There was far too much to get done as I plugged away at all the Thanksgiving Day meal prep but how could I say no as I looked into the eyes of my child as she asked "will you please come to church with us"?
Cliche as my next statement may be, it is ever so true. It was exactly where I needed to be and exactly the words I needed to hear, precisely what my eyes needed to see, and my heart needed to soak up.
I love painting word pictures for willing eyes to read but last night I sat and relished the work of an artist silently using only his hands to tell a story playing out in front of my eyes. All while a wise white haired man in a white robe used words to reveal a story of deep gratitude and impart his wisdom into hearts and minds.
Children were invited to come forward to hear their very own story and then share their hearts, their thankfulness was valued.  Josie stepped up to the microphone, her small voice speaking bravely her thankfulness for family and mommy. Tears welled but I did a good job holding them back until my husband holding our new son spoke. He spoke the words our son cannot while his eyes confirmed them to be true. Let the waterworks begin, yes I couldn't hold the tears back and they simply fell.
That white haired man clothed in a white robe speaking words of wisdom that I trust to speak into my life challenged me (really everyone) to show gratitude in the simplest and oldest way possible, thank you cards.
Now due to my being behind on getting my thank you cards out by about twenty nine years I will paint for you. Sadly I know that many will never hear or read my personal gratitude as our paths crossed but only for a moment. It still matters.
This painting if you will, will be long and portioned out in to digestible sections. My life is far too blessed to have this be short and to the point.

So it begins......
I was young and small and they adored and spoiled me. I still remember vividly the smell of Grandpa and Grandma Gold's house and can still taste the diet Sprite she would always give me. The parents of my mothers boyfriend, my brothers grandparents, my solace. They loved me well.

She pinched me so hard and so many times and we would fight some days on that recess playground until we were out of energy. She was my best friend. She saw me completely unguarded and vulnerable and still loved me. She knew me and I knew her. We fought what life threw our way like a two woman army and I think we won. She protected me all the way through high school in her crazy dysfunctional way. My gift from above, my friend, my sister, my maid of honor, my Nicky. Forever indebted and grateful.

He joined the air breathing world when I was only ten years old and he changed my life with his own first breath. He beat the odds of being born of an addict healthy and strong and even chubby. He was loud and perfect. He was my brother. He had it rough, much harder than I, but he not only made it, he barreled through barriers. I am so thankful to be his sister.

Jello was not my favorite because it tasted good but because of her silliness. My stepmom would put jello in the front pocket of my overalls and then make absolutely ridiculous noises while trying to distract me. Then... bam! She would smash my jello filled pocket spraying my face and the room with jello. The laughter we shared neared the point of needing oxygen. My father chose well, better than well, perfect. I adore my parents!

It hit me at 4:30 this morning that yet again we get to see one our son's "firsts". Several tears of joy trickled down my cheeks as this thought warmed my heart. He has these eyes that say so much and are filled with awestruck wonder at each new thing he sees and feels. I could live off a diet of simply taking it all in, watching him watch his new world.
Our Christmas tree is already up and was put up while he was napping one day. When I brought him downstairs he began to laugh from the depths of his soul and point to the tree then to the door. He was clearly stating that apparently during a momentary lapse of judgment we allowed a tree to be brought into the house. His laughter, as always was incurably contagious and we all laughed together. Things got serious though when we put lights on this outdoor object and began to treat it as if it were a dear friend as we fluffed, fixed, and made pretty this crazy tree. Emmanuel is laid back and goes with the flow, that's just the kind of kid he is. True to who he is he went with it and embraced the tradition albeit with hesitation and a clear wonder if we would be bringing any other outdoor objects indoors.
As I think about all that I have to be thankful for a lump forms in my throat and my heart swells. Surrounding me are children that I have prayed for that repeatedly call out the most beautiful word, "mom".
My husband without fail writes me a love letter every morning. This is what I wake up to. Words of encouragement, affirmation, peace, joy, and true love bless the start of my every day.
My friends and family enrich my life with unconditional love and laughter.
I hope and pray that the blessings I receive will be what pours forth from who I am. I desire to love as I am loved!

Naked in November.

He was only two years old and found wandering the streets in only his diaper in the middle of November. On call for emergency foster care we received the call to go and pick him up at the police department. I found it a bit odd that there was a tone of laughter in the officers voice but quickly brushed it off. Maybe he had just heard a funny joke.
My mind already forming a picture of this little boy naked and afraid needing to be scooped up and held. As I arrived and an officer walked me back to where the wee one was again I saw smiles. How could a small little boy naked in November have anything funny about him? Then I turned the corner and saw him. I too began to smile, a smile that still forms each time I think of him. He was HUGE! Not fat, just huge. He had been given a police t-shirt to wear that although was big still did the trick because he was huge. His size was shocking but it was his smile and the joy in his eyes that brought the smiles. He was a bundle of delight! This not so little boy joyfully ran up to me and my plan of scooping him up was so not happening. I sat down on the floor with him instead. Everything he did was big, he ate big, he played big, he laughed big. But, out of the blue he would take my hand and look up at me and say "I love you" in this tiny little soft voice. That boy will always bring a smile to my face.
Thankfully he was one of few feel-good endings. He was a wanderer and with his size was able to maneuver doorknobs and had simply decided that night he didn't want to sleep but rather he would take a little stroll.
He soon went home to a very worried and I might add, very tiny, mother.  

Wearing my Ralph Lauren white polo and cut off Guess jean shorts I shined like a glow worm amidst the all black leather and rock t-shirts. My first "out in the boonies" pig roast (lets be real here - party). Trying to fit in as best possible I was eager to oblige when someone told me to yell "hey Jay". What emerged was quite a sight! Read this slow then take a moment to close your eyes and feel my fear, please.
Black leather fringes hung from beneath the arms of his biker jacket that opened enough to proudly reveal his ACDC t-shirt. Levi's jeans painted on his body left little to the imagination, his ensemble complete with unlaced Nike high tops. Wait! That is only the attire, there is far more to this unforgettable eye candy. Seven earrings hung from each side of his face proudly framed by one of the best mullets ever known to man. In each hand of this man of unsurmountable studly-ness was a beer with one, of course holding a Marlboro.
Now that I have allowed you to enter into my fear/humor/what the?? moment feel free to die laughing or vomit, whatever you need to do.
This, the scene set before me was all mine and I was terrified. Good thing I can roll with the punches. His first words to me were "hey baby, I'm a rock star". My reply seemed logical with "okay, sing me something". Now this I didn't expect, and please make note that I was still Jewish at this point. My mullet man chucked his beers and cigarette, dropped to one knee, looked up at my eyes and with all his heart  began to sing "Jesus loves me this I know....". I was certain all the people at this party were nuts, all Christians were nuts, I was nuts for not running the other direction but oh was he cute in such a bad boy way.
That punk and I still share the love for craziness and passion for each other like we are newlyweds.
Confession???
I kinda wish he'd bring back that mullet. Shhh, don't tell.

I hesitantly write this post. Our world and the people I live in it with are in a bad place. I don't think this comes as a shock to anyone. My heart is hurt and my mind is reeling from all the devastation and hate surrounding us.
I have not known what to like, share, or post on social media about any of the atrocities throughout the world as of lately. So I haven't. However my silence (rare for me) is powerless, holding great and loud volume.
Last night I awoke with a fright. Was it a nightmare? No, it was a reality, one in which I so wish I could have called a nightmare.
Years ago I had felt strongly that I needed to see the other side of foster care, the side in which the kids came from. With a passion for volunteering and a great respect for our law enforcement I applied to be a police reserve officer. I could do all of this with a family of men and women who unbeknownst to me would teach me far more than I could have dreamed. Quickly I saw the other side as I wished, far faster than I had hoped and much too up close. As we would leave a call and get back in the squad I would look at the officer sitting next to me preparing for the next call. They did not even have time to feel the heaviness of what we just experienced. They placed that emotion safely away in an invisible holding cell only to be let out when the world didn't need them. My admiration for these men and women grew with each and every call. They went to school for law enforcement with the harsh reality that that is a far stretch from the ocean size job they have. I watched rape victims frozen in fear be calmed, family members of victims feel heard and given undivided attention, violent jerks treated with the utmost respect, and children removed from homes by loving arms. If you look closely in their eyes at these moments there are tears, the ones that refuse to fall for if they start they may never stop. These men and women counsel, referee, laugh, problem solve, teach, and so much more with every shift they work.
My fright that woke me was that these men and women are being broken down. What if we didn't have them? I fear that society is losing sight of this what if. They are the ones who run towards the gunfire, into buildings ablaze, after the killers, and refuse to give up until justice is served. We need them and yet take them for granted. Why? This question plagues me and before we go crazy with accusations based on something we hear or saw reported stop and think who are you going to trust if your child is kidnapped, or your house is  broken into? Sad as these thoughts are this is reality and we live in a broken world that is a better and safer place with our men and women of law enforcement. They would and do take bullets for you every day. They leave their homes and kiss there spouses and children goodbye not knowing if that is the last time - for us!

My life as an open book? Not by choice at first, but certainly now.

A child of an addict doesn't get to say who knows what goes on behind closed doors. For me this was a breath of fresh air, one I wouldn't admit at the time however the knowledge that others knew gave me an odd sense of security.
My mother was a beautiful woman with a deep laugh, one that came from her belly and filled the room. She was stunning and gentle and loving and yes she was an addict. Growing up I saw the woman behind the drugs and alcohol that painted an awful picture, I knew my moms heart. That woman would sit for hours and brush my hair and play games with me and watch movies. Those moments I hold so dear, those moments are the ones I chose to define my mom and still do.
Mine was not the house friends came to hang out or had the best birthday parties at. Mine was the house of an addict and her daughter desperately trying to make it through each and every day. Every day was a battle for survival for my mom. The dark pain that plagued her was her internal battle, one that she often lost.
The day I lost my father was a day that changed my forever. No he didn't die, I wished he had as I felt it would be easier to understand. Rather he too was stolen by my mother's addiction. An addicts choices soon become out of their control as the power of the drug takes over. Not to enable nor minimize the choice to use but rather make clear the understanding of the downward spiral in saying this. My mothers state of mind fueled by past personal wounds and buried hate fed continuously a diet of mood altering chemicals found a sure fire way to alienate me from my father.
That was the day I became a survivor. That was the day I stopped crying.

I write this to shed light on the child I was along with the children that have and are walking in my shoes. They need us, even though they push us away, even though they are unbearable. They hurt, a hurt they cannot put into words. Love them, and love them so well that they feel it forever. They need to know someone cares, someone sees through the outer junk and finds their hurting and fragile heart.

SEVEN

The door was cracked open to our apartment once again. I knew this meant she wasn’t sober but the mystery of her mood started the racing heart in my chest. School went well that day for once and I even had a skip in my step on the way home. That skip quickly went from my feet to my heart when I found her passed out and not moving on her bed. Was this the time she was not going to wake up? My seven year old self began the routine I was all too familiar with. I began to tap on her cheeks yelling her name. Nothing. I determined she must be hungry so I fed her some watermelon. Nothing. She never swallowed. Running down to the caretakers apartment I remember thinking this is the day that she won’t wake up again. The paramedics filled our small space adding great fear and a feeling of claustrophobia. Her body was jostled and shocked as I watched. Why was this happening? Did I not hide her liquor or flush her pills that morning? This had to be my fault I thought.  

After she was stabilized and admitted I was allowed to see her. The overwhelming emotions stuffed deep down and smile on I walked in her room knowing what to expect. The tears and the apologies and the promises flowing I smiled and forgave her. I was seven. I was in control. I was the parent.

The select and blurred memories began as I simply couldn’t take it all in any longer. Feelings I refused to feel through the prison wall I placed securely around my heart were kept at bay. This was my life and I was no weak victim, I was in charge and I would survive.