adoption

Nostalgia

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

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)

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).

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.

Autumn Inspiration

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Hello Autumn 🍂

Megan asked me why I decorate for Autumn, but not Spring or Summer. She feels it’s unfair on the other seasons that they don’t get their own display. I said I decorate for Easter, which feels like essentially celebrating Spring, and in Summer we are too busy being outside enjoying the sun and sea. Winter has Christmas to brighten it up. But Autumn feels like it needs a gentle hello as it ushers in its darker nights and wet days and dying trees and sense of loss.

Truthfully, I feel like my body and my mind sense Autumn and anxiety rises. For five years in a row, September came and with it came loss.

8 years ago this month, we said our first hard goodbye to a little foster person.

The following Autumn, we did another heartbreaking transition of a little one we loved.

The next two Septembers brought two more moves of two precious babies to their forever homes, joy and grief intertwined.

And then 2016. Much of that October I spent by Theo’s side in hospital, in HDU, and then nursing him back to health at home, in between Maddie’s physio sessions and an adoption assessment. It felt hard and wearing and never ending and scary.

And then.

And then Dan died.

The hardest of goodbyes. That kind of loss doesn’t have silver linings. You wake up in the morning and there’s a stomach sinking sickness. A heart hurting chest pain. The feeling that all the hard stuff had been building up and up, and this was the peak of pain that would last as long as I did.

But grief, as everyone promised, changes with time. Life grows around it and although the pain is real, there are days when it is huge and tear jerking, and there are days when it’s a quiet pain, a dull ache, poignant memories, and life surrounds it – sometimes joyfully, sometimes suffocating it by not giving it room to be felt.

September is always the month of new routines, tired children, weather changes. But this year brought the added challenges of no school bus, extra long transitions for children who’d missed half a year of school, or whose anxiety levels were through the roof. Then there were illnesses. Trying to speak to GPs. The stress of whether to test or not test. The potential implications of doing it or not doing it. A weekend isolating the whole family whilst we waited. Emails to schools, social workers, health professionals. Application forms and budget sums. And then, as September came to an end, the news of a local lockdown.

My body shows the anxiety even when I don’t recognise it for what it is. Shoulder pain. Jaw ache. Chest tightening.

And finally the tears came and with them the sense of being done. I’ve looked for good for sixth months and I’m done with it now. This just is rubbish. All the fun things are gone. I cried for a day and talked to family and friends and God. I was afraid. What if this is another year where we face loss after loss and hard thing after hard thing and then it gets even worse? I don’t think I can do it anymore.

And then the next morning I read these words, quoted by a woman who truly knows suffering, written to her by a man who lives it too.

“To inspire (used nonreflexively), from the Latin inspirate, has of course the stem spir in it. It is, very literally, to give or put spirit into someone. To inspire someone is way more than making them happy or amazed or even making them feel good. It is to lend them spirit when they are short. And of course because of the incorporeal nature of both air and spirit, the act of inhaling also becomes known as inspiration. In that sense too: it is like mechanical ventilation for a soul that’s lost its resolve for a moment.” (From I Am by M Cushatt).

That morning I went for a run, the first one for several weeks since I’d been ill. And I got to the bottom of the first hill and thought about how it was going to feel impossible, and thought about the act of inhaling. Every run I’ve done, that first hill makes me think I can’t do it. But I’ve learned to just keep going. To aim to get to the next minute or the next landmark. And to breathe slowly. To inspire.

Those words in the book struck a chord – ‘a soul that’s lost its resolve for a moment.’ That was me. I needed inspiration for getting through a dreary looking Autumn. I needed fresh air in my soul, to keep me taking the next step, to keep plodding until the next landmark.

And if I stop for a minute I find it. In the words of the book I was reading. In the love behind the messages in my phone. In the old hymn that popped up on my Facebook memories. In the stories of people who’ve faced with courage much greater hardship than I have these six months. In the history of people who messed up and gave up and God gave them the breath and the words and the grace and the courage to keep going. Moses and Jacob and David.

And in Jesus. The Man who left His throne and knelt crying in a garden, asking God if there was any way this could be done differently. But because of love, He did it. Faced the worst pain, the greatest loneliness, the agony of death. To bring life. To give breath. To send His Spirit. ‘…and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.’ – 2 Corinthians 3:17

As I ran slowly I realised that true inspiration doesn’t come from the creative Instagram accounts I follow, or the stories of success I envy. I need the kind of inspiration that gives life and hope and purpose. And the kind of inspiration that makes me want to share hope with others whose reserves are running low. To reach out and help someone else along.

I’ve had this post half written for a week and not shared it because I was aware my last few posts had been about the hard stuff. Honestly, I was trying to find something upbeat or funny to write but then I realised that I just needed to be me, and to be honest. This Autumn isn’t how any of us thought it would be, and some of that is hard. And it’s ok to acknowledge when we’re struggling. Sometimes my greatest inspiration comes from the people who are real and vulnerable and who don’t hide the hard stuff but speak it out and cry it out and pray over it and get up and keep going.

So we made it through September, and then yesterday I dug out my Autumn decorations and bought a pumpkin and we found acorns by the river. And we laughed at the way Theo says ‘liter-tea’ instead of literally, and how Micah woke me up the other night when he was in our bed because he was in fits of giggles at Liam snoring. And then he tried to copy it, and made himself giggle again.

And I stopped to be grateful that two of my kids are getting amazing support from deputy head teachers who genuinely care. And that in these wet days we have a warm home and food on our plates and that there will be brighter days to come. And I was grateful for inspiration in all the ways it comes, for life and hope breathed into my weary soul to lift my feet to take another step forward. For prayers answered and promises kept and hope renewed.

Hello Autumn 2020. We’re ready for you.

A Tale of Six Babies. (On Breastfeeding Awareness Week).

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It’s Breastfeeding Awareness Week.

I’ve seen lots of posts this week, proud ones, sad ones, incredible ones, wistful ones.

And it made me think about my breastfeeding journey. I grew up watching my mum breastfeed, and then I was a midwife, helping other women breastfeed. It wasn’t a question of if I would do it, it was what was expected of me, wasn’t it?

Then I had my babies.

The first one I breastfed for 5 months and she and I both cried the majority of the time. They said to feed on demand. And she demanded. All of the time. And I felt a pressure of being the one who was supposed to calm her, but I wasn’t calm and she wasn’t calm and it was lonely and not the beautiful bonding experience I’d imagined. Because I was struggling to bond with her at all.

Number two I wanted to breastfeed, wanted it to be a different experience, a happy experience, and I tried to breastfeed. And the milk all came pouring back out of her nose, leading me to find her undiagnosed cleft palate. We were readmitted to hospital. She was losing weight. She had an NG tube passed until we were given bottles that we could use to physically squeeze the milk into her mouth. I cried because the choice of breastfeeding was taken away. I cried because my baby had a big hole in her mouth and went blue when she lay on her back, and the cleft would bring surgery and hearing problems and speech problems. I had a 13 month old running around my feet, and a baby who couldn’t suck her bottle, so we would painstakingly squeeze it into her mouth for an hour at a time, but she had severe reflux so she then vomited it all back up. I expressed exclusively for six weeks, until I sat at a friends house trying to chat casually whilst being attached to a pump, and I felt like it might just tip me over the edge. So I introduced formula for all of our sakes. And she was prescribed medication for the reflux and extra calories for the weight and at six months when she was wheeled into the operating theatre I couldn’t care less how she fed, just grateful that we live in a place where we have access to life changing medicine.

By the third baby, I’d decided that for my mental health, and our whole family’s wellbeing, I would breastfeed until it became obvious it wasn’t helpful to one of us any more. I enjoyed it. He fed well for 3 months. And then he was still taking 45 minutes to feed, and I had a 2 and 3 year old and was trying to run out of the house to pick one up from nursery but he was only halfway through a feed. So I introduced formula. And we were both ok with that.

And then there are the younger three babies.

One I don’t know if she was breastfed. But I know she wasn’t fed fresh milk.

One was breastfed. But he was not fed enough.

One was fed his first feed by a midwife because his birth mother had already left.

These last two weeks I’ve been shedding tears over my babies growing up. The cotbed going, more milestones passing. There are days I feel sad that my breastfeeding journey wasn’t what I’d hoped. That my emotional state was so low on baby number one. That my baby number two had a broken mouth that 13 years later is still causing her trouble. That I didn’t feed any of them until they were naturally ready to stop. That I wasn’t there for my youngest three babies first feeds. Wasn’t there when they were not being fed or cleaned or cuddled and rocked.

We are in a culture that encourages breast feeding, and that is good and to be celebrated. Breast milk is designed perfectly for a baby. It isn’t always easy, and it’s right to celebrate the hard work and journey mums and babies go on together, and to raise awareness of the need for support. And it’s important that it is promoted, it comes with huge health benefits and financial benefits, and can bring an attachment which will help a child develop physically and emotionally way beyond its breastfeeding years.

But I think it can become a pressure too. In the world of comparisons and competitions and self inflicted desire for perfection, it can become the perceived be-all and end-all and and there are mums and babies who suffer because of an unwritten need to succeed.

And there are women who feel less because they didn’t breastfeed.

Or even have a baby to feed.

And there are babies who can’t feed.

And babies who don’t get fed.

So I guess this is where I came to this week.

-I can celebrate other people’s journeys whilst acknowledging the parts in mine and my children’s that make me sad.

-Liam says I can’t keep just having babies to try and achieve the (unlikely) ideal breastfeeding experience. (Party pooper). So instead of regretting what wasn’t, I can keep looking for the gifts to be found in today.

-I can remember that every journey is unique in this parenting lark. Every child is different, every parent is different. Achievements will look different for all of us, and milestones are different for every child, individual to their story.

-When I listen to amazing mums worrying, feeling guilty, questioning, I want to remind them: believe me when I say that the fact you are doing all this is proof in itself that you are doing a good job. You have no idea of the impact you are having just by picking up your crying baby.

And most of all:

I never ever want another mum to feel alone.

Whether you birthed your baby or adopted.

Whether your baby is in your arms or carried in your heart.

Whether you breastfed or formula fed.

Whether you are loving every minute or finding that every day is a struggle.

Whether your family is picture perfect or so far away from what you dreamt.

Babies are an amazing gift, but the ride can be rocky. I want you to know you are not alone. Talk to someone. Message someone. I’m here for the laughs and the tears, with tea and cake and tissues. I’m here for community, not comparison.

‘He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young’. – Isaiah 40:11

Imagine.

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Just imagine being almost 2.

Imagine someone you don’t know arriving in your house.

Imagine your parents being angry.

Imagine the sounds of heated arguments, raised voices.

Imagine seeing uniforms you don’t understand, faces foreign to you.

Imagine being scooped up from your cot and put in a car you don’t know with a baby you’re terrified of.

Imagine being driven by a stranger in the dark.

Imagine her taking you to another house.

Imagine being left there with more strangers.

Imagine screaming as they gently wash the ingrained dirt from your hair, encrusted in your eyebrows.

Imagine being offered milk in a different cup, and it doesn’t taste the same here.

Imagine sobbing as they put you in a bed you don’t know, in a room that smells weird, whilst they sing songs you’ve never heard, stroking you with hands you’ve never touched.

Imagine trying to frantically climb away on legs that don’t work from the baby trying to touch you.

Imagine feeling it all without the words to voice it.

Imagine experiencing it all without the power to fight it.

Imagine over time building trust and growing to love and starting to feel safe. Of the old life gradually fading away and the new one becoming home. The strangers becoming family, reminding you you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But imagine that every time something changes or you feel afraid, you are transported back. Back to the two year old, paralysed with fear. Back to the two year old, unable to speak. Back to the two year old, who can’t run away. Back to the two year old, not knowing who is safe. Back to the two year old, having everything and everyone you know ripped away in moments.

And then imagine the fragile world you’re slowly starting to trust stopping with no warning. Those feelings rising up again. Familiar faces gone again. Familiar places gone again. You cling to the safety of home, of family. But you become so used to being there, that each time your Mummy or Daddy goes to leave, the panic rises up again. The world outside is different now. There are germs, there are rules, wash your hands, don’t touch, don’t cough, stand away, don’t hug.

And then imagine change again. You want to try. You want to be brave. You want to go to school. You pack your bag, you put on your uniform, you walk up the drive. And there it is. School, but not the faces you love. It doesn’t look the same. All those rules you must keep. Those invisible germs that might hurt. The fear of friends coming too close. The teacher doesn’t come to welcome you with her open arms and smile – she stands at the door, distanced. No one comes near to take your hand. Nothing feels the same.

Except the old familiar feeling of panic. Of paralysis. Of perhaps there is danger. Perhaps your parents won’t come back.

Imagine. Imagine the fears. Imagine the tears. Imagine our Monday morning.

People said kind things, encouraging things, well meaning things. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great day!’ ‘It’ll be so nice seeing your friends again!’ ‘It’s only for a few hours, you’ll be back for lunch!’

But those things don’t wash when your brain is in fight, flight, freeze zone. When the pathways to the reasoning part of your brain have still not grown.

Adoption is beautiful, and adoption is broken. Because there’s no gain in adoption without loss. And there’s no quick fix, easy answers, textbook remedies for the damage done.

And let me be clear, the trauma is not just from the two years of abuse. The trauma of being removed from all you’ve known – even if what you’ve known was harm – is equally as real.

But, God.

I believe in trauma. I believe in brokenness. And I believe in hope. I believe in redemption. I believe in rainbows in storms. Of finding the gifts of grace.

Yesterday, even as I sobbed around the corner from her classroom, there were rainbows. The kind friend I bumped into in the supermarket, whilst still shaking, still crying. The senior staff member ringing to update me, who acknowledged, we can now see the need for support. The friend walking past the school who messaged to say she could see her, she is smiling, she’s talking to a friend. The teacher texting photos over the two hours, she’s drawing, she’s making, her special things from home are on her desk. The teacher she loves sending her a video message saying how proud she is. The messages from family and friends, asking, loving, caring, praying. The cuddles when she was safely home.

And knowing God knows my girl. He knew her before she was. He designed her. He loves her. His heart breaks when hers does.

He came to heal the brokenhearted. To free those held captive in their pain. To release them from their prisons. To bring joy to the mourning. Giving beauty instead of ashes. Gladness instead of sadness. To repair the damage of previous generations. To rebuild the ruins. To fight for justice. To protect the vulnerable. To counsel the hurting. To bring hope, joy, salvation, freedom. To bring His kingdom to earth as it is in heaven. (Is 61, Ps 146, Matt 6).

It wasn’t the first tricky day and it won’t be the last. But even when I’m sobbing in my car, I’m always surprised and grateful that we get to be trusted with these precious lives. To be the tear wipers, cuddle givers, tickle monsters, hope bringers. To be the ones trusted with the big questions and the big feelings, all the good and all the bad. I’m grateful for not doing it alone. And I’m grateful for hope of an eternity with no trauma or tears, no brokenness or abuse, no violence and absolutely no viruses.

Day 100 – A last minute hospital visit and an impromptu lockdown party

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Yesterday Liam threw out a comment about having a 100 days of lockdown party. And the more I thought about it, the more I decided we’d go for it. Moods have been tricker since school has come up in conversation, and it’s been almost a month since we last had a birthday here, so it seemed a good a day as any to throw a party just for the sake of it.

It helped everything really. Schooling became making decorations for the party. Although I did sneak in a spider web piece of art too, just so we weren’t entirely off topic.

Unfortunately Megan has been having trouble with her braces for a couple of weeks, so I contacted the hospital yesterday, and was told to bring her in today. The tough part was that at age 14, she was considered old enough to go into the department on her own, including being given a mask for the waiting room, having a temperature check and answering all the Covid related questions, and going through the orthodontic procedure, all with me waiting outside.

So off we went, with some understandable anxieties. But the promise of a drive through McDonald’s on the way back, and picking up party food from the shop, all went a little way in helping. She was brilliant and brave and the braces are sorted again for now. And I was brave too, loitering in the alleyway outside.

We got back in time for lunch, and Theo enthusiastically decided our party would have a Numberjacks theme. Because ever since his nursery teacher started sharing episodes for the children to watch, he’s been obsessed. So I went with it, printed off some colouring pages and got them making ‘decorations’.

It did all get a bit hot today though, didn’t it? So we had a break from crafting to dish out ice lollies, and to fill up some vessels with water and have a little play with the hose to cool down.

I then got slightly engrossed with printing off a photo for every day of lockdown, 100 hundred days of memories. Toby created lockdown party bunting, and was so pleased with his success that he announced confidently that he might become a party planner.

It was good to have someone matching my enthusiasm for the cause.

Picnics are a mixed blessing, I find. There’s something delightful about laying a table of food that everyone will eat – obviously completely disregarding the salads. And the happiness of dining al fresco, always to be regarded as a treat in Wales. But then there’s the freedom for small people to run around like excited puppies, and refuse to sit and eat their food, and the frequent freak outs over ants because our entire garden is basically an ants nest.

Nevertheless, it was a fun evening. We looked at all the things we’ve done in the 100 days at home together and picked our favourite photos. It seems like such a long time in a lot of ways, to look at the change in seasons, the things we’d forgotten about in those early days in March. And then the things we are starting to have freedom to do again. The first time we went out more than once in a day! The first time the kids went in the car. The first walk with friends, the first McDonald’s.

And on Monday it will be the first time back to school for two of the children.

There have been many ups and downs over the last 100 days, and although I’ve written a lot, there’s obviously a lot that’s left unsaid too. In my first post on day 1 I shared a page from our kids Thought for the Day book, entitled ‘But God.’ It said that those two words show up over 3,000 times in the Bible – whenever something terrible was looming, ‘but God’! He comes and turns it around, the bringer of hope.

In all the last 100 days, the ill ones, the well ones, the rainy ones, the hot ones, the cranky ones, the loving ones, the jealous ones, the grateful ones, the grieving ones, the rejoicing ones, the claustrophobic ones, the hermit like ones, the anxious ones, the hopeful ones, in all of those days, God has showed up.

He’s been there in the gifts people have sent, in the messages and phone calls. In the Zooms and the virtual church and the music in the kitchen. In the Bible and in books and in the changing of the seasons. In the turning around of cranky days and the teary talks with one another. In the rainbows and the kindness and the sacrifices people have made. In the saying sorry and the forgiving hugs and the chance to always keep learning.

He’s always been here. And He’ll keep showing up in the days, weeks, months to come. Whether they’re easy days or hard days, He’ll be there. Because He loves His world and He loves His people, and it can look like it’s all falling apart – but God.

23 ‘Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.
24 You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory.
25 Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
26 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.’ – Psalm 73:23-26

Day 99 – Unicorn Talk

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My latest strategy for coaxing them into learning is to do something really fun and then try and casually switch them into the boring stuff without them noticing. Today we got very excited about making lollies. Micah allocated the red and green chopping boards as teams, and took his banana dissecting duties very seriously. Theo held more of an operational leader role. We successfully filled the lolly moulds and put them in the freezer, and headed to the dining room.

Sadly they weren’t fooled at all. Maddie had a comparison chart to fill in regarding positives and negatives about spiders. The positives were hard to come by. The negatives seemed to consist of ‘creepy, scary, creepy’. I think that we know where she stands on the matter.

So we dragged ourselves through a bit of schoolwork, interspersed with, ‘are the lollies frozen yet?’ every five minutes.

I had to go to Morrison’s this morning, so I took Toby with me to experience the delights of social distancing in the real world. 10 year old boys are not naturals, it appears. But I think it’s given him a little insight into how school might feel somewhat different, and from that perspective it seemed like a worthwhile outing.

When we returned, the small people had moved from playdoh to kinetic sand, which they were now happily throwing around the garden in a wild and frenzied manner. But they seemed relatively happy, and for that both we and the neighbours were grateful.

I’m trying not to assume it’s directly related to the amount of time we’ve all been at home lately, but our neighbours have spent a lot of time constructing an extra extension of trellis above their fence over the last week, to encourage their thick and perhaps sound limiting trailing plant to grow along and up. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve thought about doing the same thing around my chair at the dining table. Maybe one of those Perspex cubes that drummers sit in would work. Although I hear Perspex is tricky to get hold of these days. It seems to be quite popular in the supermarkets.

Much to their delight, the lollies did eventually freeze and were ready for eating. It seems the chocolate milkshake ones were significantly more popular that the strawberry smoothie ones. No surprises there.

Someone had a power nap on the sofa whilst watching telly, a fact he hotly denied later, even when shown this incriminating evidence. ‘No! That’s NOT me!!!’

Everyone seemed to need a bit of exercise this afternoon, so we ventured out, albeit in different directions. Megan and Maisie deemed themselves too cool to go on a family walk, and left way ahead of the rest of us. Toby has been granted a small amount of freedom on his bike recently, so he headed off to do circuits around the outside of the nearby playground.

Which left Liam and I with Theo, Micah, and a slightly fractious unicorn. Who we engaged in conversation to try and see if we could help encourage some verbalising of the fears and feelings that kept her up late last night and saw her creeping into our bed at 1:30am.

‘Hey, unicorn, it seems like you’re a little bit worried at the moment?’

Unicorn nods it’s head violently.

‘I’m wondering if you’re thinking about going back to school?’

Unicorn nods again.

‘I wonder if maybe you feel a bit worried about school feeling strange, and about keeping a distance?’

Unicorn nods violently, neighs and paws at the ground.

It turns out unicorns are real, and I’m learning their language. And it’s much less scary to ‘speak’ through an inanimate object if you feel a bit worried about something and aren’t sure how to express it. I’m thinking about trying it myself the next time I have to face a difficult conversation. I wonder if Liam can interpret crocheted penguin language. And how to say, ‘please could you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of next to our bed?’ in penguin talk. Not that I’d ever need to say it, of course.

Tonight we had friends over and a fire and we got to use the fizz emoji again after far too long. It may be a cliché, but there’s definitely a new level of appreciation for these moments now we’ve lived some months without them. And with the uncertainty of what the months ahead will hold, these are the pots of gold to look for and enjoy.

It feels like the hope we hung onto is there, coming nearer with every garden glass of Prosecco, every distanced walk, every news announcement saying that maybe, in two weeks, we’ll be able to travel and move nearer and even go in a house. There is light ahead.

I looked closely at the growing sweet peas today. I’d say my sweet peas, but given that I didn’t plant them and haven’t watered them, I’m not sure I can make such claims. I love how as they grow, and they are frail and wobbly, they send out tendrils to hold onto something for support. They are vulnerable, they look for something stronger and cling on.

But in my Google education about growing them, I was interested to see that the advice to was keep a check on the tendrils, and snip them if needed, because if left unchecked they cling onto the wrong things, or their neighbouring plants, and the whole thing ends up a mess.

I saw myself in those young sweet peas today. When I feel wobbly I’ll send out a tendril, look for something to hold onto. A family member, a friend, the words of a book. Those things are gifts and blessings and good. But if I don’t hold onto to the right thing, there is a danger I’ll choke those around me and tie myself up in knots.

There is One I can cling to, who’ll guide me in the right way, who’ll hold me fast when the winds rock me, who’ll allow me to grow stronger and bloom and become who I’m made to be.

14 “Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name.
15 When he calls to me, I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” – Psalm 91:14-16

Day 98 – Incy Wincy Spider

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Hello and happy Monday to you. I wanted to start by giving a quick thank you to all of you who were so kind to comment on my post on Friday about finishing these blogs. I won’t stop writing, I do enjoy the process and there’s plenty more tucked up in my head! So I will be popping in, just a little more infrequently. If you’d like to see when I post you can opt to subscribe on the blog, and it’ll pop you an email to let you know.

So here we are again, another weekend passed. Saturday we had a morning of activity, prepping for Father’s Day. We made a cake, which my helpers lasted approximately until they’d stuck their fingers in the butter and spilt sugar over the kitchen floor, leaving me to do the rest.

We then moved on to cards. Feeling confident in my new found pre-school crafting abilities, I googled some ideas and went for it. It’s always hard to merge the Pinterest image in your head with actually letting the children have their own creative way. As the photo above shows, I struggle to allow freedom of creativity in the craft department.

The kids insisted on hiding their presents themselves, which was slightly concerning, especially as at least one had chocolate in it. By Sunday morning, Micah had hidden his so many times that even he had no idea where it was. Thankfully it was found just in time to avoid complete meltdown.

Saturday afternoon we walked with friends. This was the first time our little ones had seen friends in all these weeks, and it produced a variety of emotions as expected. But it was so nice to see them settling into it and enjoying hanging out together.

In the evening it was Marvel night, which Toby is generally excited about from somewhere around Friday lunchtime, and I fear it’s going to be with us long after we have freedom again. One should think carefully about these traditions. Especially when they involve watching the Incredible Hulk.

But all joking aside, for as much as the films themselves might not be my viewing choice, I love that it’s important to the children that we do it together. And for that I’ll keep mustering enthusiasm.

Liam was wished a happy Father’s Day by being held hostage in the bedroom, by a zealous Theo, who insisted he stay there until the party was ready. Cryptically, he told Liam the party was for ‘someone who puts up the sitting hammocks’, confirming just how important that particular role is to him.

After we’d made Liam his choice of bagel with poached egg, gifted presents and proudly presented cards, we moved to church online. We’ve hit the stage where the younger three children pick the exact same three songs every week, despite my best efforts at sneaking other ones into the repertoire. There was a lack of musical accompaniment this week, although Micah sat and ‘played’ the music on his pretend iPad, which is actually a kids kindle case, whilst singing along very loudly in his very deep monotone.

We made prayer hands for the crafts. There were different prayer points suggested for the different fingers, which was great until it got to the teenage girls, who were reluctant to choose to pray for ‘someone who points you in the right direction’. It turns out they weren’t that keen on being pointed in the right direction. I wrote myself on that finger for them. I need all the prayer I can get.

Especially on a Monday.

The Monday vibes were strong today. There was a significant reluctance to do anything I suggested. And perhaps not helped by Maddie’s topic for the week being spiders. I can’t say I relished the YouTube videos of extreme close ups either.

There was definitely a sense of heightened tension and anxiety for little miss, lots of questions about school and distancing and it was a day on the edge. So we crafted. A lot. It seems to help keep a vague degree of calm when one of us is by their sides, present to calm frazzled feelings, soothe sulky stand offs, and mediate in the melee.

Liam started them with stick spider webs, which they loved, although raised concerns that a spider might actually decide to live in it.

We made a new batch of playdoh which they then played with for a while, involving plenty of soothing sensory squishing. And also plenty of throwing it around the dining room.

We then attempted spider web plates, the most popular part of that one of course being the hole punching. They then insisted on hanging them on the door, fighting for whose was the highest, had the longest string, and swung the furthest when hit. If there’s a way to compete, they’ll find it.

And as the final last ditch effort, we made spider web rainbow cupcakes. I fear we’ve completed a week’s worth of crafts in a day, but maybe Tuesday will dawn with a slightly more positive take on literacy and numeracy. Maybe.

It took a lot of emotional energy to keep a level of calm today. Especially as I felt like I was losing it at around 9:30am as we attempted early pen skills at the same time as early number forming at the same time as a war was breaking out over the two times tables, one student was standing on a chair waving ribbons, and another was crying because ‘you made me sad’. (Micah’s favourite phrase of late. Said when we say absolutely anything he disagrees with.

In between the meltdowns over, ironically, a spider, the fear-related regression to baby-like behaviours, and the late night soothings of troubled minds, it was a Monday of Mondays.

But the sun shone beautifully and the washing dried on the line. There was enough of yesterday’s roast to not have to really cook another dinner, and lots of pudding and cake. We were on time for piano lesson zooms and happy birthday to my nephew zooms. And Ikea reopened today. So there is much to be thankful for.

28 ‘For it is you who light my lamp; the LORD my God lightens my darkness.
29 For by you I can run against a troop, and by my God I can leap over a wall.
30 This God-his way is perfect; the word of the LORD proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him.
31 For who is God, but the LORD? And who is a rock, except our God?-
32 the God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.
33 He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights.’ – Psalm 18:28-33

I find huge comfort in the fact that tonight and tomorrow and all the days to come, there is One who lights a lamp in my darkness. Who gives courage for the battle. Who gives safety in the danger. Who gives stability in the unknown. Who gives strength in the weariness, freedom in the shame, and hope in the desperation.

Tomorrow is a new day, full of possibilities. And coffee, too, no doubt.