No world book day costumes here today (thank goodness š), but two of the small ones headed downstairs and the newest able reader sat and ātaughtā 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 havenāt sat down and taught them to read! I havenāt even (gasp) read with them every day when they started school. Many times weāve read the school book once. In the car before school on the day it had to be handed in. (Oh the shame š±). 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 itās the cool thing to do. So here are my thoughts on what might have helped.
š We read to them. From tiny babies, weāve read to them. Every day. Weāve 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 Theoās case, they might run around in circles and throw things at my head. But itās still fun. For them. š
šWe have books around the house. Small children will grab them and play with them, theyāll learn thereās a world of wonder in those pages. Theyāll see them as normal and intriguing and fun.
šWe let them choose. From when they can form an opinion, theyāll have the ones that they want. Now Iāll be honest, this does get annoying, because I would much rather read a story than ā100 vehiclesā or āLift the flap shapes bookā for the 95th night in a row. And I do occasionally make strong suggestions towards other options. š But they love repetition, they love the familiarity, and they learn so much through it when theyāre interested. Megan read the same book for about 3 years when she was younger. Iād offer other things, and sheād dip in and out, but it was where she was happy and felt safe, in her imaginary world in the pages of Enid Blyton.
šAs they get older, we let them try different genres-theyāll read if theyāre 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 Henryās Wives, one into Murder Mysteries, one still on Harry Potter, and one who much prefers nature books to any fairy stories. Itās surprising how interesting Mushrooms can be.
šWe 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 itās not something Iāve had a natural interest in. I scour their Christmas lists for ideas and blatantly steal them. The childrenās teachers will have loads of ideas, and I scout bookshops or websites for new releases.
šWeāve tried to be patient. They learn to read at different ages and stages, itās 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 wasnāt interested for a long time. When Megan started school I was clueless as to what ānormalā progression for new readers was, and Iām 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 thatās not been the same for the others, and thatās fine too. By the end of the first lockdown it was a battle to get Maddie to read anything, yet since Christmas sheās flown and is now reading anything. Time, no pressure, and letting her go at her pace seem to have been the answer.
šWe 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 wasnāt putting reading at the top of my to do list, so itās not always a priority-or even fun. But there are lots of books which arenāt heavy word filled books, and they still show the appeal of that paper and ink, of a world beyond the space weāre living in. āCoffee tableā books, filled with photos or art, short stories, poems, daily devotionals, travel books (or Winnie the Pooh, if weāre going for Notting Hill references…).
šChoose attractive books. There are so many gorgeously illustrated books out there. I love reading, but Iām 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.
āWhen 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.ā (Youāve Got Mail).
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 weād 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 werenāt 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 sheād be going elsewhere, a decision that, to me, seemed to have no real logic behind it.
Then there was the financial aspect. We didnāt 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 wasnāt 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 weād said goodbye to, the lives weād 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 whoād left and the ones who would come.
And then that week came. With Liamās 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 weād 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 isnāt 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 donāt think it was coincidence that none of the placements we were offered in those months didnāt pan out.
I donāt think it was coincidence my gut said no – weāll wait – on that wet Wednesday.
I donāt think it was coincidence that they fit so beautifully from the start.
I donāt 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 weāre living, whatever that looks or feels like, thereās a bigger picture than the one I see. The story doesnāt go the way I expect, but that doesnāt mean itās 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 didnāt have to live with loss. That the impact of that didnāt 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. āHe sets the lonely in families.ā (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 Iāve 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 canāt see it. Maybe itās not how Iād expect. Maybe it even involves loss and heartache along the way. But that doesnāt mean itās 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.
āEvery experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see.ā (Corrie Ten Boom)
Hello again! Itās been more than a week since I blogged my 40 before 40 list, and a whole yearās 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 weāve needed to do a lot of walks and scootering in ice and mud and rain-but weāve 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.
āThere is a life about to start when tomorrow comes…ā
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 Mondayās England lockdown news.
Honestly, sometimes thereās just no more words to write. We donāt want to hear of more lockdowns, more home learning, more staying at home. The weather is bleak, our energy has gone, and itās 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 weāre still just processing the last few weeks before another wave crashes in again, knocking us off our feet again.
I donāt really know where Iām at this time. Wales locked down before Christmas, so it doesnāt 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 Iāve wondered how weāll ever get out of this. And there are days where I wake up aiming to be positive, but life happens and others donāt feel so cheery or the news is full of a world in chaos and by the end of the day weāre all a bit done with it all.
I honestly donāt have any new insights. Weāve been here for 9 months. But weāre still here, arenāt we? And for that Iām grateful. And that gives me hope. So hereās what Iāve 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 thatās ok. I was still there first! I read my Bible, pray, journal. There are days where for various reasons I donāt. And thatās ok too. But the days I do manage, it really helps.
– Iāve finished two books I started before Christmas. One was Adam Kayās āTwas the Nightshift Before Christmasā. Hilarious, harrowing, and appealed to the ex-midwife in me. The other was a gift for my birthday, Jen Hatmakerās āFierce, Free, and Full of Fireā. The thing I love about being given books that I wouldnāt normally have read is that you read with no real agenda. I didnāt 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 Iāve 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 itās cheaper than counselling and it doesnāt make me cry (if we donāt 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 Iād 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 Tobyās first birthday…remnants from many Frozen parties…the cupcake stand from Maddieās Dear Zoo second birthday tea not long after sheād 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 ābirthdays through the yearsā. 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 youāre feeling these days, know thereās no pressure to be a certain way. Maybe youāre not in a tidying or baking or crafting place. Thatās ok. Weāre 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 āone day at a timeā 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 weāve wrestled through the 8 times table, itās cup of tea/snack time. Once the smallest is in bed, itās trashy TV/wine/chocolate/bed with a book time. When weāve managed a week, celebrate with takeaway time.
And we can do it, one prayer at a time. Because whatever the days are like, we donāt 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.
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 Iām finally reaping the benefits of being the baby of the year! Iām in a WhatsApp group with several school friends, and couldnāt help feeling a little smug as we started wishing friends a happy 40th way back when Iād just turned 39. But after Christmas was finished it suddenly dawned on me that when weāve 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. Iām ok with the fact in terms of age itself. Iāve had some busy years in adulthood, with more ups and downs than Chessingtonās finest rollercoaster. So I feel Iāve earned a fortieth and the grey hairs that declare my wisdom. Or my age, anyway. If anything, Iām aware that ageing isnāt a right or a privilege, itās a gift that not everyone gets, and for that, Iām 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 Iām still in my 30ās. Iāve 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 heās morphed into a several mile hiking, name-writing school-child. And thatās the part that unsettles me. Itās a new season of life and although Iām keenly aware I am still very much still needed, the question is who am I when Iām 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 Iām 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 Iād thought about this somewhere in November so I had forty weeks to achieve it, but there we are, Iāll just have to get a wriggle on. Some Iāll 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 itās 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 Iām already enrolled, but Iām excited to get going)
3. Finish reading or read ten new books
4. Get a tattoo (Iāve 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 weād do it when we went to matching panel for Micah 3.5 years ago…)
26. Save Ā£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 Ā£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. Iām 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 youāll be turning in 2021. No doubt thereāll be curve balls and unexpected moments, but if I donāt manage to bake all the cakes Iāll be ok with that. Itās more a motivation to keep looking for ways to make every day count. Iāll keep you updated on my progress, and Iāll be setting up a justgiving account for the fundraiser. Iāve got until August 18th 2021, so please, join me for the ride!
āSo teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.ā – Psalm 90:12
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?! Itās 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. Itās likely that his hair and teeth are unbrushed and he almost certainly doesnāt 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 thatās something weāre not sure of because it was another one of several hundred emails that landed this week with fresh information. However, theyāre 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 heād been holding for 20 minutes prior to leaving. Child 1 enthusiastically tries to show him the trailer-at least heās 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 wonāt miss the bus, pack two bags, and am presented with a note that says, simply: Ā£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 donāt 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 weāve been around for long enough we know, donāt 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 sanityās cliff, and I was googling for answers and emailing the experts and waiting for appointments and thereās 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 thatās 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 Iād ordered weeks ago. āIn Him was Life, and that life was the Light of all mankind.ā 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.
Iāve 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:
āThe story of Jesus is the story of God at street-level, raw and routine. Luke shows Jesusā 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, āHis parents didnāt miss him at firstā (Luke 2:34.) Later, in verse 48, we eavesdrop as Jesusā mom, wide-eyed and frantic, basically screams, āWe were worried sick about you!ā
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.ā (Shannan Martin)
This week words Iāve listened to and words Iāve 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 didnāt 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, Iām 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 itās by no small miracle weāve made it through another Friday and the end of school runs in the most disjointed year thereās ever been, and children have settled into bed with a wide range of emotions, and Iām sitting here just grateful. For the ups and downs, for the answers to prayers, for the teachers whoāve 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.
āThe 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?ā – Psalm 27:1
Iāve cried a lot this week. Iāve been impatient. Iāve been distracted. Iāve been anxious. Iāve been indecisive. Iāve been ungrateful. Iāve been tired. Iāve been sad.
Iāve also run through an icy field in the winter sun and remembered the seasons are still changing as promised.
Iāve watched my girl who knows and understands and lives loss write unprompted cards to her Grandad and Grandma for their hard day.
Iāve seen my boy who was abandoned in hospital play at looking after babies all day long.
Iāve 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 Iām 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 hasnāt abandoned us.
And I listened to a song that told me:
āI 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.ā
I know this year, this month, this week has been hard. Even just in my small circles thereās been infant losses, illnesses, surgeries, palliative care, grief, divorces, mental health breakdowns. And thatās without even mentioning the virus.
But the Baby Mary gave birth to was called Emmanuel, God with us. He ābecame flesh and dwelt among us.ā He ābore our griefs and carried our sorrows.ā 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.
āSo 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.ā (Rend Collective, Emmanuel, Youāre One of Us).
I didnāt write yesterday. In all honesty Iāve 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, āMum, do you need a hug?ā
I think Iāve 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 thereās 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 shouldnāt be the focus. In their experience they felt the more appropriate question is should you adopt?
Now I donāt 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 Iām grateful that we went into adoption with our eyes open. There are some questions that I havenāt answered yet, because they head into the harder side of fostering and adoption. Because itās 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.
Hereās where the story gets a bit complicated, and certainly where we learned a lot about learning to say no! In a lot of ways Iāve 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, āas an emergency placementā (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 Iām really grateful weāve got to see that childās journey over the years. But in all honesty, it wasnāt great for them to be an only child placed in the middle of a birth sibling group, and it wasnāt 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 weād 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 donāt 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 Kandiahās book āThe Greatest Secret-How Being Godās Adopted Children Changes Everything.ā 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 āWatching 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 Godās promise to work all things for good for the sake of those who love him.ā
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 weāve chosen. And there have been days when weāve 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, āplease can we keep them?!ā To which Iād always point out that that wasnāt my decision.
Q: Did you always foster with the intention of it leading to adoption?
Short answer – no. We certainly didnāt 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 āshould we ask the question?ā, 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, āoh did you just fall in love with these ones too much?ā
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 peopleās incorrect assumptions, ignorance, and misunderstanding. And maybe that is why I feel so strongly about sharing our story, and raising awareness. Fostering is not ājust a jobā. Saying goodbye isnāt easy even though you know thatās the plan. To truly care well, you have to genuinely care. You canāt hold back a part of your heart to shield yourself from pain, because thatās the very part of your heart a broken little person needs to start healing.
In other parts of the UK, they offer āfoster to adoptā, also called āconcurrent careā, or āearly permanencyā. 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 isnāt 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 weād spent together. It felt like fitting a piece in their jigsaw, to have the time documented, and to be able to see how much weād invested in them. To feel that weād done a job well. In the transition stage we tried to fit in a little goodbye tea for the friends and family whoād supported us and who would also be saying goodbye to a little one theyād 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 theyād 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 weād 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 Iāve 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 Iāve 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 sheās ready to fly. And the truth is I donāt know how that will look for any of my children, or how easy or hard or long that road might be. But itās 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 itās hard and prove that Iāll keep showing up however hard it is. Because they are chosen and precious and beautiful and I am the lucky one.
Megan asked me why I decorate for Autumn, but not Spring or Summer. She feels itās unfair on the other seasons that they donāt 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 Theoās side in hospital, in HDU, and then nursing him back to health at home, in between Maddieās 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 doesnāt have silver linings. You wake up in the morning and thereās 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 itās 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 whoād 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 donāt 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. Iāve looked for good for sixth months and Iām 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 donāt 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.
āTo 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 thatās lost its resolve for a moment.ā (From I Am by M Cushatt).
That morning I went for a run, the first one for several weeks since Iād 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 Iāve done, that first hill makes me think I canāt do it. But Iāve 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 – āa soul thatās lost its resolve for a moment.ā 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 whoāve 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. ā…and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.ā – 2 Corinthians 3:17
As I ran slowly I realised that true inspiration doesnāt 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.
Iāve 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 isnāt how any of us thought it would be, and some of that is hard. And itās ok to acknowledge when weāre struggling. Sometimes my greatest inspiration comes from the people who are real and vulnerable and who donāt 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 āliter-teaā 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.
It’s a sunny September Saturday at the end of the first full week back in school, and I feel like I’m just about coming up for air. For a summary of what this week looked like, we did:
32 school/bus drop offs and pick ups (5 children, 3 schools, 2 different entrances, different times of day..)
2 school visits
2 mornings dressing/driving whilst on hold to the GP
2 pharmacy visits to collect antibiotics
1 ‘independent’ gymnastics session with a child attached to my leg
5 days of reminders to make your lunch, take your lunch, make a drink, take the drink, find the mask, find the mask bag, remember your equipment, don’t forget the antibac gel, check what room you’re going to, practice the piano, put your mask in the wash, put your uniform in the wash, wash your hands, wash your hands, wash your hands.
Made 1 spreadsheet to make sure no-one was left abandoned and no meetings were missed.
Rearranged a school meeting 5 times whilst the staff member waited for test results.
Walked 1000 steps on the school one way system along 3 streets 12 times.
Kept one poorly child home and given them countless doses of calpol and antibiotics.
Watched 1 neighbouring county go into lockdown.
Had conversations over 7 days about jobs, money, and the next 6 months.
Bought 5 more masks.
Tried to work out which 2 family members we are allowed to meet with from Monday. Until Toby turns 11. And then we’re down to hanging out with one other person of our choosing.
It feels like the storm clouds are swirling again, and talking to others, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that. There is hard news in the media, hard news in people’s personal lives. Nothing in life at the moment seems simple or familiar. We tasted a lifting of lockdown and now the gates are closing again. Or to misquote Notting Hill (best film. fact.), it’s like we’ve taken freedom heroin and now we can’t ever have it again.
I was thinking in the week, how do I get through these days when I feel like the waves are getting bigger, when I’m fed up and I’m struggling to stay positive, how do I keep swimming?
This wife of a surfer-swimmer man has a confession.
I’m afraid of the sea.
When I was a child, we once had a special day out, where we got to meet one of my Dad’s work colleagues. My Dad worked in central London, so we didn’t generally meet any of his work friends. But this particular man kept animals, and invited our family to go and visit his land and ride his horses. It was a big event in my mind, a day to be remembered.
And then a few months later, we heard that the gentleman had disappeared. He went sea fishing, and he never returned. His body washed up further down the coast a few days later.
And the sea became an enemy in my mind. Something dangerous, powerful, unpredictable. I loved standing and looking at it, but I didnāt feel safe enough to get in it. And then I married a man who loves the sea, and we took our children to the beach, and I had to choose anxiety or enjoyment on those beach days. And so over the years I’ve learned to understand it more. To trust Liam’s strength and knowledge and ability when he goes surfing – although he knows I don’t rest until I get his text to say he’s out of the water. We’ve made swimming lessons of high importance for our children. And a couple of summers ago, Megan and Maisie took part in a Swim Safe course, organised by the RNLI and Swim England, to give children the skills to enjoy open water, and to know how to deal with potential risks, and to teach them the anti-drowning campaign – Respect the Water.
And the advice is this. When you are at risk of drowning, fight your instinct to thrash around. Relax. Float. And call for help.
I had a restless night earlier in the week when I was feeling unwell, and as I dozed on and off and then came to, the words of the Lauren Daigle song I’d been listening to in the car came to me – ‘look up child.’
‘Where are You now, when darkeness seems to win?
Where are You now when the world is crumbling?
Oh I hear You say, I hear You say, Look up child.
Where are You now when all I feel is doubt?
Where are You now when I can’t figure it out?
Oh I, I hear You say Look up child.
You’re not threatened by the war
You’re not shaken by the storm
I know You’re in control
Even in our suffering
Even when it can’t be seen
I know You’re in control.
Oh I, I hear You say, Look up child.’
My only answer in these days and weeks of that drowning feeling is to follow the advice. Stop fighting. Relax. Float on the promises of hope that safety will come. And ask for help.
For me to stop fighting it takes reminding myself it’s ok to find it hard. It’s ok to only manage one thing at a time. One day at a time. It’s ok to slow down when I’m tired and ill. To talk – or not talk. To read. To listen. To rest.
Relaxing looks like reminding myself of all the good that we’ve found this week. The many answers to prayer. The kids who are running happily into school and loving it. The schools that care and the staff that go above and beyond to help our children through their differing challenges. The successful school visits. The amazing friends, old and new. The ones who love our family, the ones who love our kiddos. The other children who have befriended ours, who welcome them as they are, who make them feel like they belong. The car that passed it’s MOT. The happy post. The chance of going to church again tomorrow. Modern medicine that provides relief and healing. Seeing family. Creating. The stuff that’s made us laugh a lot.
I look up the verses that have kept me afloat before, and ride the waves of uncertainty on them. ‘But now, thus says the Lord, he who created you O Jacob, he who formed you O Israel: ‘Fear not, for I have redeemd you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.’ (Is 43).
And I need to remember to call for help. Sometimes on weeks where it feels like there’s something going on with every family member, if I’m asked how we are, I don’t really know how to respond. I’m grateful for the people who take the time to listen to the details, because often I feel I should condense it so I don’t bore the listener – ‘oh, ups and downs.’ Or ‘some struggles with some kids but lots to be thankful for’. Obviously not everyone needs to know everything, but there are times when I need to find the people who I can share the burden with, the ones I know will be kind and real. Who will care and pray. Who will bring coffee/cake/prosecco. Who will help me remember thereās always something to be thankful for.
And most of all I need to call for help from the One who made the waves. Who can speak and stop the storm, or who will walk through the rising waves and wind to grab my hand, and pull me to safety through it. I need to look up. At the One who isnāt threatened by the war – or by my doubts. Who isnāt shaken by the storm – or my fears and tears. Who is in control.
This year continues to throw out the bad and the ugly, but I donāt want to get dragged down by them and miss the good. I read an article this morning that talked about the prospect of Christmas being cancelled this year, potentially the next casualty of 2020. And in amongst all the depressing reading was a quote from a professor from East Anglia University, who said āChristmas is a religious festival and will never be formally ācancelledā. And that was the bit that gave me hope. It may not come with all the trimmings this year, but Christmas canāt ever be cancelled, because Christ came. The One who formed the oceans came down to earth and walked on the waters that Heād made, reaching out His hand to his drowning friend and lifting him to safety. And Heās here still. Reaching out to us in the wild waves of 2020. So even in the uncertainty I can relax, float, ride the waves, and call for help. And help will come.
On Thursday we celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary, and Iāve been sitting (metaphorically not literally) with what I wanted to write and share. We were incredibly lucky to have two days away WITHOUT CHILDREN, and I have lots of pretty photos and stories. But I didnāt want to just do the āromantic couples mini-breakā post without sharing some of what Iāve been reflecting on.
(I write this knowing everyoneās story is different. If marriage is a painful topic for you, I see you, and I love you, and Iām sorry. I can only write from my own experience, and I want to be honest and real. I hope you know how precious you are, whatever your story, wherever your journey is taking you right now. You are wanted. You are needed. You are loved.)
Liam and I have never been together continuously for more than six weeks. On that occasion of extended paternity leave, we had a three week old baby, moved house, and went to adoption panel for two other children. So weāve never spent a long stretch of time together without work or big life events filling the weeks.
Welcome 2020, our 15th year of marriage, and Covid-19. Liam was put on furlough early on in March, and therefore all 8 of us have been together for 5 months. This has of course, brought ups and downs. We have had lots of fun, enjoyed family time, worked together on projects, and been grateful. When I was blogging our lockdown days, a friend told me that Liam came off well in my writing, and Iām glad. Because thereās been so much good in these months together.
But in true transparency, weāve also annoyed each other beyond belief. Disagreed over how we parent. Wished the other one would do the washing up. Iāve sulked at him being in āmy spaceā. Iāve been impatient and ungrateful and unkind. The flaws have been there, up close and personal, with no work to escape to, and for a long time with no other friends or family to break up the days.
We donāt have a perfect marriage. I know we are very lucky – we do like each other. We do laugh. We agree on a lot of important things. We have each other. There are so many things about my husband I am thankful for. And I know thatās not everyoneās experience.
But itās not always a smooth ride either. We fought hard for this relationship before we even said āI doā. When others were questioning our decision, we stepped back and considered and decided we were serious. And that made our vows significant. And gave us a stubborn determination to make this work. And we made promises before God, trusting Heād walk with us.
And He has. He has given blessings above and beyond what I could have imagined. But there are days and weeks and months sometimes, when it can look like āuntil death us do partā is an impossible dream. When the irritations are more than irritating. When we hurt each other. When love is conditional.
And there have been points over 2020 when absence might have made the heart grow fonder. And days where I knew I was being grumpy and selfish and complaining and I prayed, āGod, let me see this man like you see him. Open my eyes to who youāve created him to be, and the gifts he brings to the world. Help me to love him more.ā
And then something happened.
A few weeks ago we went for a walk with my family and faced one of the scariest moments Iāve known in a long time. As we walked over a bridge, five adults and six children meandering over the river, Liam suddenly shot past me, and threw his phone at me with a look of determination on his face that I didnāt recognise. As I said āwhatās wrong?!ā, he shouted āheās drowningā, ran down the river bank, and straight into the river. He swam across to a little boy, and as he got there, a second head bobbed up from under the water. He swam confidently back, fighting the undercurrent, whilst cradling the five year old boy, who we wrapped up, warmed up, pinked up, and returned to his terrified mother.
We walked back, very shaken but grateful that weād walked that route. Grateful the little boy was ok. Grateful weād been in the right place at the right time.
And as the week went by it made me think. There were five adults walking over that bridge, and only Liam spotted that the little boy down in the river was in trouble. The rest of us were distracted by other things going on. Liam walks and talks or drives and talks, but he notices things Iām oblivious to – birds hidden down on the river bank, cars about to do a risky manoeuvre, the child struggling in the river. He also happens to be the strongest swimmer out of anyone there. He swam competitively as a youth, and he is still happiest in the sea or a lake, whereas when I was in school I was told by the lifeguard to get out of the wave machine in the swimming pool because I looked like I was going to drown. He faces fears head on, and would do anything to help someone else. He had no second thought about going in that river, when I was already worrying he might drown too. And where some people would proclaim their heroic story loudly from the rooftops, he wanted it played down. Heād say āanyone would have done the sameā, but Iām not sure I could have done.
And it occurred to me that maybe God was using that incident to answer my prayer and opening my eyes. To the fact that often I grumble or complain because Liam isnāt who I think he should be. He isnāt like me, or he isnāt doing the things I think he should, reacting in the way I think is best. But the truth is, thatās a really good thing. Iām overwhelmingly grateful that we are not the same. That Liam is gifted in ways I absolutely am not. That he is who God made him, that he brings to me and to our marriage and to our family and to the world things that God knows we need.
When I look back to 15 years ago, I know we were naive. We made promises and meant them, but didnāt really know what that might look like in real life.
We went to a wedding where the vicar said to the couple, āI didnāt ask you will you promise to be in love, but do you promise to loveā. Because being in love is how you feel, promising to love is a choice.
So no, I could never have known 15 years ago what we might face. And I didnāt know the work it would take and that sometimes choosing love would be really hard. But I also didnāt know the ways the tattooed motorbike riding rugby playing swimmer from South Wales would encourage my faith, the way heād say a resounding yes to loving children who donāt share his DNA, the way heād always choose the quiet overgrown path to wander and find hidden beauty, the way heād inspire me to be brave, the way heād cheer me on, the way heād put family first, the way heād help me to see my own gifts and to not need to seek other peopleās approval.
And Iām grateful that even though his jokes have not improved (or even changed) over the years, I now laugh out of tiredness and familiarity (and sometimes hysteria). And often I quote the woman in the ring shop when we were looking at wedding rings, who adopted the sales technique of telling him āoh, youāre so witty!ā. I might add a little note of sarcasm, just to keep him humble.
Iām grateful we made those vows. Iām grateful for the family and friends who have come alongside us and spur us on. Iām grateful for a husband who sees me at my most unlovely and chooses to love me. Iām grateful for a God who showed us what sacrificial love really looks like. Iām grateful for 15 years, journeying roads we could never have imagined, through joy and pain we never dreamt of, and being gifted new mercies we donāt deserve. And Iām grateful that today we get to choose love again.
āBy this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers. But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truthā. – 1 John 3:16-18
āGreater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friendsā. – John 15:13
10 āIn this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.ā – 1 John 4:10-11
Savouring My Days 
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