I am a fan of humans. I am a fan of love.

There is not one single direction one can turn and not hear the hate, feel the rage, see the destruction.   At work it is a topic, at home it becomes nasty disputes, on social media it becomes awful heated arguments with those we never see yet call “friends”.  

Do black lives matter? Yes! Do immigrant lives matter? Yes!  Do Police lives matter? Yes! Do lives matter from the moment of conception? Yes! Gun laws along with thousands of others are flawed. Whether you voted for the man in office or not does not mean you ought to act a fool because you didn’t get your way. We are behaving as utter imbeciles.  Protesting is our right so do it with respect for that and the countless other rights we have. Each life lost in this world no matter the manner in which it was taken is a loss of a precious life. Mourn the loss and refrain from grabbing the pitch fork of blame in haste. If we don’t will it bring back the person we lost? Will it truly bring justice? Can it repair the hole in our hearts? It will prove to only give us instant and empty gratification, leaving a deep wound that needs love to heal remaining.

I am speaking of every story in the news, every hurtful dialogue seen on social media, every topic that causes division, every foul political feud. I myself have had to take a long hard look at my heart as I too want to quickly jump to offer opinions, give my idea of solutions, and point fingers of blame. Personally I came to rest on one question rather than an answer; what am I really a fan of?  I am a fan of humans and love. Some are grossly deranged, some are delicate beauties, some are the same color skin as I and some are not, some shine bright while others shadow evil with each step. I am no better than the next, I am subject to the evil traps of this world, I am the same as all others in one glorious way – I exist because I was created.

Not one of us can solve the entire world’s problems, not one of us can stop the evil that persists, not one of us can shed light on every inch of darkness on this planet alone but together we can!

So, in my own small diverse and magnificently created corner of the world I will do my part to be a fan of humans and be a fan of love. 

Forgiveness and healing are issues of the heart. I find it intriguingly frustrating that with a medical and mental health professional for close to every ailment, there is no magic remedy for forgiveness.
This is where I have been stuck for a while.
On that August day when my husband called me to tell me we were expecting again as God had revealed to him our daughter deep in the bush in Liberia Africa my heart jumped for joy! Four long years later she was finally home on American soil getting to know her family and her new normal. Our  hearts soon broke as we learned of the horrific pain she endured, pain we had no idea that was being inflicted.
The anger set in and took good solid root in a foundation I thought was unable to be penetrated. People are flawed, all people including me. In truth it is me whom I need to concentrate on the most when considering flaws.
Finding ease and even comfort in holding onto anger reflects solely on the one shooting invisible arrows.
Placing my bow aside, breaking away that stone wall built around my heart,


I must continue to allow healing to settle in and light to replace darkness.
In a country far away there are faces and smiles that I miss more than words can describe, There are tastes and smells of food that I long for and laughter that still resounds in my ears. My heart  aches to return to this place in many ways yet a mountain of uncertainty holds me back.

What is certain and crystal clear is that me heart is once again ready for missions.
There really is a professional for every ailment and for my present, past, and inevitably future, there is was, and always will be. He has walked this painful path with me every step of the way.

 

I posted and shared something on my Facebook today. I posted about an incredibly difficult and touchy subject for many. However, for me it is not difficult at all, in fact it is simple in its complexity. 
Rehoming any of my children has never been an option - ever. No matter how they entered this world and became a Neal they are forever ours, forever a Neal.
Oh my, that sounds saint like and so very noble doesn't it? Let's take a step back and talk about what no one wants to talk about.
I have been stolen from, assaulted, threatened, spent countless hours in a multitude of doctors and other professionals offices, gotten to know more police officers than I care to count, chased after run-aways, paid and still owe for treatments and foster care, and shed enough tears to fill a sea.
This world is broken and our children are the victims of that brokenness. They have become products of a society of pain, carrying anguish like a backpack.
We as parents are expected to fix the damage done in so many cases (ie: adoption) of children that are abused, neglected, forgotten, and treated as disposable human trash.
When fear begins to rule and your home is in uncontrolled and utter chaos the thought of rehoming your child may sneak in. There are other options. Options that take long and hard emotional work. The pain our children carry, however they came to own it, is our pain too. We are to help them through it - as hard as that is.
Now, all this being said I also know that there are times that safety is an issue. This is where we lean on the team of professionals we have trusted to be there. It may be tempting to turn away from your team, to blame or feel shame, to find fault in everyone. Pride and fear must take a back seat!
If your team doesn't support you in repairing your family then find another team!
Am I saying that you should allow a dangerous child to have their way? Not in any way, shape or form. Foster homes, treatment centers, and outside services can and may be the answer. In fact, there may be children who never can safely return to the home setting. This does not mean you are not family. Family is forever and everyone's looks different.
Personally, I find different to be beautiful.

Few things in life (my life at least) are more powerful than love for your child. Over the past week I have watched my son teeter on the brink of the unspeakable. There were moments of body shaking fear, floods of tears, glimmers of hope, and the deepest love I have ever felt.

After several straight days of awful news I just kept thinking that my love should be able to save him. How was it that my heart could be in actual physical pain and that wasn't enough to love him out of this?

Humor sprinkled a welcomed subtle balance, as always in my life. Unwelcomed were the many test results bringing undesirable findings. However, as faces and names quickly became a trusted team of fighters for my boy the weight began to lift ever so slightly. The revolving door of doctors, respiratory therapists, nurses, and floods of other team members all rooting for our boy with visible emotion holds a comfort I am grateful for yet never want to need again.

I would stare at his face and hold his hand, listening to the rhythm of the multitude of life saving machines beeping their assurance of protection. Without fail every nurse has asked if I want the noise turned off and before they can finish the question I answer a solid and quick “no thank you”. I needed to hear the soothing sounds of those machines, in fact as he slowly improves and tubes are removed and the room quiets I fight an anxious feeling not hearing those sounds.

His strength is mighty and he radiates with courage. My son just fought a silent fight from within and is still in process of conquering this nasty beast.

Far more people than I will ever know have prayed, dedicated days, sent thoughts, and well wishes and for this my heart bursts with gratitude. Our entire family has been wrapped in arms of love in numerous joy giving ways through this time and from each and every one of us we say THANK YOU.

I do wish I could say Malachi’s journey was complete however; we still have a long road ahead of us. For this moment we will rest in today, answered prayers, and the comfort of knowing we aren’t alone in this.    

Some days are harder than others. Much harder.

Countless children have come through her doors holding the same unanswered questions and clutching to a flicker of hope.
Why? Why is their story filled with broken promises and abandonment and pain? Without ever speaking it she can see it, in fact she can feel it. She too, held the smallest grain of hope for fifteen years that her father would return, fight for her. There was no fighting for her, no moving Heaven and Earth to be with her. There was emptiness and pain and unanswered questions.


Today is Father's Day and it holds a myriad of emotions. At the core of who she is she hurts however, that hurt is enveloped in sweet gratitude.
She watches the men in her life that, even on a bad day, move Heaven and Earth to be present dads. She sees their hurt when their children hurt, their joy when the smallest of triumphs occur. She wonders just as the children who have entered her home, why was her story written so painfully different.
Hurtful words spoken in past fight their way to the surface of her memory. Oh what she would give to simply erase the memory of those stabbing words, and yet they stick like glue. Her heart begs answers to what she knows will never be given.

Jerking her thoughts back, reigning them in she rests in a memory of six little darlings that came to call. Not by choice, they entered her home and not by choice they left. Their short stay changed her for the better. In their eyes each held their own deep pain and even deeper strength. Never was there a more sweet and spicy bunch. With each hand held and prayer said she loved them and learned from them. Humbled by their hope for a different ending to their stories she knew her life was enriched by their presence.
Some days she finds herself praying through each of the gems that visited name by name and story by story. Sometimes she gets angry at the unfairness, sometimes filled with hope, sometimes laughter sets in as silly memories are sparked. Nonetheless she prays for their "why" to find peace.

Days that are harder than others make us stronger and painfully mold us into the ongoing work of art we are.

Grandfather had left the house to mom when he died. She would never say it but to be honest, she could think of nothing crueler. He was the only good thing in her life and now he was gone and she had to live each and every day in the same house that was once her safe place without her safe person. That safe place held cherished memories only to be presumably ruined in the days to come by her mother’s love affair with drugs and alcohol.  

She chose her room and began decorating, making her statement, and adjusting to her new normal. Her room had a door that led out to the black tar garage roof which, at just thirteen was the ideal place to bake in the sun. After all, being tan was critical to being cool so at least she was grateful for this. That door would also come in handy later for sneaking out at night.

It wasn’t hard to decorate when you didn’t have much. Things came and went in her life. As the need would arise for more cash mom would pawn anything she could and when there was money to spare she would (sometimes) replace it with some thrift shop junk. However, some things still held enough importance and emotional value that no matter what her mother would hold onto them. Jewelry, nick knacks, old records, and some art work were tokens of hope for her. Her hope was one of these items would yank her mother from the depths of her desire for the next fix and slam the door on addiction. It didn’t work this way and she knew it but a girl could dream.

Her brother was still small enough to not fully comprehend the dysfunction in which he lived in. His room was right next to hers and in it hung bright red, blue, and yellow fabric balloons on the wall. His crib bedding matched the wall hanging making it all cheerily flow. Her heart felt a rush of terrifying and delightful awareness each time she looked at his sweet little chubby cheeked face. She was smart enough to know how to care for his basic needs when their mother couldn’t but she was in a constant fight to keep her own head above water. How was she going to ensure he would be okay? She had to shake the thought when it dared enter. There wasn’t any time for that or any reason she supposed.  Keep moving she told herself, just keep moving.

She walked through the door filled with anticipation. Today would be her best birthday ever, she just knew it. Not like the years before, no it would be different this year.  There really would be a cake, there really would be gifts. This year her mom would be sober enough to remember. She just knew it!
With that anticipation she entered the living room. It was dark, the blinds still drawn, the only light coming from a forgotten cigarette dying out in an ashtray. Not this year. Not again! Her mom lay passed out on the couch unable to be jostled awake.
As quickly as the tears fell they were wiped away. That wasn't going to solve one thing. Pity didn't fix a lick of spit. Move on she told herself, there will be better days and you will see to it. 
That young survivor marched into the kitchen and proceeded to make her own birthday cake and while it baked she wrapped her own gifts from her own toy box. Indeed a party would be had and it would look so unique and fabulous. Permanent markers were used for decorating the walls with misspelled words of joy and affirmation.
When the timer rang and the smell of the cake filled her kitchen she felt a peace wash over her. There was beauty to be found in even the darkest and ugliest of places and moments.
Pulling the blinds allowing daylight to pierce through her mothers stupor and awaken her, she invited her to her party.  Heaviness and guilt came in the form of tears from her mother. Wiping her mothers tears she presented her with a piece of fresh, delectable, straight form the box cake. Her mother began to sing happy birthday filling the room with her deep raspy tune bringing forth a resurgence of tears for both mom and daughter. This time, however there was no wiping them away, they simply let them silently flow holding one another.
From the closet her mother pulled a bright, carefully wrapped box. She remembered!