trust and Grace.  So we will burn brighter than ever before unable to be put out again.