Author: savouringmydays

Finding a Home

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I’ve been pondering a lot whilst unpacking boxes over what to say about this move, this home. A brief caption could never convey the full weight of the story or the emotions, and I’ve been reluctant to post a quick #soblessed and leave it at that.

Of course we absolutely are. So very grateful, and so very blessed. This home is beyond what we could have dreamed of and hoped for. But I’m familiar with the feelings that type of post can conjure up on social media, when that doesn’t feel like that’s your story. And for so long, it didn’t feel like mine, either. So here is the back story to how we got here, and I tell it because if you’re in the middle of your story, and can’t see a way through, maybe my messy tale can encourage you. There’s more going on than you might think.

We bought our first home the year before we married, in the days when mortgages were being given away with cornflakes. Ok maybe not, but it was remarkably easy for two naive twenty somethings to get a 105% mortgage. We had good jobs, but I brought university debt, and my poor relationship with money, and that easy mortgage was a catalyst for tricky years ahead.

Fast forward four years and we’d filled our little home with two small curly haired girls, but no means to upsize. An opportunity to rent a bigger home at a reasonable price came, and so we made the decision to let ours out and rent instead.

And then came the recession, and our mortgage company increased their rates and rental costs escalated rapidly, and my spending continued as we juggled three small children and special needs and a whole heap of shame. We hit the point where we realised we would never clear more than the interest of the borrowing we’d acquired, and to have the chance to open our home through fostering as we longed to do, we needed to take action and responsibility. So we approached CAP and began a debt management plan.

And we plodded our way through paying it back over the next six years. Through four enforced house moves, through months without tenants, through the juggle of emotions that came with fostering and welcoming and saying goodbyes.

And I struggled and wrestled with it all. I love home. I love family. I love beauty in design and I love creating a space where we can love one another and share it with others.

But those feelings got distorted and became too important, and feelings of ugly jealousy and envy of those who had what I didn’t, and of ungrateful disillusionment over all I did have were all too often the primary emotions in my heart.

Those years passed by, with learning through the hard and the good, and we welcomed our three youngest to our family. Our debt was paid off the month we went to adoption approval panel, and our finances changed significantly.

But the dream of owning a home of our own still seemed too unlikely, too distant. Debt management plans affect credit ratings for years, and we didn’t know if we’d get a mortgage as we rapidly approached our forties. And I was reluctant to dream of a home we could call our own.

But timing is everything and God’s timing is beautiful and a few months into lockdown we were approached by someone keen to buy our little home. Wondering if now was the time to try, we nervously enquired over a mortgage – and were approved.

Still, the idea seemed ridiculous. We lived in one of the most sought after locations in our area, and to find a house that would fit eight of us at a price we could afford seemed beyond hope. We like the countryside, and looked further afield, but to move our children miles away from friends seemed to defeat the object of them being settled, and of being part of a community where we could share our home.

For various reasons, we’d never considered the city. We’ve lived by a river with views of fields and hills for most of our lives, and urban living was something we’d never considered. During that time there was a week where I had several conversations with friends who lived nearer the city, who were enthusiastic and genuinely grateful to be where they were. This sparked a wondering of whether we should be more open minded, and we began widening our search area, and considering how it might work with schools and friends and work and kids. I offhandedly said one day the name of a road that would work well for all those logistics.

Then the next day this house popped up on Rightmove. On the very street I’d named. In our price bracket. Too beautiful to dare to hope, but so perfect for our family it seemed crazy not to try.

That was in May this year. We viewed it, put our offer in, and waited. Friends prayed. We prayed. People kept telling me they’d seen it online and how lovely it was, but I couldn’t quite believe it would actually happen. Until finally, on October 11th, we were handed the keys to this house, our home.

I wanted to share our story because I feel almost embarrassed by this home. Like a bit of a fraud to be allowed to own it.

But I also wanted to share our story because this is what I’m realising – we are very blessed to be here, indeed.

But, the important thing I needed to see, was that we were no less blessed when we were given a month’s notice to move out of a rental house. When our tenants trashed our old home and we had to redo it all. When we didn’t know whether babies we loved would stay or go. When we watched other people’s stories with aching hearts and dreamed of where ours might go.

Rainbows in the morning

Blessing comes in so many ways. And the truth is, those years have taught us and grown us and shaped us, in ways that wouldn’t have happened if things had gone differently. Through our mistakes, through our hurt, and through so many unexpected moments of provision and joy, we’ve learned lessons that have changed us.

The truth is that if I move into this home and believe it will be all my dreams come true, it won’t be long before I’m looking elsewhere for happiness. Because we are living in the in between of a broken world that isn’t yet complete, and both my home and my heart reflect that. Within days of owning our home, plaster had fallen and fresh paint peeled and kids messed up the insta-worthy scenes, and the cracks in my dreams and my misdirected hopes showed up as quickly as those on the grey walls. And those moments are teaching me too. There is a God who delights to heap goodness on me, through reading nooks and storage walls and breakfast bars. But He also loves to heap goodness on me as I face the mess and the setbacks and the frustrations and the stress in our family, and as I see Him there with me in them. Walking alongside me and offering Himself in place of my broken dreams, His love to restore my fractured relationships.

My prayer through this year as we waited was that if this was to be our home, we would never forget Who made it possible, and we would open our door wide and offer shelter to those around us. Because whilst I am beyond grateful that this home is for our family, and we get to enjoy it, and our children can feel secure and have a greater sense of permanence, I don’t believe it’s ours alone. We, humanity, are part of a bigger family. A bigger world. If this city street is where we call home, may I never be so precious about the house itself that I sit behind a closed door and lose sight of the people around me. Because being home is about so much more than a building.

‘Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of – throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.’ (CS Lewis)

After Mother’s Day

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Another child back to school means a reclaiming of my workspace.

Four down, two to go…but as grateful as I am for the steps toward ‘normality’, a piece of my heart goes with each of them. This year has changed us. All of us.

I didn’t do a Mother’s Day post, because I didn’t know what to say. I’m all too aware of the hurt, of the pressure, of the pretence. Of the smiling mothers who are crying behind the camera, as well as all those crying at the photos. So I didn’t feel authentic to do a ‘blessed’ post, which didn’t convey the volume of emotions I actually felt yesterday. The truth is:

I am grateful.
I feel weary.
I am blessed.
I feel overwhelmed.
I am hopeful.
I feel helpless.
I am in love.
I feel pain.

So I stopped and sat and thought about being made in God’s image-male and female. A mother heart comes from God. So how is God like a mother to me?

He is tender.
He is gentle.
He is protecting.
He is compassionate.
He is the counsellor.
He is the teacher.
He is the healer.
He is the provider.
He is life-bringing.
He knows intimately.
He forgives completely.
He loves unconditionally.
He sacrifices endlessly.

We talk about mum guilt, and isn’t it a real deal? But I find peace when I know, I will never be enough. I love them to the point of pain, but I cannot be everything to them. I would give my life for them, but I cannot stop the world from hurting them.

But I know One who can. And He is enough. And when I come to Him, as His child, He gives His all, and He brings peace.

‘For thus says the LORD: “Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river, and the glory of the nations like an overflowing stream; and you shall nurse, you shall be carried upon her hip, and bounced upon her knees.
As one whom his mother comforts, so I will comfort you.’- Isaiah 66:12-13

Raising Readers

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No world book day costumes here today (thank goodness 😜), but two of the small ones headed downstairs and the newest able reader sat and ‘taught’ her smallest brother to read.

And it got me thinking. We are so lucky to now have four out of six now who have fallen in love with books, despite various challenges along the way. How did that happen? We certainly haven’t sat down and taught them to read! I haven’t even (gasp) read with them every day when they started school. Many times we’ve read the school book once. In the car before school on the day it had to be handed in. (Oh the shame 😱). And yet here we are, with children who read whilst walking to school. Who read when they should be asleep. And smallest ones who pretend they can read because it’s the cool thing to do. So here are my thoughts on what might have helped.

📚 We read to them. From tiny babies, we’ve read to them. Every day. We’ve spent nearly 15 years reading the same board books, the ones that last. Dear Zoo. Happy Dog, Sad Dog. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Books become a comforting part of bedtime routine. When foster babies and children came, stories were a vital part of building an attachment, an important introduction to safe touch and a place of quiet and peace. For all of our children before they wanted to read to themselves, those moments before bed have always been an important part of our routine, they have time with us, they ask questions, they have cuddles, they connect. Or, in Micah and Theo’s case, they might run around in circles and throw things at my head. But it’s still fun. For them. 😆

📚We have books around the house. Small children will grab them and play with them, they’ll learn there’s a world of wonder in those pages. They’ll see them as normal and intriguing and fun.

📚We let them choose. From when they can form an opinion, they’ll have the ones that they want. Now I’ll be honest, this does get annoying, because I would much rather read a story than ‘100 vehicles’ or ‘Lift the flap shapes book’ for the 95th night in a row. And I do occasionally make strong suggestions towards other options. 😆 But they love repetition, they love the familiarity, and they learn so much through it when they’re interested. Megan read the same book for about 3 years when she was younger. I’d offer other things, and she’d dip in and out, but it was where she was happy and felt safe, in her imaginary world in the pages of Enid Blyton.

📚As they get older, we let them try different genres-they’ll read if they’re interested in it! Admittedly I was thrown by not one of my children having a remote interested in my favourite childhood stories, Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables were strongly rejected in favour of The Magic Faraway Tree, Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and moving on to Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. Currently I have one reading about Henry’s Wives, one into Murder Mysteries, one still on Harry Potter, and one who much prefers nature books to any fairy stories. It’s surprising how interesting Mushrooms can be.

📚We ask other people for ideas. I was lucky to grow up in a family of avid readers, and my sisters have given loads of suggestions on books that might interest my kids when it’s not something I’ve had a natural interest in. I scour their Christmas lists for ideas and blatantly steal them. The children’s teachers will have loads of ideas, and I scout bookshops or websites for new releases.

📚We’ve tried to be patient. They learn to read at different ages and stages, it’s really not a competition, no matter how it feels in reception and year 1. My mum taught me to read when she home schooled us, and although I love it now, she said I wasn’t interested for a long time. When Megan started school I was clueless as to what ‘normal’ progression for new readers was, and I’m glad really, because I was pleased at her progress, but it was never a huge deal. It turned out, she actually grasped it really quickly, and was an early free reader. But that’s not been the same for the others, and that’s fine too. By the end of the first lockdown it was a battle to get Maddie to read anything, yet since Christmas she’s flown and is now reading anything. Time, no pressure, and letting her go at her pace seem to have been the answer.

📚We let them see us read. Maisie was greatly spurred on to read because she was desperate to find out what was so addictive about the Rainbow Magic books Megan was obsessed by. Micah is pretending to read because he sees the older kids and us do it. When I had four kids 5 and under including a foster child I definitely wasn’t putting reading at the top of my to do list, so it’s not always a priority-or even fun. But there are lots of books which aren’t heavy word filled books, and they still show the appeal of that paper and ink, of a world beyond the space we’re living in. ‘Coffee table’ books, filled with photos or art, short stories, poems, daily devotionals, travel books (or Winnie the Pooh, if we’re going for Notting Hill references…).

📚Choose attractive books. There are so many gorgeously illustrated books out there. I love reading, but I’m still always more likely to be drawn to a book with a good cover, making me question my judgementalism, yet true nonetheless. Books and their covers can be works of art in themselves, and going into a real life bookshop can become as appealing as a sweet shop. Well, obviously if we could visit both that would be the best of everything. Just ask Micah.

‘When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.’ (You’ve Got Mail).

Keep calm and read on friends.

Nostalgia

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It was five years ago this week that I had that phone call. It had been a very long four months of having no foster placement, the longest gap we’d had since we first opened our home four years before. Those quiet months brought so many emotions – of course we were delighted to not be needed. Who could complain that there weren’t many little ones in need of foster families? It was respite from the busyness of fostering life, and gave us precious family time with Megan, Maisie and Toby, who had ridden the wild roller coaster of the previous four years with us.

But I never cope particularly well without plans, and it was the uncertainty that was the challenge. Not just the uncertainty of when a child might come, but the frequent phone calls asking if we could take one, only to have another call a few hours later with a change of plan. We had even got to the point of having a time of day one that one little one would be arriving, with freshly washed baby clothes in the cupboard, only for an hour before she arrived to be told there was another change of plan and she’d be going elsewhere, a decision that, to me, seemed to have no real logic behind it.

Then there was the financial aspect. We didn’t foster for the money, but at the same time, it was my job for those years, and it was difficult to know how to handle that uncertainty for that length of time. I reluctantly made enquiries and booked onto a child minding course, but my heart wasn’t in it. My heart was always to offer a home and family to those in the most need. It just seemed that it was the responsible thing to do to be proactive in doing something in the waiting, just in case.

And of course the quietness gave time to ponder on the little ones we’d said goodbye to, the lives we’d been privileged to be a part of for a time. To celebrate their stories and also to grieve the loss we feel too. To remember why we chose to do it, and to pray for the ones who’d left and the ones who would come.

And then that week came. With Liam’s birthday cake still half eaten, the children home on half term, and a few more days of uncertainty with numerous phone calls about these little ones. They came, they left again. I was phoned and asked to take another placement, but as I sat in the car park of the shopping centre, something in my gut told me to say no. To wait for these two.

It seemed ridiculous after all those months, to hold off despite having only a vague idea of what might happen with them, and absolutely no certainties that we’d be asked to have them. But it was one of those few times where I know the strength of that feeling was no coincidence or fanciful hoping. It was more than a gut feeling, it was a prompting from heaven. There was a bigger plan going on here than I could have imagined.

And after a couple more days of uncertainty, of phone calls, of changes of plans, they arrived.

And they never left.

Our lives are a small piece in the enormous worldwide history-spanning jigsaw of stories, all connecting, separate yet intertwined. And when I face the nostalgia on these anniversaries, I am acutely aware that there were other pieces going on elsewhere that surrounded those moments we were living in. And the different stories that were happening in different homes over those months that led to that day. As we grieved foster babies that had left, and waited quietly for the cot to fill again, adoptive families were opening their hearts and arms to their forever babies, years of hopes and dreams coming true. And at the same time, birth families were grieving and wrestling the finality of decisions made, the lifelong consequences to face of hard stories and choices that filtered through generations and left a legacy of pain.

And for these two, in a parallel story until our lives entwined, those months tell a story that isn’t easy to know, let alone imagine them living through. Our gain was part of much loss. Loss for their birth family, a just and right decision for their safety, but the mother in me cannot fathom the depths of heartache, or shame, or anger that come from stories like these. Loss for them, the life they knew was all they knew. The blood connection was their flesh and blood. The voices, the smells, the sounds, no matter how broken, were the only ones they knew. The loss of the start to life they should have had, and the innocence and safety that should be part of their childhood, the security and acceptance of their future that should be unquestionable.

And yet. Yes, so much loss. But yes, so much hope.

I don’t think it was coincidence that none of the placements we were offered in those months didn’t pan out.

I don’t think it was coincidence my gut said no – we’ll wait – on that wet Wednesday.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they fit so beautifully from the start.

I don’t think it was coincidence that they are here and they are together and they are ours.

And as I was thinking about it all this week it encouraged me that surrounding all the uncertainty of the world and the life we’re living, whatever that looks or feels like, there’s a bigger picture than the one I see. The story doesn’t go the way I expect, but that doesn’t mean it’s unwritten. Even the hard things along the way can have a purpose beyond what my eyes can – or may ever – see.

Of course I wish from the bottom of my heart that their lives had begun differently. That they didn’t have to live with loss. That the impact of that didn’t follow them – and now us – through life. But I am also so grateful that we get to be part of their future. That in the chaos and disorder and brokenness of the world we live in, God shows care and mercy and orchestrates good. ‘He sets the lonely in families.’ (Psalm 68:6)

It provokes me two ways – to remember that outside of my comfortable home and loving family are so many other stories going on – so many thousands of people, lonely, hurting, afraid. How can I look outward and love, to share what I’ve been given? To be family to those who feel lost? To care, and to raise children that care?

And it reminds me to remember that when things feel hard and look hopeless, when there seems to be heartbreak everywhere or even just when the news update is disappointing and I want to complain that we are STILL in this bleak situation, to remember that good is still happening. Maybe I can’t see it. Maybe it’s not how I’d expect. Maybe it even involves loss and heartache along the way. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there. There is a bigger picture being formed by the hands that created the world, that were pierced for the world, and that hold the world.

‘Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.’ (Corrie Ten Boom)

Twixmas and beyond

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Hello again! It’s been more than a week since I blogged my 40 before 40 list, and a whole year’s worth of emotions I think. I quite enjoyed the quiet days post Christmas, with no anxiety over people getting ill before Christmas, no risk of self isolations from school, nowhere to be. As dreamy as that sounds, not all of us are made for the hibernation life, so we’ve needed to do a lot of walks and scootering in ice and mud and rain-but we’ve missed the snow sadly.

So we did jobs, we did walks, we did crafts, we ate and watched tv and played games and I got stuck into my list with enthusiasm. In my Twixmas haze, I embraced the slow life. As much as is possible when living with Christmas carnage, with wild things who wake early and with sleepier, grumpy in a quieter way wild things who stay up till late.

I bravely attempted to wear jeans one day (a very foolish idea), and spent New Year’s Eve introducing my older children to Les Misérables. It seemed fitting somehow.

‘There is a life about to start when tomorrow comes…’

Of course January 1st dawned and it was not the day of freedom, new beginnings, or the revolution. As we hoovered pine needles and dusted windowsills, even my Pollyanna optimism started to dwindle. The weekend was hard, we are tired and keeping up motivation to entertain and be engaged with family members from morning until night is wearing thin.

And then there was Monday’s England lockdown news.

Honestly, sometimes there’s just no more words to write. We don’t want to hear of more lockdowns, more home learning, more staying at home. The weather is bleak, our energy has gone, and it’s just hard. With every new piece of bad news, there are a million emotions. Some days they hit us harder than others, for different reasons for different people.

And sometimes we’re still just processing the last few weeks before another wave crashes in again, knocking us off our feet again.

I don’t really know where I’m at this time. Wales locked down before Christmas, so it doesn’t feel like a new blow for us, and I was already fairly sure January would be a write off. But there have been moments where I’ve wondered how we’ll ever get out of this. And there are days where I wake up aiming to be positive, but life happens and others don’t feel so cheery or the news is full of a world in chaos and by the end of the day we’re all a bit done with it all.

I honestly don’t have any new insights. We’ve been here for 9 months. But we’re still here, aren’t we? And for that I’m grateful. And that gives me hope. So here’s what I’ve been up to the last week that has kept me from going mad.

– Trying to get up before the kids and having some quiet time. Normally they invade my solitude, but that’s ok. I was still there first! I read my Bible, pray, journal. There are days where for various reasons I don’t. And that’s ok too. But the days I do manage, it really helps.

– I’ve finished two books I started before Christmas. One was Adam Kay’s ‘Twas the Nightshift Before Christmas’. Hilarious, harrowing, and appealed to the ex-midwife in me. The other was a gift for my birthday, Jen Hatmaker’s ‘Fierce, Free, and Full of Fire’. The thing I love about being given books that I wouldn’t normally have read is that you read with no real agenda. I didn’t agree with everything in it, but there were some brilliant points too, that made me think and inspired me.

– Crocheted. Obvs. I finished the Advent crochet-along, a winter ruler who I’ve had to hide from my Elsa-obsessed 5 year old son. I’ve made two premature baby hats and have another little project to gift on the go. My theory is it’s cheaper than counselling and it doesn’t make me cry (if we don’t talk about my spending on the wool, which could cost more and may make Liam cry!).

– Baked twice just for fun. A Chocolate Cloud cake for New Year’s Eve, which we adorned with Crunchie and sparklers and I thought about Dan, because he introduced us to it’s deliciousness first.

And another nostalgic home inspired bake, Cheese Scones for Sunday teatime. Maybe my therapy for all I’m missing is to surround myself with things that make me feel warm and fuzzy, like my parents living room with an open fire. If I can’t be there, I’ll re-create the smells and tastes and find comfort in the baking. And eating.

– I actually went for a run. It was muddy and icy and I was slow and felt like a Christmas pudding on legs, but I did it and it was invigorating. I’ll spare you a photo, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

– After we cleared Christmas away I left all the walls and mantelpieces bare for a few days. To clear my head, I think. And then I put back the things I love and some new happy things like the bright and fragrant dried flowers I had for Christmas. They are a reminder of the colour that has been, a promise of colour that will return again, and I can’t kill them. Winning all round.

I spent a day sorting out things I’d stacked in the garage for the charity shop. I have to smuggle them out there or the resident hoarders try to lynch me for every outgrown sock and unplayed with soft toy that have ever graced our lives. It turns out I had three boxes of leftover party accessories. Looking through them was like going through our family history – Toy Story napkins from Toby’s first birthday…remnants from many Frozen parties…the cupcake stand from Maddie’s Dear Zoo second birthday tea not long after she’d arrived with us. The sentimental part of me would keep one of each and scrapbook them. The frugal me would keep them and throw a multi-themed party. Sorry Megan, your sweet 16 will be themed ‘birthdays through the years’. And the tidying me tutted at having not sorted them before and condensed three boxes to one, which I was very happy about. Only the charity shops are shut in lockdown. So back in the garage it all goes.

However you’re feeling these days, know there’s no pressure to be a certain way. Maybe you’re not in a tidying or baking or crafting place. That’s ok. We’re in tough times. On Monday I barely moved. It was the first day of home learning and I was like my sulky teenagers about it. Sometimes ‘one day at a time’ is too much.

But we can do one step at a time. One half hour at a time. One meal at a time. One song in the background at a time. One FaceTime coffee date at a time. Book in little rewards for ourselves-once we’ve wrestled through the 8 times table, it’s cup of tea/snack time. Once the smallest is in bed, it’s trashy TV/wine/chocolate/bed with a book time. When we’ve managed a week, celebrate with takeaway time.

And we can do it, one prayer at a time. Because whatever the days are like, we don’t ever have to do it alone.

“I called on your name, O LORD, from the depths of the pit;
you heard my plea, ‘Do not close your ear to my cry for help!’
You came near when I called on you; you said, ‘Do not fear!’
“You have taken up my cause, O Lord; you have redeemed my life. – Lamentations 3:55-58

Sending virtual hugs out into the world, and much love for tomorrow.

Forty before Forty

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When I was in school, I had a lot of resentment about being an August baby. I was the tiny one on the desk hidden in the corner. I never turned the next grand age during the school year. My friends were inevitably on holiday for my birthday party, and to top it off I had my 18th birthday and went straight to collect A-level results the next morning.

However this year I’m finally reaping the benefits of being the baby of the year! I’m in a WhatsApp group with several school friends, and couldn’t help feeling a little smug as we started wishing friends a happy 40th way back when I’d just turned 39. But after Christmas was finished it suddenly dawned on me that when we’ve welcomed the New Year in, lockdown party style on Thursday night and celebrating a grateful goodbye to 2020, my fortieth will be in this. very. year.

Well that was it. Suddenly I was wide eyed and sleepless and wondering what I should do with this momentous occasion. I’m ok with the fact in terms of age itself. I’ve had some busy years in adulthood, with more ups and downs than Chessington’s finest rollercoaster. So I feel I’ve earned a fortieth and the grey hairs that declare my wisdom. Or my age, anyway. If anything, I’m aware that ageing isn’t a right or a privilege, it’s a gift that not everyone gets, and for that, I’m okay to welcome my next decade in.

Having said that, whilst the storms blew outside I was lying staring into the dark slightly panicked, pondering what I can still achieve whilst I’m still in my 30’s. I’ve spent the best part of 15 years changing nappies and gaining a chronic neck injury from my poor baby-feeding posture combined with the bedtime hand holding of unsettled babies/unruly toddlers/anxious children. At the beginning of the March 2020 lockdown I was still taking a napping Micah in the pushchair on a walk, and somehow over the last 9 months he’s morphed into a several mile hiking, name-writing school-child. And that’s the part that unsettles me. It’s a new season of life and although I’m keenly aware I am still very much still needed, the question is who am I when I’m not hiding my insecurities behind a cute baby or propping my anxious legs up with a pushchair? (This was the first year I had to go Christmas shopping without a pushchair to carry my bags, and I missed it greatly. Next year I’m hoping to be allowed to shop with a pushchair wielding friend.) So given my vague end of thirties/end of toddler-life crisis, I decided I needed some goals. So I sat up and let the pounding rain on the window inspire a list.

Obviously despite a brand new year, the 2020 hangover is going to stay with us for a while, so my goals have to be achievable within a pandemic and the almost forgotten Brexit. No point aiming for the European city break I had planned – turns out my friend who suggested Blackpool would be exotic enough for the four of us might have been right after all.

So here it is, my Forty before Forty. The organiser in me kind of wishes I’d thought about this somewhere in November so I had forty weeks to achieve it, but there we are, I’ll just have to get a wriggle on. Some I’ll have to do more than one a week, some are one a month, some will be one off specials. Some are personal goals, some to do with others, some to do for others. And some are definitely going to be easier than others! (The backlog of photo books particularly fills me with dread!!!) But if I put it in writing it’s more likely to happen, so here it is:

1. Go for forty runs (a combination of illness and the dark evenings have halted my running for the last couple of months, so now seems a good time to get going again).

2. Start a new course (possibly cheating as I’m already enrolled, but I’m excited to get going)

3. Finish reading or read ten new books

4. Get a tattoo (I’ve got the design and the gift voucher…just need them to be allowed to open again)

5. Start writing a book

6. Use my DSLR to take forty special photos

7. Bake forty things for fun (could do with being allowed to feed them to other people too.)

8. Complete four years of photo books

9. Clean out four rooms

10. Learn a new piece on the piano

11. Start learning Welsh

12. Hike somewhere new

13. Put our little house on the market (and hopefully sell it!)

14. Write down forty prayers

15. Write forty thank you letters

16. Do a four week healthy eating plan

17. Have 8 date nights (going out would be a bonus!)

18. Have 8 family nights in

19. Try a new craft

20. Climb a hill to watch the sunrise

21. Climb a hill to watch the sunset

22. Visit a new beach

23. Start walking the Welsh coastal path

24. Go on a bike ride

25. Write a will (we said we’d do it when we went to matching panel for Micah 3.5 years ago…)

26. Save £X per month

27. Get a passport (Liam looked nervous at this one)

28. Book a holiday (should probably get him a passport too)

29. Write letters to my children

30. Donate forty things to a charity shop

31. Crochet and donate 20 premature baby hats for hospitals

32. Twin a toilet

33. Buy from four new Independent businesses (always happy for recommendations)

34. Pay for fourteen suspended coffees

35. Donate forty items to food bank

36. Plant four bee attracting plants

37. Send 8 surprise parcels

38. Research and support a local charity/cause (again, recommendations welcome)

39. Sponsor an international Cleft Palate surgery through Operation Smile

40. Raise £400 for charities (split between BHF and Barnados)

Writing this list was enjoyable and focussing, and really helped my mood going into the new year. I’m not normally one for New Years resolutions, but the thought having some goals and purposes in the middle of lockdown life certainly cheered me up! I highly recommend doing it, whatever age you’ll be turning in 2021. No doubt there’ll be curve balls and unexpected moments, but if I don’t manage to bake all the cakes I’ll be ok with that. It’s more a motivation to keep looking for ways to make every day count. I’ll keep you updated on my progress, and I’ll be setting up a justgiving account for the fundraiser. I’ve got until August 18th 2021, so please, join me for the ride!

‘So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.’ – Psalm 90:12

Messy Nativity

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Picture the scene:

Friday morning. Not the last day of term, but at the moment the last day has changed four times for three different schools, so who knows – it might be the last day?! It’s the last day in school for our kids, anyway.

Children number 4, 5 and 6 are running around with bed head hair, wet wipe washed jumpers, and still sporting milk moustaches-not for Movember, just from the morning.

Child 3 has had his coat on and been trying to leave the house since 7:45. It’s likely that his hair and teeth are unbrushed and he almost certainly doesn’t have fruit or a drink in his bag.

Children number 1 and 2 are self isolating. They might not be any more actually, I heard a rumour the dates had changed, but that’s something we’re not sure of because it was another one of several hundred emails that landed this week with fresh information. However, they’re still here, I think, ready to roll from bed to laptop in one smooth move.

Child number 3 is finally released in a state of semi order.

Child 1 appears, very excitedly showing me the trailer for the new Marvel film, whilst Child 3 bursts back through the door, having forgotten the teachers presents that he’d been holding for 20 minutes prior to leaving. Child 1 enthusiastically tries to show him the trailer-at least he’s likely to be interested.

At this point I interject. Child 3 is now late, I point out, and you and Child 2 cannot be doing school in your pyjamas. I locate the missing presents, wash three faces, send Child 3 back out of the house hoping he now won’t miss the bus, pack two bags, and am presented with a note that says, simply: £2.00. Child 5 has observed that I have learned to filter out the frequent voices invading my brain and has decided on a new strategy to ensure I don’t forget the payment for the decoration she crafted in school. Requests made in writing are surely likely to be noted?

And off we go, with packed bags and fruit pots, several coins paying for things that may break on the way home, and funny feelings in tummies because change is on the way, again.

After I got home after a typically chaotic Friday morning I found it there, under the tree where the wires tangle and the needles drop, lying between the manger and the angel, a sentimental ornament in broken pieces between the holy.

And when we’ve been around for long enough we know, don’t we? At some point over the years, the broken pieces of memories and ornaments get wrapped up in the tissue with the tales of Christmas past. The family feuds dull the twinkle of the lights, or the money worries marr the magic of Santa on his way. The anxiety of grief pain merges with the excitement of family time, and we reluctantly wonder, is this really the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

In all honesty, there was a morning this week where I was teetering over the edge of sanity’s cliff, and I was googling for answers and emailing the experts and waiting for appointments and there’s another referral for another child and I was snappy and tired and I wondered who was going to refer me for help? It felt more like the bleak midwinter than joy to the world, and I empathised with my little old snowman under the tree, lying broken with the festivities happening around me.

So I wrote a list and I started cleaning the kitchen drawer that’s bugged me for months, and I put on a podcast while I worked. And there amidst the grime on my kitchen floor I was reminded of the Light that has come, and that no matter how dark the darkness, the Light is always brighter.

And I opened the package the postman delivered, the piece I’d ordered weeks ago. ‘In Him was Life, and that life was the Light of all mankind.’ And as I arranged the holly and flicked the switch it lit up the hallway and lit up my soul with reassurance and promise. The Life-bringing Light has stepped into the darkness of a stable and shone hope onto the brokenness around Him.

I’ve delivered newborn babies and laid them in a crib and seen the quiet reverence of a post delivery room. But this one was full of animal waste, not sterile gloves. And the teenage mother had only her supportive young husband as her midwife, and the grubby shepherds for first visitors, outcasts on the outskirts of a city bustling with those who knew their lineage and were writing their name to show they belonged. And this little family were beginning their uncertain journey into parenthood of the One who had made the star that hovered where he lay, lighting the darkness He was being birthed into.

Today an email dropped into my inbox and it held these words:

‘The story of Jesus is the story of God at street-level, raw and routine. Luke shows Jesus’ parents cycling through both amazement and confusion over their son and how best to lead him. We bear witness to the universality of parenting through the ages. First, they accidentally leave a party without him, “His parents didn’t miss him at first” (Luke 2:34.) Later, in verse 48, we eavesdrop as Jesus’ mom, wide-eyed and frantic, basically screams, “We were worried sick about you!”

They might be famous for their leading roles in the Greatest Story Told, but most of their life together was lived within the inhale and exhale of the mundane. Because of their service to God, palpably aware of their human limitations through it all, they would be, and are, blessed. This is meant for our comfort.

As we hold space for the wonder of Christmas in the midst of our own grunge, may we not become so enamored of the Story that we lose sight of this truth: God so loved the world that he sent his son to live. In a body. Among us.

With parents and everything.’ (Shannan Martin)

This week words I’ve listened to and words I’ve read in books and emails and conversation over a phone and laughter on a Zoom have cobbled together to remind me of where in the middle of a messy advent at the end of a year of broken pieces the wonder of Christmas can still be found. The Light that was born to parents who didn’t know what they were doing, into a world that was desperate for salvation from its own mess, He is the same Light that shines gently into my hurting heart and my anxious mind, my mistakes in my marriage and my cluelessness in parenting. The same Light that streams into the darkness of grief and loneliness, of fear and fury. The same Light that lifts me out of my low places and reminds me of all the goodness around me.

As I look at the lights twinkling on my Christmas tree, I’m reminded of the Light of the World who carried His wooden cross and hung on that tree to save the broken world. And even in the middle of the messiness, His Light still shines and His arms of love reach out to us.

So it’s by no small miracle we’ve made it through another Friday and the end of school runs in the most disjointed year there’s ever been, and children have settled into bed with a wide range of emotions, and I’m sitting here just grateful. For the ups and downs, for the answers to prayers, for the teachers who’ve cared, and even for the dark points that have showed how bright the Light is. Whatever Christmas looks like, nothing can steal the joy and hope of the newborn King.

‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ – Psalm 27:1

Winter’s Promise

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Friday.

I’ve cried a lot this week. I’ve been impatient. I’ve been distracted. I’ve been anxious. I’ve been indecisive. I’ve been ungrateful. I’ve been tired. I’ve been sad.

I’ve also run through an icy field in the winter sun and remembered the seasons are still changing as promised.

I’ve watched my girl who knows and understands and lives loss write unprompted cards to her Grandad and Grandma for their hard day.

I’ve seen my boy who was abandoned in hospital play at looking after babies all day long.

I’ve seen them all come bursting in freezing from school and lonely from self isolation and tired from cranky days and whiney mornings and restless nightmare haunted nights, and they come in. For warmth, for shelter, for food (all.the.food.), for safety, for comfort, for love, for home.

And I’m reminded: Winter will bring forth spring. Sorrow lives alongside joy. Loss is not the end. Hope is possible. Home is a gift. Love came down at Christmas, and He hasn’t abandoned us.

And I listened to a song that told me:

‘I know Emmanuel, you’re one of us
You left your throne to wear our scars
Though Christmas lights may lose their spark
And winter’s cold may break our hearts
Oh Christmas means, Emmanuel you’re one of us.’

I know this year, this month, this week has been hard. Even just in my small circles there’s been infant losses, illnesses, surgeries, palliative care, grief, divorces, mental health breakdowns. And that’s without even mentioning the virus.

But the Baby Mary gave birth to was called Emmanuel, God with us. He ‘became flesh and dwelt among us.’ He ‘bore our griefs and carried our sorrows.’ He came and He felt what we feel, He took our scars, and He brought hope. Hope for a future. Hope for togetherness. Hope for home.

And hope means we can get up and keep going. Keep loving. Keep trusting. Keep being grateful for all the good this year brought too. Keep riding the wild rollercoaster of 2020 with tears, laughter, online shopping, brownies (yep, still munching here), FaceTimes, lack of plans, binge watching movies, reminders of love, singing in the kitchen, dreaming for next year, and knowing this is not the end, and we are never, ever alone.

‘So sister and brother
Be kind to each other
We’ve all had a journey
Our own path to wander
The light will come
Just know you’re not alone.’ (Rend Collective, Emmanuel, You’re One of Us).

Shaky Days

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I opened the door and my heart sank. The thing I dread more than any other thing. The realisation of inevitable destruction done. The despair and ‘if only’s’ running through my head. The sight I least wanted to see. The sense of impending doom.

If only I’d been more careful.

If only I’d learned my lesson.

If only I’d checked the pockets for tissues.

So maybe I’m being a touch melodramatic (although I think tissue hitchhikers are up there as one of the worst domestic disasters), but opening my washing machine this morning felt a bit like the world feels right now. For every clean item of clothing I pulled out, clouds of washed and shredded tissue came too. Every item needed shaking, brushing, or re-washing. The signs of its presence in every trouser leg, every cardigan pocket, all over the kitchen floor. All the good of the 30 degree cycle undone in a momentary oversight.

And that’s how I’ve felt lately. For it can feel like every good thing we find to hang onto is touched and tainted and not as good as we’d hoped. The vain promises of the months of lockdown preventing our current reality, yet we’re back here for the second wave.

The ‘lifting’ of restrictions actually meaning more restrictions. Choices to be made on who should be a bubble. How do you choose between people you love? How do I pick three of a group to go to a pub with? Why can we meet in a café but not my garden? If only four of us can meet outside which of my family do I ditch?

And as one country relaxes, another locks down, meaning more and more weeks apart from my family and friends over the bridge.

Fear over finances. Fear over illnesses. Fear over weeks and weeks of children at home, the mental damage, the lonely days, the self-isolations, the when will this end?

Like a damp and dreadful tissue in my washing, the virus has infiltrated every aspect of our lives. And that’s without all the other hard stuff of life that comes our way.

Sometimes choosing to shake every item of washing free and making it clean again is the harder choice than just binning the lot and starting again. Sometimes choosing hope when we take hit after hit can feel relentless and exhausting and, just maybe, not worth the pain?

But as I took and shook and watched the tissue float away on the breeze and hung the clothes to dry crisp and clean, I looked down and I looked up and was reminded of all the hope there is.

There can be lockdowns and reds fighting blues and blood tests and surgery looming and losses and fear and difficult anniversaries and little boys crying over going into nursery, and we can feel tired of it all. Of the anxious nights and the lonely days and the shakiness of the world around us. But as @emilypfreeman reminded me this week, it’s worth taking a moment to stop and stand and take the photos and create the diptych and take notice. Notice how the ground underneath is firm and the sky above still shines bright. Because ‘in the beginning, God.’ He was. He still is. He always will be.

I listened to a talk yesterday that reminded me. Whatever we believe about how the world began, we know it didn’t start with us. My being here is nothing of my doing, and my being sustained day by day is not of me either. I didn’t create the earth under my feet or the blood in my veins or the clouds over my head. I am a tiny part of a beautiful story that isn’t finished yet. One day in the not too distant future, the hard stuff of today will have passed. Memories will remain, we will be changed, lessons learned, and it will leave a legacy for sure. But like the tissue floating around my garden, I like to imagine God giving the world a little shake and Covid 19 floating away merrily into the atmosphere.

And in the meantime I can choose hope. Some days that’s harder than others. But I can make conscious choices of what I read or watch or listen to. Whether to search the news or the Bible. To scroll through screens or throw leaves and laugh. To comfort shop or to send a comforting message. To react with impatience or understanding. To email a complaint or to email a thank you. To sulk about Christmas or to celebrate Christ’s coming.

When Jesus watched the humans in His world self-destruct the beauty of His Creation, He didn’t throw us in the recycling bag, He stepped in, into the mess, and washed it clean with His blood. And He’s still in the business of redemption, through Himself, and through the people He loves. We can choose to shine the light, shake the negativity and hang onto hope. And with each choice we can make a difference of how we get through the days ahead. We can be overwhelmed by the chaos of circumstances, or we can overwhelm the world with hope, faith, joy, gratitude and love.

‘He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities-all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.’ – Colossians 1:15-20

What about the hard bits?

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I didn’t write yesterday. In all honesty I’ve found the last couple of days emotionally charged, and I cried three times during the day, before then shoulder-shaking sobbing my way through an old episode of BGT with Toby, to the point that my not always overly observant or empathetic 10 year old son looked at me in a confused way and said, ‘Mum, do you need a hug?’

I think I’ve just felt a bit overwhelmed by the hard stuff of life – and loss. The news stories. Baby Loss Awareness Week. Burns Awareness Day. Lockdowns and more lockdowns. And in National Adoption Week, when I want to tell people how special adoption is, I know that the truth is there’s no adoption without loss.

I read a post this week by a struggling adopter that talked about the #Youcanadopt campaign, and how, in their opinion, that shouldn’t be the focus. In their experience they felt the more appropriate question is should you adopt?

Now I don’t know their story, but the post made me sad. Maybe there should be more preparation in the training. Maybe people go into it naively. Maybe they had an image of family that was disappointing. It definitely sounds like they need more support.

I know our journey was atypical, but I’m grateful that we went into adoption with our eyes open. There are some questions that I haven’t answered yet, because they head into the harder side of fostering and adoption. Because it’s not all cute photos of smiley toddlers with blonde curls. But in the nature of authenticity, I want to be honest, so here goes.

Q: How did your older 3 find the start of fostering/adopting.

Here’s where the story gets a bit complicated, and certainly where we learned a lot about learning to say no! In a lot of ways I’ve interlinked fostering and adoption in these posts because our journey led from one into the other. But here is where it would be different if you went only into adoption. When we were approved to foster, it was for 0-3 year olds, although at the time, Toby was only 2. Our preference was to have placements younger than he was, and it should have been the fostering departments priority too. If you go into adoption with older siblings, there are much stricter requirements over age gaps between the older and younger adopted sibling. However, at the time, the fostering service was stretched beyond capacity, and we as brand new (naive) carers were asked to take a child older than our age range, ‘as an emergency placement’ (should be 72 hours, then a suitable placement would be found). Unfortunately after the 72 hours there was no-one able to take this little one, and we had him with us for several months.

I absolutely believe everything happens for a reason, and I’m really grateful we’ve got to see that child’s journey over the years. But in all honesty, it wasn’t great for them to be an only child placed in the middle of a birth sibling group, and it wasn’t easy for our children to feel the impact of his trauma. It was definitely a tough few months. The reality of the impact of all he lived through was heartbreaking. The guilt of finding it so difficult was overwhelming. The challenge of trying to support him whilst not letting our children be pushed aside was daunting. And the fear of questioning whether we’d made the wrong choice was humiliating.

But the fascinating part of it is that when we talk to our older children about it now, they don’t remember how hard it was when he was here, but how sad they were when he left. They love the fact we still catch up from time to time.

I read an excellent chapter in Krish Kandiah’s book ‘The Greatest Secret-How Being God’s Adopted Children Changes Everything.’ The book is a brilliant read on the theme of adoption that runs right through the Bible, and how that can impact us and our lives. The chapter that resonated with me was on Suffering. Krish has an adopted daughter, and after her adoption was legalised, his family continued to be foster carers. He talks about the fact that his daughter changed from being a fostered child to being a fostering child in a fostering family.

He says ‘Watching her and my other children suffer for the sake of others in the home has sometimes made my heart ache in pain for them, and sometimes swell with pride in them…watching my children grow in kindness and empathy and generosity not just despite their sacrifices, but because of them has helped me understand something of God’s promise to work all things for good for the sake of those who love him.’

Krish goes on to talk about the fact of suffering in every adoption story, the loss for birth families, the scars on and in children, the historical trauma through generations, and the way that trauma in turn impacts the adoptive family as they feel the effects too-an effect known as secondary trauma.

The truth is, of course our children have been affected by the life we’ve chosen. And there have been days when we’ve questioned whether it was fair to ask them to do it. But when we talk to the older two girls about it, they are able to honestly articulate the hard parts of fostering and adoption, whilst at the same time being adamant they want to do it themselves. (Actually one of them is continually asking us to do it again. Now. I always tell her to ask her father…).

Obviously the significant difference for Megan, Maisie and Toby when we were approved to adopt the younger three was the fact there would be no hard goodbye this time. And for that, they were thrilled. Their request with every little one we fostered was, ‘please can we keep them?!’ To which I’d always point out that that wasn’t my decision.

Q: Did you always foster with the intention of it leading to adoption?

Short answer – no. We certainly didn’t go into fostering with a hidden agenda, and social services would have been very cross if we had! One of the reasons we were aware of the risks of asking to be considered to adopt the little three was that social services really need to retain their foster carers, and are never that keen on them adopting as that generally signifies the loss of another foster carer.

However, we had a lot of friends who were adopters, so we could see the differences between taking children as foster placements, right at the beginning of the court process, fresh from trauma, and being their safe place until a long term plan is made, and the differing challenges of adoption, in being yet another move, in being there for the long term difficulties, of being the ones to be called Mummy and Daddy, and being able to assure them of this being family forever.

So when it came to the little 3 having a permanent plan being made for them which looked like they would be split up, that was the point when we started to question if we were the ones to offer them a home together, forever.

Q: How do you cope with the grief of letting foster children move on?

The truth is that when we started tentatively asking each other the question of ‘should we ask the question?’, we were still hurting from saying goodbye to other little ones. When people found out we were keeping these ones, they would comment things like, ‘oh did you just fall in love with these ones too much?’

Actually, we fell in love with all of them. Saying goodbye was never, ever easy. And considering them potentially staying but then maybe still having to leave was a far far scarier prospect by that stage.

I think the hardest thing in our early fostering years was the isolation from people’s incorrect assumptions, ignorance, and misunderstanding. And maybe that is why I feel so strongly about sharing our story, and raising awareness. Fostering is not ‘just a job’. Saying goodbye isn’t easy even though you know that’s the plan. To truly care well, you have to genuinely care. You can’t hold back a part of your heart to shield yourself from pain, because that’s the very part of your heart a broken little person needs to start healing.

In other parts of the UK, they offer ‘foster to adopt’, also called ‘concurrent care’, or ‘early permanency’. These are situations where foster carers will also be approved as adopters, and offered a placement which is highly likely to become an adoptive placement. The benefits of this are not primarily in adopters being able to have a baby placement, but in the risk of uncertainty being moved from the child to the adult. The adults have to be aware that, like us during our adoption assessment, they may have to say goodbye to this child. However the huge benefits of the child potentially being able to stay with minimum disruption and moves and further trauma far outweighs the risk. It is one of the things that really bothers me that this system isn’t offered in Wales, because I can see firsthand with Micah the huge benefits to a baby to be placed from birth and never having to move again.

So in terms of the ones we had to say goodbye to, and how we handled that grief? Obviously, we knew it was the likely outcome, and for most of them, seeing them transition to the right home definitely helped the sense of loss. By far the hardest was the one who we questioned the wisdom of the decision, and we ultimately lost touch with.

In practical terms, it helped me towards the end of the placement to create a photo book as a record for them and for us, of the time we’d spent together. It felt like fitting a piece in their jigsaw, to have the time documented, and to be able to see how much we’d invested in them. To feel that we’d done a job well. In the transition stage we tried to fit in a little goodbye tea for the friends and family who’d supported us and who would also be saying goodbye to a little one they’d fallen in love with. And we made some family time once they had moved to just be the five of us. Whether a holiday, or a camping trip, or just a day out, we took the opportunity to do something special together, and to celebrate our three in the role they’d played too.

We have been very lucky in moving several of them on to families who have kept in touch with us, and that is something we never take for granted. And obviously in adopting our younger three, life has got busier, and our commitment is to celebrating our family now.

But there are definitely still times we allow ourselves to grieve those losses. When we moved home, and cleared out boxes of baby girls clothes, it knocked us both sideways. Looking at outfits worn by three little ones we’d moved on, all the memories and love wrapped up in those clothes. There are still moments in church when I remember fondly the baby who would rock back and forth vigorously through every song. Or the little one who would lift her arms up to me and call me Mummy.

How do I cope with the grief? I think I’ve learned to accept it and allow myself to feel it. That in feeling all those feelings, I gave them everything I could to be able to attach well wherever they went. That they needed someone who would love them as their own and cry when they left, to be able to form their own healthy attachments and relationships in the future.

And, ultimately, I keep having to remember that all of the children I’ve opened my arms to are lent to me. They are not mine to objectify and hold on to. They are gifted to me to nurture, to love, to embrace with all I have for the time I have them. From the moment Megan arrived, she was nothing like I expected. She was a whole individual being of her own, whom I get the honour of guiding, of coming alongside, of being there, until she’s ready to fly. And the truth is I don’t know how that will look for any of my children, or how easy or hard or long that road might be. But it’s the biggest privilege I have, to be given the honour of being the one who gets to kiss the bumped knees, make the birthday cakes, write the emails, wipe the tears, listen to the fears, show up when it’s hard and prove that I’ll keep showing up however hard it is. Because they are chosen and precious and beautiful and I am the lucky one.