adoption

Adoption Story

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

It’s National Adoption Week, and as I was reflecting this morning, it seemed like a good time to write our story. Many of you probably know parts of it, but maybe not the back story to how we began fostering in the first place.

It’s hard to say when the journey began. Was it when I was a child, imagining how I might find an abandoned baby and take it home? Was it as a teenager, when I did work experience in a Special Care Baby Unit, and spent a day cuddling a baby going through drug withdrawal, having my eyes opened to the impact a birth parent’s lifestyle can have, rocking her as she cried a high pitched cry, and I was wondering at the injustice of it all? Or was it as a student midwife, holding the baby of a vulnerable mum, who hadn’t been parented, and didn’t know how to do it herself, and I was praying silently for his protection?

Or was it when Liam worked with looked after teenagers, some coming in and out of youth justice centres, and he watched as some foster carers treated their home like an overnight hostel, where the child was kicked out after breakfast, and not welcome back until bedtime? Where some young people lived lives back and forth between their birth family and the care system, not knowing who they belonged to – or who, if anyone, really cared for them?

The moment that propelled us forwards for me, was when I still worked as a midwife. We had been blessed with our three older children in the space of 4 years, and life was full. We had moved out of our tiny two bed mid-terrace before Toby was born, and had found ourselves in a modest sized four bedroom house, but we both felt this nagging feeling that perhaps we aren’t meant to aspire to a comfortable life as our ultimate goal. Perhaps when we are blessed with extra, we are supposed to look outwards and share what we have. And for some that might even include our home with a spare room, our safe family unit, our ability to love.

During this time there came a day when I was working on the delivery suite, and was asked to attend the birth of a baby who, once delivered, would not be allowed to stay unsupervised in the same room as his birth father. The moment came when the baby was born, and as he opened his mouth and took his first breath, his mother closed her eyes, turned her body away from him, and asked for him to be taken away.

It was up to me then, to take the child up to the Neonatal Unit, to be checked over by the medical staff there. Once they were done, and he was given a clean bill of health, the nurses were keen for the baby to leave the unit and go back to maternity.

Except that the baby was not welcome back downstairs, and now had no place to be upstairs either. And I stood over his crib, looking at him, waiting for phone calls to be made and plans to come into action, and wondering what on earth would happen to him. He had no choice over his arrival in the world, and no control over what would happen to him next. He would wait for a social worker to pack him up in a car seat into her car, and take him to the next available foster carer, where he would spend the next few months, waiting for the court to decide his future. Everything in my body ached for this child, and my heart broke whilst deciding that we had to do something. Perhaps we couldn’t help this one, but this story wasn’t new, it was – and is – repeated time and time and time again throughout hospitals and homes all through the country.

So we talked things through with a few foster families we knew, we prayed, and we approached the local authority. At the time of the initial visit from the social worker, Toby was one year old, the girls three and four. They commented that when our application landed on their desk, they looked at it and wondered what on earth we could possibly be thinking?!

Over the 18 months it took to be assessed, we went on courses, answered question after question, asked the children and our friends and our parents to be interviewed, and moved excitedly and nervously towards the unknown. We were interviewed at panel, 12 people sitting across a desk opposite us, knowing everything that had been written about us in the enormous document they held, questioning our finances, our faith, our family dynamics.

And then they announced that we were approved! We headed home, and before we pulled into our street the phone rang. Could we take an 18 month old baby girl? Hearts racing, palms shaking, we said yes. By the time we were home they had rung again, to say this one wouldn’t be coming to us. But by the end of the week someone was.

Those five years of fostering were the hardest and the best. We learned how easy it can be to love a new child placed in your arms. We learned how hard it can be to watch a child fight against your offered love. We learned how beautiful it is to see a child placed with the forever family that is so obviously perfect for them. We learned how hard it can be to trust the decisions of other humans who are making plans for the child you love. We saw and felt anger and guilt and fear and loss and heartbreak, and laughter and joy and trust and love.

We welcomed little ones at a couple of hours notice, dashing to 24 hour supermarkets for bottles and clothes and bedding. We welcomed them, tiny and broken, older and afraid, and we attended appointments and meetings, kept records, and fell in love.

During those years the flame of commitment we felt towards fostering and adoption grew and grew. There were times that were incredibly hard and lonely, times when we wondered if we could keep doing it. But the time someone else looked on and questioned – ‘maybe you’re not called to it?’, we asked ourselves – is finding something hard the reason to give up? On the days I find my birth children hard, can I opt to quit? These children need the people who are willing to do the hard things for them. When people said ‘I’d love to, but I’d get too attached’, I wondered if they didn’t see my heart breaking at every goodbye, but knowing that these children need someone who is willing to break their heart, so that that little heart has a chance of mending.

The greatest test came with the baby a social worker asked us to consider adopting. And we said yes. And we imagined her in our family, carrying our name, until death us do part.

And then the judge made different plan. A plan that cut us to the heart.

And in that time, in all my praying and crying, and wondering how I could possibly hand her over, came the reassurance that she was never mine – just like Megan, and Maisie, and Toby are not mine. Each little one was chosen and designed before they existed. Their days were planned and numbered before time began. And the One who created them in the secret place is holding them for eternity. Their lives have purpose, but that doesn’t mean that I am the one who needs to fulfil it. It is an honour and a blessing to have been given them, for as long as He calls me to hold them, and to then release them for purposes greater than I can understand. So after 14 months of loving her, we said goodbye, wiped our tears, and welcomed someone new, trusting that the Perfect Father would be holding her as she moved on.

Three years and a few more babies loved and transitioned on later, we found ourselves in a lull from fostering. Not as many children were coming into the system – a good thing, for sure, but unsettling and unnerving when you are waiting on the end of the phone. Calls came, we said yes, then different plans were made. On one day we were anticipating a six month old baby we had been called about over several days – the clothes were washed, the bed was made, then it was decided she would go to another carer.

For three months this went on, over Christmas, all through January. I reluctantly began to look into jobs and work options. And then on the first day of February half term, a phone call. Could we have two little ones tonight?

We could.

Six months later, with another one on the way, the decision for them to be adopted was made.

Offering ourselves to be considered as their adopters was one of the scariest things we’ve ever done. We knew the pain we were risking. They were already part of our family, and although as foster carers we anticipated saying an inevitable goodbye, as foster carers being assessed to adopt, we were opening ourselves to dream, whilst knowing that at any point, without any power to override it, the decision could be made to place them somewhere else. To be someone else’s family. But with a peace that did not come from us, we offered ourselves, and began the assessment process.

And the rest, as they say, is history. You can find the story of Micah joining us on an early blog post, ‘Never a Dull Moment’, – a whole story in itself! In each moment of the journey I can see how God prepared us for it, how He provided finances and houses and faith, when we could never have anticipated it all coming together.

It took 22 months for the legal court order to be declared in December 2017- the same age M was when she joined us, and it has been 22 months since that order was granted. Earlier today I found something that I wrote in the days leading up to the final court hearing, and it rings truer every day. As we live out the day to day of this messy, chaotic, joyful, and challenging family life, of broken people choosing to love each other, this is still how I feel.

‘I feel nervous and excited at the beginning of a journey and a story that will take me to the hard places, the uncomfortable places, and the lonely places. But there is a hope and a peace inside of me that in this story is beauty. In this story is healing and redemption and life. Where there was abandonment and hurt there is now family and security and hope.

This is our story.’ (December 2017)

Coffee with Words

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment


I have moments where I dream of doing big things. Maybe not world changing, but dramatic, exciting, people-affecting things. But isn’t this often the biggest and hardest thing right here? To love my family. The ones I see all the time. The ones who aren’t being lovely. Who are in fact being their worst. To love those who are draining. To love when it feels like there is nothing left to give.

We hear so much about ‘self love’ and ‘self care’, and there’s of course definitely a place for that. For not trying to pour from an empty cup. But I’m fairly certain Mother Teresa didn’t book herself a spa day when things were tough. I think she knelt and sought strength from the One who promises that in our weakness, He is strong. (2 Cor 12:10)

It’s been a tough week so far. Liam has been very poorly since Saturday. One child had a sickness bug all afternoon on Sunday. Another was sick everywhere in the middle of the night. On two different nights. Two other children have sore throats, temperatures and coughs. Little Lady M was making a big move to a new school this week, tricky for any child, even trickier when your early life makes change and loss very complicated. And I’ve tried. Tried to keep going, doing all the jobs, chasing the pesky rabbit, being hit by grumpy toddlers, deciding whose illness warrants a day off or not, checking on Liam, planning and buying food, riding the emotional turmoils of the children…the day in, day out stuff of life. I know that I can’t complain. There are people that I love in much more painful, longer term situations. But we all hit those weeks where the going gets tough. And how do I keep going? Keep loving? Not stressing at the children? Not getting frustrated with the illnesses? Holding my tongue when the weariness sets in?

On Sunday we were reminded in our church service about the Jesus who came from heaven to serve those who hated Him. He knelt and washed the feet of the friend who was about to betray Him to be killed. He who made the world, and had authority over the storms, chose to die for the sake of those who let Him down. He knew His friends weaknesses, their arguments, their pride, their laziness, their abandonment, but He loved them till the end. Where He chose to give His life to give them – to give us – life.

Yesterday I hit a tiredness wall. But when I stopped and acknowledged that I know I’m not loving well, that I’m being stretched and I’m failing, that was the moment help came.

Coffee helps, of course, but true strength and energy when my resources have run out doesn’t actually come from caffeine, or from sleep, or a candlelit bath (although I wouldn’t say no to any of those things). It comes from my weakness. From being wise enough to know I can’t do this alone, or perfectly. From loving my family enough to say sorry when I get it wrong. From being humble enough to ask for help and to accept it.

When I reached out, and told God I was starting to lose the plot, and told some friends I was exhausted, these were some of the encouragements that they sent me.

‘He tends His flock like shepherd, He gathers the lambs in His arms and carries them close to His heart; He gently leads those that have young.’ Isaiah 40:11

‘The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.’ Ex 34:6

‘But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.’ 2 Cor 4:7

‘But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.’ Lam 3:21-23

I can’t do it all, and I will often fail. But I believe there is grace to keep loving, by turning to the One who loves perfectly, until the end.

*NB I realise Mother Teresa shouldn’t have an H in her name. It’s bugging me, but the coffee is gone so we’ll have to all live with the symbolic imperfection. xxx

Birth days.

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

Liam says my mum gives presents if someone sneezes. Actually, that’s not true, because loud sneezes are one of the things that make her really cross. But still, gifts are her love language, and I’m the same. So it was already an interesting dynamic that the man I met and love and married shares his birthday with the day St Valentine met his untimely end. Who gets gifts? Do we just throw out the commercial holiday made to bring more money to greedy supermarkets, or do I get him two gifts and he still sneaks out for flowers/chocolates/wine on February 13th (or 14th…or 15th)? In previous years, we’ve gone with the second option.

Until two years ago, when on this day, we were gifted another Valentine. I’m not willing to take responsibility for poor planning on this one. Granted, our family planning historically has looked like more family and less planning, but on this one we can’t take any credit. I’ve already talked about his arrival to our family on here, so suffice it to say that we had very little idea we’d be sharing our meal for £15 with a tiny newborn that year. But that day changed our family dynamic once again, with a new little one to be grateful for. But what do birthdays look like when you weren’t the one who gave birth?

The very idea of a birthday is to celebrate someone’s birth, their arrival into the world. And, like my mum, I’m definitely up for that. I love giving gifts, I love making that person feel special. And I’m also very nostalgic. I love remembering dates and days and talking memories. But the truth is, that for a lot of people, birthdays often bring a measure of pain in the memories too.

As a student midwife, I quickly learned that the movie idealised birth story, where the perfectly made-up mother with gentle devoted partner pops out a beautiful completely round-headed forceps-mark free baby who is immediately bundled into a pure white crocheted blanket is just that – a story. Birth involves pain. For many people, the pain of labour is put behind them, and they embrace life with a newborn. But I think for possibly the majority of people, there is history that comes with them into the labour room, and that will go home with them too.

In those rooms, I saw mothers who had waited for this day for many many years. They brought fear and anxiety into the delivery suite, and a brave hope that their dreams might at last come true. I saw mothers whose tears of joy were mingled with tears of loss – they’d lost their own mother, or father, a previous baby, or the father of their child, and the birth of a newborn was an intense reminder of that person they desperately wished was still a part of their life. I saw mothers afraid of who their partner was, but they were birthing his baby and clinging to the ideal that he would be who said he could be. I saw mothers who were children themselves, with their own mothers nervously stroking their hair. I saw mothers who hadn’t anticipated this baby, and didn’t know how they felt, how they would bond, if they even wanted to take it home. I saw mothers whose baby was born, and it wasn’t the perfect baby they had dreamed of, it would have needs they didn’t know if they could manage, and their world came crashing down. I saw mothers who knew the baby they would birth would never breathe. Their baby had left earth before it arrived, and those heartbreaking deliveries were sombre with intense, raw grief. I saw mothers whose baby was born far too soon, and they were afraid for its life. And I saw mothers whose baby would be whisked away, because it was too unsafe to send them home to the chaos and abuse and trauma there.

What I learned in those rooms, through my own experiences, and through being privileged to witness so many others, is that often the words ‘happy birthday’ are an oxymoron. Often a birth day is not pure joy and elation. Even in the births of my first three children, I carry buried pain alongside beautiful memories, whole stories in themselves. For my youngest three children, their birthdays are mingled with huge loss. Their loss of safety, of childhood innocence, of the only world they’d known, and the loss of the mother who gave birth to them. I can’t even imagine what goes through her mind on those days. And for me there’s sadness too – all the first moments missed, and all the pain I wish I could have saved them from. But this is life in a broken world, a whirling mess of joy and heartache, a see-sawing of hurt and healing, and with every birth delivered in pain there is promise of hope. A new life, a new story to be written. A new person gifted to this world for a reason, capable of being loved and held and dreamed for, and of loving and holding and dreaming.

I think it’s important to acknowledge the whole story, even if only to myself. I know I’m not alone in these days of mixed emotions. When we celebrate birthdays, I’m not pretending that all birth days are happy days. And I’m not trying to patch over a hard story. But I am celebrating this person. This gift of life. This day that marks another year on earth for them, another year of their unique personality and character and skills changing the world and the people around them because of their individual design. Despite the minor challenges of the two cake-making, double gift-buying, ‘where do I hang all the cards?’ issues related to the double birthday, I feel so honoured that we get to celebrate this little boy. People sometimes tell us that the children are lucky to have us. I don’t think lucky is the right word for such a start to life, but I feel incredibly privileged to have him, to be the one to wrap his presents, light his candles, and listen to him walking around the house still singing ‘happy birthday’ to himself, four days later.

As for Valentine’s Day, I still sneaked it in, with heart confetti on the dinner table and a chocolate for each child. I’m okay with letting it go for myself these days- I’m just hoping for double presents on my birthday to make up for it…