SURPRISE, SURPRISE! I've been working hard on an upgraded site so I hope you will go on over to www.whitneygoble.com and check it out! This account will be deleted as of July 1st so be sure to bookmark www.whitneygoble.com and follow me on social media as well!
THANK YOU for following my journey so far! I'm sorry that I've been so quiet these last few months but I'm hoping that the fresh, new site will give me some fresh, new perspective!
See you there!
Monday, June 23, 2014
Sunday, June 1, 2014
To Tolerate Delay.
PATIENCE. Patience is the state of endurance under difficult circumstances, which can mean persevering in the face of delay or provocation without acting on annoyance/anger in a negative way; or exhibiting forbearance when under strain, especially when faced with longer-term difficulties. Patience is the level of endurance one can take before negativity. It is also used to refer to the character trait of being steadfast.
Patience is the level of endurance one can take before negativity.
Patience is exhibiting forbearance when under strain.
Patience is persevering in the face of delay.
Patience is without acting in a negative way upon provocation.
I am not patient.
It's been months. And I have had no words. Well, rather I have had MANY words, but my mother always told me that if you can't say something nice, don't say it at all. I'll plead the 5th on that one, but at least I have employed enough self-control not to put ALL the words swarming around my head like a hive of angry bees on the internet. I suppose the blessing in being knocked down by wave after wave of salty sea water is that you're so occupied with trying to find and hang onto your breath that you don't have time to formulate words, much less propel them out into the open where they can find a dry patch upon which to land. The good news is that EVENTUALLY the tide draws back, you manage to get to your feet even though the sand is still shifting underneath you and the wind is whipping around you and you come to the conclusion that Thank God, you are still alive and....you are glad to be. And once the tide has drawn back, and you have caught your breath and established that you are still alive, you then can begin the process of assessing the damage and sorting through the debris left strewn about......
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck." December 31, 2013.
A naïve person would think that was IT! The training and paperwork had been completed, our qualifications vetted, the decision made, the room readied......what could possibly be left but to meet and bring our precious girls home and begin the process of healing and growing and bonding and thriving?
A naïve person would think.
"The next step will be to wait for the redacted file. Once you receive and review it with your caseworker, we will set up a staff meeting during which all parties will meet and you will have an opportunity to ask questions."
REDACTION. A form of editing in which multiple source texts are combined and altered slightly to make a single document. A method of collecting a series on a similar theme and creating a definitive and coherent work. Later came to be used in a sense of adapting a document prior to publication or release.
How hard could it be? Surely they have most of this together? Surely all of the important information is kept in one place? Surely there is a nice, neat file somewhere that has already been prepared for the day when they anticipated that someone would come along to adopt the girls? Surely.
Imagine if every paper that had your name mentioned since you were born had to be collected, reviewed, and assimilated in coherent order. Birth records, counseling records, medical records, monthly reports from CPS, foster parents, CASA workers, school officials, dentists, doctors, prescriptions, report cards, transfer papers. Every shred of anything in the history of ever that existed in your entire life. And then imagine that each of those thousands of papers had to be scanned individually for sensitive information that cannot be shared with prospective adoptive parents. Biological parents' names, addresses, descriptions, ages, socials. Foster parents names, addresses, information. Counselors names, addresses, information. Cities where they live. Schools that they attend. Now imagine ONE REDACTION UNIT for the entire state of Texas, with merely a handful of Redaction Specialists, in a room, likely a basement, with stacks upon stacks--hundreds of thousands of files and a fat, black Sharpie.
Even Rumplestiltzkin would be no match for such a task.
So we waited, patiently at first, for the pieces of paper that stood in between us and our future. It couldn't possibly take more than a few weeks, we thought. We thanked God for the time. Time to finish up the room. Time to enjoy being childless. Time to read, pray, prepare. Patience is a fickle mistress though and the space between 'time as a gift' and 'time as a curse' is a sharp 90 degree angle. A few weeks passed and the patience began to wane. My dad always taught me that being proactive is key. So we started calling. Emailing. Texting. Calling again. We pestered caseworkers. Anyone and everyone who's number I could track down got weekly, sometimes daily reminders that there were two orphaned little girls out there who needed to know about their new mom and dad and two hopeful parents who were watching a magical bedroom gather dust. People called. People emailed. People reached out. "Do you have your girls yet?!" they asked excitedly. We responded with equal excitement. "Not yet! But we're ready! We're hoping to meet them soon!" Then, as the excitement faded, as all things do, more tentative inquiries became the norm. "Any word on the girls?" We tried to stay upbeat, positive, confident, assured. Hoping that our own unquenchable enthusiasm would sweep others along. "Not yet, but we think we'll get a call any day now! We're so excited!" We pretended to be experts. Feigned confidence. Blamed the broken system; "too many kids, not enough caseworkers", we said with assurance. More time passed. We distracted ourselves. Bought stuff for their room. Talked about what it would be like when they were finally here. Researched tips and techniques to promote adoptive bonding. Joined support groups with other foster and adoptive families. Anything that could keep us connected to the fact that we would be parents soon. Our girls were on their way. We wouldn't let go.
People eventually stopped asking. We found our enthusiasm hard to maintain. What WAS taking so long? Had they changed their minds about us? Had something gone wrong? What exactly was IN the files that warranted such time and careful examination? And in the silence and space between, one of our girls had a birthday. An acute representation of time passing and moments missing and the lives of four people continuing on, without each other.
And then it came. The call from our caseworker telling us she had received the files. We were ecstatic! Finally! After months and months! We had been waiting for what seemed like forever. Little did we know, all of the time in the world could not have prepared us for the information we were about to receive.
But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Romans 8:25
Patience is the level of endurance one can take before negativity.
Patience is exhibiting forbearance when under strain.
Patience is persevering in the face of delay.
Patience is without acting in a negative way upon provocation.
I am not patient.
It's been months. And I have had no words. Well, rather I have had MANY words, but my mother always told me that if you can't say something nice, don't say it at all. I'll plead the 5th on that one, but at least I have employed enough self-control not to put ALL the words swarming around my head like a hive of angry bees on the internet. I suppose the blessing in being knocked down by wave after wave of salty sea water is that you're so occupied with trying to find and hang onto your breath that you don't have time to formulate words, much less propel them out into the open where they can find a dry patch upon which to land. The good news is that EVENTUALLY the tide draws back, you manage to get to your feet even though the sand is still shifting underneath you and the wind is whipping around you and you come to the conclusion that Thank God, you are still alive and....you are glad to be. And once the tide has drawn back, and you have caught your breath and established that you are still alive, you then can begin the process of assessing the damage and sorting through the debris left strewn about......
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck." December 31, 2013.
A naïve person would think that was IT! The training and paperwork had been completed, our qualifications vetted, the decision made, the room readied......what could possibly be left but to meet and bring our precious girls home and begin the process of healing and growing and bonding and thriving?
A naïve person would think.
"The next step will be to wait for the redacted file. Once you receive and review it with your caseworker, we will set up a staff meeting during which all parties will meet and you will have an opportunity to ask questions."
REDACTION. A form of editing in which multiple source texts are combined and altered slightly to make a single document. A method of collecting a series on a similar theme and creating a definitive and coherent work. Later came to be used in a sense of adapting a document prior to publication or release.
How hard could it be? Surely they have most of this together? Surely all of the important information is kept in one place? Surely there is a nice, neat file somewhere that has already been prepared for the day when they anticipated that someone would come along to adopt the girls? Surely.
Imagine if every paper that had your name mentioned since you were born had to be collected, reviewed, and assimilated in coherent order. Birth records, counseling records, medical records, monthly reports from CPS, foster parents, CASA workers, school officials, dentists, doctors, prescriptions, report cards, transfer papers. Every shred of anything in the history of ever that existed in your entire life. And then imagine that each of those thousands of papers had to be scanned individually for sensitive information that cannot be shared with prospective adoptive parents. Biological parents' names, addresses, descriptions, ages, socials. Foster parents names, addresses, information. Counselors names, addresses, information. Cities where they live. Schools that they attend. Now imagine ONE REDACTION UNIT for the entire state of Texas, with merely a handful of Redaction Specialists, in a room, likely a basement, with stacks upon stacks--hundreds of thousands of files and a fat, black Sharpie.
Even Rumplestiltzkin would be no match for such a task.
So we waited, patiently at first, for the pieces of paper that stood in between us and our future. It couldn't possibly take more than a few weeks, we thought. We thanked God for the time. Time to finish up the room. Time to enjoy being childless. Time to read, pray, prepare. Patience is a fickle mistress though and the space between 'time as a gift' and 'time as a curse' is a sharp 90 degree angle. A few weeks passed and the patience began to wane. My dad always taught me that being proactive is key. So we started calling. Emailing. Texting. Calling again. We pestered caseworkers. Anyone and everyone who's number I could track down got weekly, sometimes daily reminders that there were two orphaned little girls out there who needed to know about their new mom and dad and two hopeful parents who were watching a magical bedroom gather dust. People called. People emailed. People reached out. "Do you have your girls yet?!" they asked excitedly. We responded with equal excitement. "Not yet! But we're ready! We're hoping to meet them soon!" Then, as the excitement faded, as all things do, more tentative inquiries became the norm. "Any word on the girls?" We tried to stay upbeat, positive, confident, assured. Hoping that our own unquenchable enthusiasm would sweep others along. "Not yet, but we think we'll get a call any day now! We're so excited!" We pretended to be experts. Feigned confidence. Blamed the broken system; "too many kids, not enough caseworkers", we said with assurance. More time passed. We distracted ourselves. Bought stuff for their room. Talked about what it would be like when they were finally here. Researched tips and techniques to promote adoptive bonding. Joined support groups with other foster and adoptive families. Anything that could keep us connected to the fact that we would be parents soon. Our girls were on their way. We wouldn't let go.
People eventually stopped asking. We found our enthusiasm hard to maintain. What WAS taking so long? Had they changed their minds about us? Had something gone wrong? What exactly was IN the files that warranted such time and careful examination? And in the silence and space between, one of our girls had a birthday. An acute representation of time passing and moments missing and the lives of four people continuing on, without each other.
And then it came. The call from our caseworker telling us she had received the files. We were ecstatic! Finally! After months and months! We had been waiting for what seemed like forever. Little did we know, all of the time in the world could not have prepared us for the information we were about to receive.
But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience. Romans 8:25
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Ready to Run.
The idea of beginning AGAIN terrifies me. So much that I would almost rather give up for good or begin something totally new than start over. I felt the pain of this concept acutely a few nights ago when I went for my first 'wog' (jogging so slow you might as well be walking) since the morning after my dog Jackson lost his battle with Stage 5 lymphoma. Jackson was my fur baby, my couch buddy, my sweet boy but mostly my street partner in crime. We beat out mile after mile through the dimly lit night streets of Smithville for years together. And then he was just GONE. It took only 7 days from diagnosis to death for him to be snuffed totally out of my life. Just like that. A blink of an eye really. Out of desperation to keep a part of him close I ran a measly, awful, disappointing mile the morning after we buried him but I have had literally no desire to run since then. Not once in 357 days. Until Tuesday. And all of a sudden.....I did. The desire to run surged up in me, just like that. Out of the blue. It was even late. Between the moments of tv time and bed time in the Goble house. But before I could snap out of it, I was lacing up my sneaks. It scared me. I wasn't ready. I wasn't there yet. I wasn't optimistic about how it would go, what it would feel like, if I could even do it. I felt guilty for wanting to run without him. A million memories of him weaving in and out of the trees ahead of me flooded my heart all at once. Stopping to sloppily lap up water from a puddle and wait just long enough to make sure I hadn't bailed and then he was off again; like a burst of white light--stretching his long legs in front of him. How he would disappear for what seemed like ever and then all of a sudden be right by my side but covered in mud or leaves or some dead stank that he had rustled up. I just didn't know. And what is one to do when they aren't sure what to do? WALK IT OUT. I wasn't sure if I could do it. I wasn't totally sure if I really WANTED to do it. So I walked. I walked through the dimly lit streets, past the barking dogs, past the apartment where we became a family, past that one concrete tiger on the lawn of city hall that always surprised him and made him feel like he needed to protect me, past the empty lot that called his name like a siren every year after the Festival of Lights food vendors had their way with it, past the gazebo where we would stop and stretch; me for too long, him not enough because who stretches before you've actually run, parallel to the tracks down that straightaway where we always breathed hardest but ran fastest because who doesn't want to at least TRY and outrun a train, through the poor neighborhoods and the rich neighborhoods and the middle class neighborhoods, to the track where we would frolick through the sprinklers and where he would inevitably poop on the nights when I didn't have a bag (which was every night). I walked through every single memory. The good, the bad, the happy, the sad. And in some small way, I felt he was there with me. Helping me let go. Giving me permission to move on. Begin again. Start over. Because it's true what they say. About it getting easier someday. And someday always comes. It may come when we least expect but it's always right on time.
Time heals. Wounds seal. And we realize that even though it may not be easy or feel natural or look cute, we CAN still run. And we should.
I miss you down to my bones sweet boy, but I miss ME more. Here's to living the rest of the life I've been given, well, even though it's without you. I look forward to the day when we meet again--because in Heaven I know we WILL outrun that train. xo W.
Time heals. Wounds seal. And we realize that even though it may not be easy or feel natural or look cute, we CAN still run. And we should.
I miss you down to my bones sweet boy, but I miss ME more. Here's to living the rest of the life I've been given, well, even though it's without you. I look forward to the day when we meet again--because in Heaven I know we WILL outrun that train. xo W.
Monday, March 3, 2014
The God of Quid Pro Quo
"YOU'RE 40 WEEKS PREGNANT--YOUR BABY IS DUE!"
Those were the words that greeted me from gmail this morning at 8:03am. According to babycenter.com this day should be going very differently than it actually is. I SHOULD be HUGE, swollen, uncomfortable, wearing an unsightly Kirstie Alley-esque mumu and CROCS, shlepping around the house with decaf coffee in hand, watching Ellen and laugh-crying hyterically. I SHOULD be answering a call from an anxiety ridden, frazzled, hyper-active, on-point, go-mode husband every five minutes about how I'm doing, if anything is different, if my water has broken and even though I'll feign mild irritation with a 'Sweetheart, I'm FINE. I promise you will be the first to know. I'll call you if anything happens", I would really be feeling like the most attended to, loved woman on the planet. I SHOULD be packing and re-packing a bag (or ten for those of you who have seen how I pack), checking things off a list, calling my mom one more time just to hear her birth stories again in case I missed a useful detail the first 7,000 times, calling the hospital just to make sure they didn't go out of business in the last 24 hours, second guessing our ENTIRE birth plan and reading the side effects of epidurals and recovery advice for c-sections, uh-gain, just in case.
None of those things are happening because I am not 40 weeks pregnant. My baby is not due. She was born into my hands exactly 253,447 minutes ago which is why I am instead sitting at a desk in a big, fancy office building, starting on my fifth cup of regular coffee because drinking water on a freezing day like today is really just not an option, answering phone calls, checking emails, scheduling travel, reading memos, filing reports, chit-chatting with co-workers about random nothingness, trolling facebook for interesting comments on last night's awards, and of course, now, we can add staring at the above sentence with a blank look on my face to the tasks of the day.
It's that word. DUE. It's just irritating. And it doesn't actually make any sense whatsoever. According to Webster it means two exact opposite things simultaneously which is just totally ridiculous.
Definition #1. A person's right; what is owed to them
Definition #2: A person's obligatory payment or fee; what is owed from them
You mean to say 'I OWE' and 'I AM OWED' can both be true? Isn't that considered a double negative? Who do I owe? What do I owe? Who owes me? What do they owe me? When do they owe it to me? Can we drill down to some specifics please Mr. Webster because this entire idea isn't really working for me.
It isn't really working for me because it isn't true. At least when it comes to God and plans and purposes and events and life and death and everything in between. So ok, back to, it isn't true.
And of course, like the predictable Christian I am, my thoughts turn to a strong, powerful, wealthy, middle aged man thousands of years ago who was said to be a 'good man-his character spotless, his integrity unquestioned. He deliberately avoided evil in all his affairs and believed in God so much that he sought to honor Him in all things'. This man had 10 children and thousands of animals, a multitude of capable staff, successful businesses, million dollar properties and a seemingly loving wife. As an effect of the amazingly good life he had, people considered him blessed by God. Which is why, when he began to lose those blessings, one by one, people questioned his faith and surmised that he must have done something to deserve it. His children were killed in a storm. "God must be punishing you", they said. His livestock was stolen, attacked and slaughtered, "Ask for forgiveness, change your life, turn back to God", they said. His wife abandoned him, his friends challenged him, his body began to fail him, "Curse God and die", they said as if there was nothing to be done.
And if this man, Job, had considered God to be a vending machine like most of us do; dispensing blessings like candy to anyone and everyone who had worked hard enough and saved long enough and prayed loud enough and worshipped often enough and been good-enough to be able to 'purchase' a chocolate covered miracle for $1.75, he might have done just that because there's nothing more frustrating than putting your quarters in the slot, expecting a honey bun and getting something else or even worse, getting nothing in return. And I've seen how we do. We curse and bang on the door to see if we can shake lose the missing blessing. We call the office manager or the company and demand a refund. We hit 'return' over and over and over like trained monkeys and then shove our greedy 'obviously deserving' little hands in the return slot to see if by chance justice has been served and our money dutifully returned. And then, after all avenues explored, all options attempted, we realize defeat and with slumped shoulders trudge back to our desks; exhausted, starving, defeated and empty handed, swearing on our great grandmother's grave to never do that again, EVER.
We curse. We turn our backs.
And then something awesome happens.
And we raise our hands and sing songs about rainbows and tell people how blessed we are.
Until we're not.
God is not a vending machine. His M.O. is not quid pro quo. Something given for something taken. He does not desire my pain to accomplish His purposes. He is not in the business of dealing short hands and dead babies to force people to their knees in worship of Him and to become worthy of His blessing.
In fact, He makes it very clear who can consider themselves blessed. And thankfully I don't see a price tag or a list of names included.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God
Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
I used to think, 'Alright, alright, alright!' If I could just accomplish a few of these I would be way ahead of the game and a waterfall of blessings would be headed my way and the gates to the kingdom of Heaven would be THROWN open for me. Or at least left cracked open so I can squeeze through. And then I realized something weird and I'm no theologian so don't quote me but it spoke to my heart. The first and last 'causes' if you will; being poor in spirit and being persecuted for the sake of righteousness both have the same effect; possessing the kingdom of heaven. It's a LOOP! This is not a list of singular directives given and if I get 6 out of the 8 of them right most of the time I'm THAT closer to the end-game of heaven. They ARE the cause AND effect. The kingdom of heaven, the dominion and reign of God happens BETWEEN them, WITHIN them as we travel THROUGH them. Stay with me.
When I am poor in spirit I am empty, hollow, a joy-less, life-less shell of the me I could be. Feeling this way, being this way is excruciatingly painful and causes me to howl, literally howl in grief. Heart wrenching, body racking, swollen faced, snot running freely, choking, wailing, unstoppable, incontrollable sorrow. Sorrow like that breaks a person, breaks them absolutely in two. The heart melts into a puddle on the floor, the walls come down, the stoicism ceases, the mask removed as the heart softens and becomes gentle as it lands with a thud at the very lowest point there is. And when your heart is beaten and broken, lying on the floor, the only place to look is up, to the top of the moutain from where you fell and you begin to search for a way to get back there. You look for answers and those answers change you. You begin to open your eyes to the others that are at the bottom too. You see yourself in their pain, their broken hearts. And they see you. And as you hold hands and sit and rock and cry there at the bottom you begin to learn what loving another really looks like. And His sacrifice makes sense. And all this compassion and love and understanding fills your heart and gives you strength enough to begin to climb. But this time it's different, as you pass other travelers on the road, headed up or headed down, you see them through a lense of grace, of mercy. You don't demand or judge or ridicule or climb over them or stand on their broken back to advance yourself. Love is guiding you now, not fear. There is not room for both in a heart that has been purified by pain. And it's only a pure heart such as this that has the ability to pursue peace; with itself, with others, with God. But peacemakers are rarely understood by those who aren't there yet, those who are still going down fighting. The unshakable calm that they posesses is frightening. Others want that so badly that when they feel they can't have it, they try and make sure others don't either. They lash out and they try and hurt. They persecute. And in that persecution, our spirits are crushed and emptied, our pain, once again becomes palpable and we face, yet again, the choice to pursue a journey of blessing or not.
I'm not having a baby today. I may not have a baby ever. And the idea of that is so sad that it takes my breath away. But my God is not a vending machine God. He does not dispense or withhold blessings based on how I act toward Him or how well I do in Christianity 101. He has paved the road of blessing with His blood and if I choose to walk it with him, no loss or gain can take away the name He has given me.
"{They} will stand up and call her BLESSED". Proverbs 31:28
Those were the words that greeted me from gmail this morning at 8:03am. According to babycenter.com this day should be going very differently than it actually is. I SHOULD be HUGE, swollen, uncomfortable, wearing an unsightly Kirstie Alley-esque mumu and CROCS, shlepping around the house with decaf coffee in hand, watching Ellen and laugh-crying hyterically. I SHOULD be answering a call from an anxiety ridden, frazzled, hyper-active, on-point, go-mode husband every five minutes about how I'm doing, if anything is different, if my water has broken and even though I'll feign mild irritation with a 'Sweetheart, I'm FINE. I promise you will be the first to know. I'll call you if anything happens", I would really be feeling like the most attended to, loved woman on the planet. I SHOULD be packing and re-packing a bag (or ten for those of you who have seen how I pack), checking things off a list, calling my mom one more time just to hear her birth stories again in case I missed a useful detail the first 7,000 times, calling the hospital just to make sure they didn't go out of business in the last 24 hours, second guessing our ENTIRE birth plan and reading the side effects of epidurals and recovery advice for c-sections, uh-gain, just in case.
None of those things are happening because I am not 40 weeks pregnant. My baby is not due. She was born into my hands exactly 253,447 minutes ago which is why I am instead sitting at a desk in a big, fancy office building, starting on my fifth cup of regular coffee because drinking water on a freezing day like today is really just not an option, answering phone calls, checking emails, scheduling travel, reading memos, filing reports, chit-chatting with co-workers about random nothingness, trolling facebook for interesting comments on last night's awards, and of course, now, we can add staring at the above sentence with a blank look on my face to the tasks of the day.
It's that word. DUE. It's just irritating. And it doesn't actually make any sense whatsoever. According to Webster it means two exact opposite things simultaneously which is just totally ridiculous.
Definition #1. A person's right; what is owed to them
Definition #2: A person's obligatory payment or fee; what is owed from them
You mean to say 'I OWE' and 'I AM OWED' can both be true? Isn't that considered a double negative? Who do I owe? What do I owe? Who owes me? What do they owe me? When do they owe it to me? Can we drill down to some specifics please Mr. Webster because this entire idea isn't really working for me.
It isn't really working for me because it isn't true. At least when it comes to God and plans and purposes and events and life and death and everything in between. So ok, back to, it isn't true.
And of course, like the predictable Christian I am, my thoughts turn to a strong, powerful, wealthy, middle aged man thousands of years ago who was said to be a 'good man-his character spotless, his integrity unquestioned. He deliberately avoided evil in all his affairs and believed in God so much that he sought to honor Him in all things'. This man had 10 children and thousands of animals, a multitude of capable staff, successful businesses, million dollar properties and a seemingly loving wife. As an effect of the amazingly good life he had, people considered him blessed by God. Which is why, when he began to lose those blessings, one by one, people questioned his faith and surmised that he must have done something to deserve it. His children were killed in a storm. "God must be punishing you", they said. His livestock was stolen, attacked and slaughtered, "Ask for forgiveness, change your life, turn back to God", they said. His wife abandoned him, his friends challenged him, his body began to fail him, "Curse God and die", they said as if there was nothing to be done.
And if this man, Job, had considered God to be a vending machine like most of us do; dispensing blessings like candy to anyone and everyone who had worked hard enough and saved long enough and prayed loud enough and worshipped often enough and been good-enough to be able to 'purchase' a chocolate covered miracle for $1.75, he might have done just that because there's nothing more frustrating than putting your quarters in the slot, expecting a honey bun and getting something else or even worse, getting nothing in return. And I've seen how we do. We curse and bang on the door to see if we can shake lose the missing blessing. We call the office manager or the company and demand a refund. We hit 'return' over and over and over like trained monkeys and then shove our greedy 'obviously deserving' little hands in the return slot to see if by chance justice has been served and our money dutifully returned. And then, after all avenues explored, all options attempted, we realize defeat and with slumped shoulders trudge back to our desks; exhausted, starving, defeated and empty handed, swearing on our great grandmother's grave to never do that again, EVER.
We curse. We turn our backs.
And then something awesome happens.
And we raise our hands and sing songs about rainbows and tell people how blessed we are.
Until we're not.
God is not a vending machine. His M.O. is not quid pro quo. Something given for something taken. He does not desire my pain to accomplish His purposes. He is not in the business of dealing short hands and dead babies to force people to their knees in worship of Him and to become worthy of His blessing.
In fact, He makes it very clear who can consider themselves blessed. And thankfully I don't see a price tag or a list of names included.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the gentle, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called sons of God
Blessed are those who have been persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
I used to think, 'Alright, alright, alright!' If I could just accomplish a few of these I would be way ahead of the game and a waterfall of blessings would be headed my way and the gates to the kingdom of Heaven would be THROWN open for me. Or at least left cracked open so I can squeeze through. And then I realized something weird and I'm no theologian so don't quote me but it spoke to my heart. The first and last 'causes' if you will; being poor in spirit and being persecuted for the sake of righteousness both have the same effect; possessing the kingdom of heaven. It's a LOOP! This is not a list of singular directives given and if I get 6 out of the 8 of them right most of the time I'm THAT closer to the end-game of heaven. They ARE the cause AND effect. The kingdom of heaven, the dominion and reign of God happens BETWEEN them, WITHIN them as we travel THROUGH them. Stay with me.
When I am poor in spirit I am empty, hollow, a joy-less, life-less shell of the me I could be. Feeling this way, being this way is excruciatingly painful and causes me to howl, literally howl in grief. Heart wrenching, body racking, swollen faced, snot running freely, choking, wailing, unstoppable, incontrollable sorrow. Sorrow like that breaks a person, breaks them absolutely in two. The heart melts into a puddle on the floor, the walls come down, the stoicism ceases, the mask removed as the heart softens and becomes gentle as it lands with a thud at the very lowest point there is. And when your heart is beaten and broken, lying on the floor, the only place to look is up, to the top of the moutain from where you fell and you begin to search for a way to get back there. You look for answers and those answers change you. You begin to open your eyes to the others that are at the bottom too. You see yourself in their pain, their broken hearts. And they see you. And as you hold hands and sit and rock and cry there at the bottom you begin to learn what loving another really looks like. And His sacrifice makes sense. And all this compassion and love and understanding fills your heart and gives you strength enough to begin to climb. But this time it's different, as you pass other travelers on the road, headed up or headed down, you see them through a lense of grace, of mercy. You don't demand or judge or ridicule or climb over them or stand on their broken back to advance yourself. Love is guiding you now, not fear. There is not room for both in a heart that has been purified by pain. And it's only a pure heart such as this that has the ability to pursue peace; with itself, with others, with God. But peacemakers are rarely understood by those who aren't there yet, those who are still going down fighting. The unshakable calm that they posesses is frightening. Others want that so badly that when they feel they can't have it, they try and make sure others don't either. They lash out and they try and hurt. They persecute. And in that persecution, our spirits are crushed and emptied, our pain, once again becomes palpable and we face, yet again, the choice to pursue a journey of blessing or not.
I'm not having a baby today. I may not have a baby ever. And the idea of that is so sad that it takes my breath away. But my God is not a vending machine God. He does not dispense or withhold blessings based on how I act toward Him or how well I do in Christianity 101. He has paved the road of blessing with His blood and if I choose to walk it with him, no loss or gain can take away the name He has given me.
"{They} will stand up and call her BLESSED". Proverbs 31:28
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Shadow Boxing.
Mark 10:8-9....."and the two will become ONE flesh so that they are no longer two but one. Therefore, what God has joined together let no one separate."
There's a scene in one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride, that for years has proven to spur many a successful quote-offs in my family. It's the scene when Princess Buttercup is being forced to marry Prince Humperdink against her will, but there are whispers among the wedding guests that her true love, Wesley, is coming to save her.
I know I make an obscene amount of references to movies from the 80's but really, in terms of movies, who can disagree that my decade produced some goodies. We probably could have gone without parachute pants and unfortunately, Vanilla Ice ended up being sort of a dud, but still, who can forget that little priest in his gaudy wedding garb with his oddly pigmented face and champion speech impediment.
"Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaaa, todayyyy. Wove. Twue Wove....." Prince Humperdink interrupts and urges him to the grand finale before the important stuff even has a chance to be said. "MAN AND WIFE. SAY MAN AND WIFE!" To which he responds forlornly, "Man. Annnnnd. Wife."
If you're equal parts hopeless romantic and hormonal pre-teen like me, your reaction might have been similar to both mine and Fred Savage's at the time, "STOP! NO! This can't be happening! Where's WESLEY?! He's supposed to save her! She can't marry HUMPERDINK." And as your heart broke and your face fell, you knew, or seemed to think you knew, that the damage had been done. There was no going back. They were married. One. It was over for Wesley.
We all know how the story ends so I'll spare you the dramatic detail because this post isn't really about getting married or who gets who or if all ends well, it's about the afterbirth of marriage. The one flesh part. Which can be tricky and most of the time isn't all that cute.
The other day I was RAGING. I was hormonal, the yummy soul food, time with family, twinkling lights, everything is merry and bright, time to toss the leftovers and get on the scale, post Christmas depression had hit. I was on a roller coaster of emotion; elation at being chosen to be the mommy of two precious little girls and sorrow at not being chosen for their younger siblings. Gearing up to take down a MOUNTAIN of Christmas décor and head dive into more house construction AND it was New Year's Day; the FIRST day of the year; full of promise and hope and newness and change and things unknown and reflection and preparation and black eyed peas but for some reason I could NOT pull myself together which made me feel worse considering it was 'supposed' to be all those things. So naturally when things don't feel right and I'm a mess I do what I do best. I would love to be able to tell you that I took a deep breath, made a green smoothie, went for a jog, read my Bible and gave it all to God, AS USUAL, but that would be very, very untrue. Rather I looked for the nearest, unsuspecting, target and when I found him, I attacked with the enthusiasm of a caged raccoon. I picked and I nagged and I rolled my eyes and I lashed out and I ignored and I said hurtful things on purpose and made mountains out of molehills and in general had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day only made worse by the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way in which I acted toward someone I love and cherish very much.
Of course after the smoke had cleared and he was still standing, guns undrawn, rock solid and unmovable, AS USUAL, I ended up in a puddle of awful, guilt ridden, self loathing tears on the floor. As I choked on the embarrassment and shame and the pitiful apology that could have been avoided entirely had I made a smoothie, gone for a jog and given it to God, I wondered aloud "WHY? WHY do I always beat up on you? You've done nothing. You're so precious to me. You are never anything but loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful. I don't know why I do that. I'm so sorry." The words that came out of this loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful man's mouth next, were truly straight from God in my opinion. Simple in structure but holy and profound to me that day.
"We are one person. It's easy to beat up on your spouse because it's like beating up yourself."
And there it was. What God has joined together, let no one separate. Not even you, Whitney.
It crushed me. I had always read this verse through the eyes of a child it seemed. Naïve and foolish. Assuming this was speaking of the dangers of outside influences; affairs, etc. Things that led to the ultimate separation of divorce. And I'm sure it was, but in that moment I knew there was much more to it. This idea of one flesh. This idea that what I do to me, I do to he.
When Andis and I were engaged we went to pre-marital counseling. One day our counselor read THAT VERSE. Every woman knows the one. Regardless of how you feel about it, it's the one that has made my skin crawl more times than any other verse, ever. "Wives, submit to your husbands." He turned to me and asked me how that made me feel. I tried to hide my contempt but it came out before I had a chance to wrestle it down. "AWFUL!", I said. Submission was a dirty word in my world and my parents could probably attest to the fact that it had always been. Andis, however, looked like he had been slapped. "It's not about that," he said quietly. "It's about mutual love and respect. Caring for someone else as much as yourself."
"Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do the Lord.....Husbands, love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.....in this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife, loves himself.....for this reason....the two will become one flesh. THIS is a profound mystery." Ephesians 5: 22-32 paraphrased
Submission to one flesh. Selfless. Sacrificing. Honorable. Holy. Mysterious.
All those times that I thought I was shadow boxing there was actually someone else in the other corner of the ring.
He. Me. One flesh.
I get it now.
Time to put the gloves down.
There's a scene in one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride, that for years has proven to spur many a successful quote-offs in my family. It's the scene when Princess Buttercup is being forced to marry Prince Humperdink against her will, but there are whispers among the wedding guests that her true love, Wesley, is coming to save her.
I know I make an obscene amount of references to movies from the 80's but really, in terms of movies, who can disagree that my decade produced some goodies. We probably could have gone without parachute pants and unfortunately, Vanilla Ice ended up being sort of a dud, but still, who can forget that little priest in his gaudy wedding garb with his oddly pigmented face and champion speech impediment.
"Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togethaaa, todayyyy. Wove. Twue Wove....." Prince Humperdink interrupts and urges him to the grand finale before the important stuff even has a chance to be said. "MAN AND WIFE. SAY MAN AND WIFE!" To which he responds forlornly, "Man. Annnnnd. Wife."
If you're equal parts hopeless romantic and hormonal pre-teen like me, your reaction might have been similar to both mine and Fred Savage's at the time, "STOP! NO! This can't be happening! Where's WESLEY?! He's supposed to save her! She can't marry HUMPERDINK." And as your heart broke and your face fell, you knew, or seemed to think you knew, that the damage had been done. There was no going back. They were married. One. It was over for Wesley.
We all know how the story ends so I'll spare you the dramatic detail because this post isn't really about getting married or who gets who or if all ends well, it's about the afterbirth of marriage. The one flesh part. Which can be tricky and most of the time isn't all that cute.
The other day I was RAGING. I was hormonal, the yummy soul food, time with family, twinkling lights, everything is merry and bright, time to toss the leftovers and get on the scale, post Christmas depression had hit. I was on a roller coaster of emotion; elation at being chosen to be the mommy of two precious little girls and sorrow at not being chosen for their younger siblings. Gearing up to take down a MOUNTAIN of Christmas décor and head dive into more house construction AND it was New Year's Day; the FIRST day of the year; full of promise and hope and newness and change and things unknown and reflection and preparation and black eyed peas but for some reason I could NOT pull myself together which made me feel worse considering it was 'supposed' to be all those things. So naturally when things don't feel right and I'm a mess I do what I do best. I would love to be able to tell you that I took a deep breath, made a green smoothie, went for a jog, read my Bible and gave it all to God, AS USUAL, but that would be very, very untrue. Rather I looked for the nearest, unsuspecting, target and when I found him, I attacked with the enthusiasm of a caged raccoon. I picked and I nagged and I rolled my eyes and I lashed out and I ignored and I said hurtful things on purpose and made mountains out of molehills and in general had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day only made worse by the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way in which I acted toward someone I love and cherish very much.
Of course after the smoke had cleared and he was still standing, guns undrawn, rock solid and unmovable, AS USUAL, I ended up in a puddle of awful, guilt ridden, self loathing tears on the floor. As I choked on the embarrassment and shame and the pitiful apology that could have been avoided entirely had I made a smoothie, gone for a jog and given it to God, I wondered aloud "WHY? WHY do I always beat up on you? You've done nothing. You're so precious to me. You are never anything but loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful. I don't know why I do that. I'm so sorry." The words that came out of this loving, supportive, kind, generous, patient and wonderful man's mouth next, were truly straight from God in my opinion. Simple in structure but holy and profound to me that day.
"We are one person. It's easy to beat up on your spouse because it's like beating up yourself."
And there it was. What God has joined together, let no one separate. Not even you, Whitney.
It crushed me. I had always read this verse through the eyes of a child it seemed. Naïve and foolish. Assuming this was speaking of the dangers of outside influences; affairs, etc. Things that led to the ultimate separation of divorce. And I'm sure it was, but in that moment I knew there was much more to it. This idea of one flesh. This idea that what I do to me, I do to he.
When Andis and I were engaged we went to pre-marital counseling. One day our counselor read THAT VERSE. Every woman knows the one. Regardless of how you feel about it, it's the one that has made my skin crawl more times than any other verse, ever. "Wives, submit to your husbands." He turned to me and asked me how that made me feel. I tried to hide my contempt but it came out before I had a chance to wrestle it down. "AWFUL!", I said. Submission was a dirty word in my world and my parents could probably attest to the fact that it had always been. Andis, however, looked like he had been slapped. "It's not about that," he said quietly. "It's about mutual love and respect. Caring for someone else as much as yourself."
"Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do the Lord.....Husbands, love your wives just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.....in this same way, husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife, loves himself.....for this reason....the two will become one flesh. THIS is a profound mystery." Ephesians 5: 22-32 paraphrased
Submission to one flesh. Selfless. Sacrificing. Honorable. Holy. Mysterious.
All those times that I thought I was shadow boxing there was actually someone else in the other corner of the ring.
He. Me. One flesh.
I get it now.
Time to put the gloves down.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
I USED to think roller coasters were fun.
I've never been a bungee jumper or a zip-liner or a skydiver. Well there was that one time but it was only because I was trying to impress the man I knew I wanted to be my best friend until death do us part. Considering I wanted to back out, screamed bloody murder the ENTIRE WAY DOWN and probably had a pee spot on my jeans afterwards makes me think the odds might not have been in my favor on that one. He married me anyway so all's well that ends well.
Roller coasters on the other hand? Bring. It. On. Something about being strapped in and someone else pushing the lever that makes it TOTALLY different on the risk scale and WAY doable. And I do. If theme parks weren't so dang expensive and hours away, I would be on roller coasters every weekend if I could. Roller coasters to me are like roman candles; amazing and wonderful and exhilarating and shocking for .02 seconds and then it's over. And being over is good because there's a certain rollercoaster threshold that we all have and let me tell you; once surpassed, it is ALL DOWN HILL; literally AND figuratively.
Yesterday I reached that threshold, but the ride unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, DID NOT STOP. I felt like I was 6 again and on the Merry Go Round for the first time. You remember the Merry Go Round don't you?! That awful kiddie ride that looks so beautiful and fun from the outside, like it's made of candy and rainbows, but once you get on you realize it was designed by Satan himself. Why you people encourage your kids to get on that thing is beyond me. I guess maybe the picture BEFORE the one of them projectile vomiting on you turns out pretty cute, perhaps?
So yeah, yesterday. At one point I just had to grab a brown bag and pray that Mary Poppins would save me and my horse would LEAP off of the ride and go pogoing through the country side so I could get some AIR. It did not happen. Instead, this is what did.
About an hour after the meeting to determine if we were the right 'fit' for the girls had commenced and our caseworker had presented the 70 page Goble stack of information, she left the meeting so that the adoption committee could arrive at their determination. She got in touch with us to say that she had received overwhelmingly positive feedback, that everyone seemed to be pleased with what The Goble Family had to offer, and that we should have a decision shortly. Yay! Our three girls seemed so close that I felt as if they were locked in the next room and I was waiting patiently to be given the key that would open the door to our interconnected futures. I still held a soft, sad spot in my heart for the fact that their brother would not be joining them, but I had already settled myself into a forced peace about that some time before so rather than being excruciatingly painful it was more like a quick, band aid ripping pinch and then it became more of a dull ache. Until I read the rest of the email.
Sam, she went on to inform us; piece number three of our four piece puzzle; the little boy that runs away from me in my dreams, the son that my husband would not yet have, the one that, mere MOMENTS before, my mind was pushing way down into the heart caverns where things not yet understood live, WAS in fact also available for adoption! I had no words. I had no breath. All of my dreams, my prayers were about to come true. Our puzzle would be complete and our babies would not be separated after all. God was good. So good.
But we continued to wait. And by wait I really mean: prayed, cried, paced like a starving lioness, tried to distract my busy, over anxious, OCD imagination with Facebook, Pinterest, Google, YouTube, GodVine, Grey's Anatomy and even some work thrown in for good measure.
And then it arrived. The email outlining the fate of our future. And I saw them. Those three little words. YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED. In that moment time stopped, and those three little words were more profound then all the I Love You's and I Hate You's of which I had ever been on the receiving end. They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. They were the words that were paving the way to a future filled with laughter and giggling and screaming and fighting and pancakes with way too much syrup and allowances and chores and sleepovers and tickle wars and pain and tears and scrapes and cuts and bruises and passing grades and failing grades and little league and little dribblers and broken hearts and hopscotch and family game night and bedtime prayers and manners and maybe none of that but maybe all of that. My babies were on their way home. It had been a long journey, but then again, it was only just beginning....................for two of them.
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck."
Isn't a tornado formed when the warm air of the south and the cooler air from the north sweep into each other and the effects of the two opposites create the perfect storm? There is no explanation for how I felt but that's as close as I think I can get at this point.
Inexpressible joy and confidence. Indescribable confusion and fear. The golden key that unlocked the door to the room where my two oldest girls were being kept, had been handed over on a silver platter while the other two keys had been put in a bottle, sealed and sent out to sea. You know that moment when you are laughing so hard that you start to cry or that moment when you are crying so hard that you can't help but laugh? The two emotions must be similar enough in nature that your mind and heart literally become confused and exchange one for the other, even if just for a moment. How can one heart have enough room for such overwhelming joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time?
And then I knew. In that moment I had become a mother.
And while one side of my heart swelled with pride, anticipation and thankfulness, the other side shrank back in the face of fear and doubt. But just for a moment. A moment is all it took for me to remember my new title and all of the responsibility and strength that it carries. For to whom much is given, much more is required. So like the growing embers in the belly of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit, a fire had been lit in me that would not soon be put out.
".....suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one (or two). Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?" Luke 15: 8
The answer to this is a resounding YES. So in the meantime I'm off to hunt for a good deal on some scuba gear.
Roller coasters on the other hand? Bring. It. On. Something about being strapped in and someone else pushing the lever that makes it TOTALLY different on the risk scale and WAY doable. And I do. If theme parks weren't so dang expensive and hours away, I would be on roller coasters every weekend if I could. Roller coasters to me are like roman candles; amazing and wonderful and exhilarating and shocking for .02 seconds and then it's over. And being over is good because there's a certain rollercoaster threshold that we all have and let me tell you; once surpassed, it is ALL DOWN HILL; literally AND figuratively.
Yesterday I reached that threshold, but the ride unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, DID NOT STOP. I felt like I was 6 again and on the Merry Go Round for the first time. You remember the Merry Go Round don't you?! That awful kiddie ride that looks so beautiful and fun from the outside, like it's made of candy and rainbows, but once you get on you realize it was designed by Satan himself. Why you people encourage your kids to get on that thing is beyond me. I guess maybe the picture BEFORE the one of them projectile vomiting on you turns out pretty cute, perhaps?
So yeah, yesterday. At one point I just had to grab a brown bag and pray that Mary Poppins would save me and my horse would LEAP off of the ride and go pogoing through the country side so I could get some AIR. It did not happen. Instead, this is what did.
About an hour after the meeting to determine if we were the right 'fit' for the girls had commenced and our caseworker had presented the 70 page Goble stack of information, she left the meeting so that the adoption committee could arrive at their determination. She got in touch with us to say that she had received overwhelmingly positive feedback, that everyone seemed to be pleased with what The Goble Family had to offer, and that we should have a decision shortly. Yay! Our three girls seemed so close that I felt as if they were locked in the next room and I was waiting patiently to be given the key that would open the door to our interconnected futures. I still held a soft, sad spot in my heart for the fact that their brother would not be joining them, but I had already settled myself into a forced peace about that some time before so rather than being excruciatingly painful it was more like a quick, band aid ripping pinch and then it became more of a dull ache. Until I read the rest of the email.
Sam, she went on to inform us; piece number three of our four piece puzzle; the little boy that runs away from me in my dreams, the son that my husband would not yet have, the one that, mere MOMENTS before, my mind was pushing way down into the heart caverns where things not yet understood live, WAS in fact also available for adoption! I had no words. I had no breath. All of my dreams, my prayers were about to come true. Our puzzle would be complete and our babies would not be separated after all. God was good. So good.
But we continued to wait. And by wait I really mean: prayed, cried, paced like a starving lioness, tried to distract my busy, over anxious, OCD imagination with Facebook, Pinterest, Google, YouTube, GodVine, Grey's Anatomy and even some work thrown in for good measure.
And then it arrived. The email outlining the fate of our future. And I saw them. Those three little words. YOU'VE BEEN SELECTED. In that moment time stopped, and those three little words were more profound then all the I Love You's and I Hate You's of which I had ever been on the receiving end. They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. They were the words that were paving the way to a future filled with laughter and giggling and screaming and fighting and pancakes with way too much syrup and allowances and chores and sleepovers and tickle wars and pain and tears and scrapes and cuts and bruises and passing grades and failing grades and little league and little dribblers and broken hearts and hopscotch and family game night and bedtime prayers and manners and maybe none of that but maybe all of that. My babies were on their way home. It had been a long journey, but then again, it was only just beginning....................for two of them.
"It has been determined that you have been selected for the adoption of two of the four children in question. Congratulations and good luck."
Isn't a tornado formed when the warm air of the south and the cooler air from the north sweep into each other and the effects of the two opposites create the perfect storm? There is no explanation for how I felt but that's as close as I think I can get at this point.
Inexpressible joy and confidence. Indescribable confusion and fear. The golden key that unlocked the door to the room where my two oldest girls were being kept, had been handed over on a silver platter while the other two keys had been put in a bottle, sealed and sent out to sea. You know that moment when you are laughing so hard that you start to cry or that moment when you are crying so hard that you can't help but laugh? The two emotions must be similar enough in nature that your mind and heart literally become confused and exchange one for the other, even if just for a moment. How can one heart have enough room for such overwhelming joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time?
And then I knew. In that moment I had become a mother.
And while one side of my heart swelled with pride, anticipation and thankfulness, the other side shrank back in the face of fear and doubt. But just for a moment. A moment is all it took for me to remember my new title and all of the responsibility and strength that it carries. For to whom much is given, much more is required. So like the growing embers in the belly of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit, a fire had been lit in me that would not soon be put out.
".....suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one (or two). Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it?" Luke 15: 8
The answer to this is a resounding YES. So in the meantime I'm off to hunt for a good deal on some scuba gear.
The Examined Life.
I want you to think back on your life; all of it. From if you were a preemie to the relationship you had with your father to if you were spanked to how you did in school to the sexual relationships you had to the drugs you did or didn't do to the regrets you have and the missed opportunities and things accomplished and what went right and what went wrong and how many do-overs you wish you had and what physical ailments if any that you have and your ideas about God and punishment and how you would handle this thing and that thing and the other thing. And I want you to spend months writing it all down; in essay form and questionnaire form and multiple answer form and all of the pages and pages in between. And when you're done; after you've read and re-read and edited and re-edited and had your husband and your mom and your best friend look at it until they just didn't want to know anything more about you, I want you to look at that STACK. It's a pretty hefty stack no doubt. Probably 70 something pages or so. And I want you to ask yourself, 'Is it ALL in there? Does that stack represent WHO I am? After reading it, could you walk away and be able to describe in detail what it means to be Whitney Kay Goble? Satisfied? Ok.
Now I want you to imagine a panel of about 12 people sitting around a table and reading through the 70 pages of notes on your life; yes, all the nitty gritty details, all the boring details, all the in between details.
Now I want you to imagine that panel of people, with that 70 pages of notes spending an hour or two determining if you were 'fit' to be a mother and not only a mother but a mother to several little babies to whom you have already knitted your soul.
Keeping in mind they have never met you. They will likely NEVER meet you. And even if your caseworker does a bang up job and even makes an adorable little scrapbook of you so that they can get a 'feel' of who you are, how could they possibly REALLY know?
They won't have access to your smile or the way you tell a story or the way you make people feel. They will never know what great hugs you give or how passionate you are or how psychotic you can be when you have found that THING; that thing that drives you. They won't ever get to see your kid friendly and fun holiday snacks or how good you are at organizing or how creative you can be or how, at family parties, you can be found on the floor playing checkers with the kids. They won't know about that time you stood, all 5'4'' of you, in between 40 very at risk youth and young adults who were about to start, what most likely would have been a fatal gang fight and talked them down with logic and humor and capri suns. Or that time, in order to keep your staff safe that you had to lock yourself in a room for hours with that boy who was so emotionally disturbed that you weren't sure if he would kill you, or himself first. Or the fact that you get up at 5am every morning just to 'practice' being a mom and the time it will take you to get everything done in order for everyone to have as successful of a day as possible. Or the hours you spend on your knees, in tears, in prayer over the lives of the children who did not come from your womb but who have been born of your heart.
And then I want you to imagine trying to 'RELAX' as the second hand on the clock ticks about 10,800 times while those 12 people read through that 70 pages of notes to try and make 1 decision about the lives and those several little kids and one hopeful mommy and daddy.
Yeah. I didn't think so either.
Now I want you to imagine a panel of about 12 people sitting around a table and reading through the 70 pages of notes on your life; yes, all the nitty gritty details, all the boring details, all the in between details.
Now I want you to imagine that panel of people, with that 70 pages of notes spending an hour or two determining if you were 'fit' to be a mother and not only a mother but a mother to several little babies to whom you have already knitted your soul.
Keeping in mind they have never met you. They will likely NEVER meet you. And even if your caseworker does a bang up job and even makes an adorable little scrapbook of you so that they can get a 'feel' of who you are, how could they possibly REALLY know?
They won't have access to your smile or the way you tell a story or the way you make people feel. They will never know what great hugs you give or how passionate you are or how psychotic you can be when you have found that THING; that thing that drives you. They won't ever get to see your kid friendly and fun holiday snacks or how good you are at organizing or how creative you can be or how, at family parties, you can be found on the floor playing checkers with the kids. They won't know about that time you stood, all 5'4'' of you, in between 40 very at risk youth and young adults who were about to start, what most likely would have been a fatal gang fight and talked them down with logic and humor and capri suns. Or that time, in order to keep your staff safe that you had to lock yourself in a room for hours with that boy who was so emotionally disturbed that you weren't sure if he would kill you, or himself first. Or the fact that you get up at 5am every morning just to 'practice' being a mom and the time it will take you to get everything done in order for everyone to have as successful of a day as possible. Or the hours you spend on your knees, in tears, in prayer over the lives of the children who did not come from your womb but who have been born of your heart.
And then I want you to imagine trying to 'RELAX' as the second hand on the clock ticks about 10,800 times while those 12 people read through that 70 pages of notes to try and make 1 decision about the lives and those several little kids and one hopeful mommy and daddy.
Yeah. I didn't think so either.
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