Next month is National Fostercare month so it seems like the time to share that we are almost done getting licensed to foster/ adopt. I am terrified.

When I love, I LOVE. When I attach, I ATTACH. I hate goodbyes. Even if it’s just for a night. I cry easily. My heart breaks easily. My kids’ hearts break easily. There are a million reasons not to do it. But here’s what I know- if we let Him, God will break our hearts for what breaks His. If we say the hard yes instead of the easy no, He will let us be participants in His beautiful, and painful, plans of redemption. Never did He promise us a life of ease and comfort. But He did promise to make beauty from ashes, turn mourning into joy, and take the broken pieces of our hearts and lives and turn them into worship. We aren’t always called to do bigger and better and grander things, sometimes we are called to love the one. The one who needs a temporary family. The one who needs a permanent family. The one who just needs someone to walk beside them and tell them “I know you can do this.” The one who feels alone, waiting for hope in the margins. The one who feels unseen, unheard, unloved. We aren’t called to sit inside our comfortable lives and look at the broken world around us. We are called to be light IN the broken world around us.

“Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.” 1 John 3:18 “This is my commandment: that you love one another as I have loved you.” John 15:12

I’m so very scared of having my heart broken over and over again. But I’m more scared of not loving and serving all of the people God puts in my life. What a privilege it is to give our broken hearts to Jesus, the ultimate comforter and restorer. What a privilege to trust the story He’s writing in our lives and those around us. What a privilege to offer our heart’s cries to Him as an act of worship. And what a privilege it is to serve and love His creation.

And we are in such sacred company when our hearts break with Jesus’ heart. Because His promises for the broken hearted are full of hope and comfort and restoration. Don’t miss out on the hard yeses He has before you because you fear the messiness, the hurt, the discomfort. His promises are true on our mountaintops AND our valleys. In the ease and the hardship. The comfort and the struggle. He won’t call you into His story and then leave you. He will see you through. He will wipe your tears and draw ever closer to you as you love harder. He will fill you up when you’re poured out. He will be the strength you need when you fumble through the messy stories. Jesus followers, let’s really love like Jesus. Let’s jump into the unknowns He’s called us to. Let’s get dirty and broken, just like He did. Let’s run, hearts wide open, into a world that desperately needs our light.

“He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds.” Psalm 147:3 “The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18 “Weeping may stay through the night but rejoicing comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5

Lately I’ve felt such a heavy weight of comparison. I see other mamas who seem to be more organized than me, more patient than me, more creative than me; hustling more than me. And honestly, I feel like I’m failing at all my roles. In my mind, I’m not wife-ing like I should, not mom-ing like I should, not blogging like I should, not running my Etsy shop like I should. And when I take it to Jesus, I feel angry. I’m mad that I’m not succeeding like I thought I should. I’m mad because I feel like he’s left me on my own. And really, I’m mad because it feels like He doesn’t care about my “success”. I feel like lately my tears and cries are falling on empty space. And then I woke up today. Good Friday.

Nothing miraculous changed. I still feel like I’m failing. I still feel like I’m not measuring up. But today, I decided to turn my heart to the cross. And you know what? My “successes” don’t really matter. Because my role as a mama is not to be perfect in every way, it’s not to succeed by cultural standards, it’s not to measure up. My role is to humbly submit my ways to the cross, to wake up each day relying on His grace and mercies, and to model this to my kids. On my own, I always fall short. But then, the cross. The grace overflowing that fills in all my gaps when I humbly let it. The forgiveness that was extended while I was still a sinner.

On Good Friday, Jesus gave up every measure of success. He humbled Himself to death on the cross, never once choosing to prove how “good” He was. And if we are to be like Him, we have to surrender our shortcomings to Him and watch Him faithfully renew us. Our kids don’t need a perfect mom, they need a humble mom who is willing to fall short by others standards in order to measure up to God’s standards.

Today, on Good Friday, with my gaze on the cross, I’m surrendering my discontent heart. And I’m trusting. That the work He did on the cross, the love and grace poured out, are abundantly more than this world could ever give me. I’m trusting that when He looks on me He sees His grace, not my failings. I’m trusting that my measures of success are not His and I’m trying to lay them at the cross. And I’m thanking Him. For loving me even when I don’t feel worthy. For loving me when I’m discontent. And for gently pulling my gaze back to His every time I falter.

Jesus didn’t call us to be perfect moms or perfect followers. He called us to be humble and grace-filled. And Good Friday reminds me that I can only do this with my eyes on Him and my heart tied to His word.

I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten. Joel 2:25

I was listening to a pastor’s wife speak on YouTube and in the conversation, she mentioned “and God was faithful to restore what the locusts destroyed.” She mentioned it casually, as part of her story, but something in my heart released and I felt tears in my eyes. He restores the destroyed years. The lost years. The broken years. And a weight lifted off of me. Regrets released. Buried dreams came to light.

This last year was kind of a momentous one for me. The start of a new decade, 2020. The start of a new decade in my life, I turned 40. Add to that a 10 month quarantine and I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on deep regrets and broken dreams this year. And my heart has wrestled with what feels like lost years, lost dreams, lost expectations. I started following Jesus a little late, age 20, and even after that, I made choices I wish I wouldn’t have. Add to that the fact of living in a broken world. And as I’ve looked back over my last decades and looked forward to my future ones, I’ve really felt the weight of those years, and the dreams never realized.

And as this woman spoke these words, I felt God’s sweet grace and mercy sweep over me. Because He IS faithful to restore the destroyed years. To take broken dreams and make them into new ones. To take selfish decisions we’ve repented of and wash them with His grace. To take unmet expectations and redeem them. To take the spaces and people that have failed us and be our ever-Faithful.

To everyone waiting for an answer to long whispered prayers

To everyone grieving a broken dream

To everyone regretting bad choices and wrong decisions

To everyone with a broken heart over failed people and failed plans.

To everyone looking back on locust-destroyed years and feeling deep loss . . .

Know these truths:

His mercy is so sweet. His grace is unending. He is so faithful to our very little faith. He is our Redeemer, the one who comes into our broken hearts and broken lives and restores the destroyed years. He weeps with us. He grieves with us. AND He redeems us. Gives us new mercies every morning. He is so very faithful to restore our hearts when we let Him.

As we start a new year, if you’re feeling the heaviness of bad choices, broken dreams, lost years, bring them to Him.

And like Mary, let Him put a song in your heart.

Like Hannah, let Him put hope in your life.

Like David, let Him turn a heart with regrets into a heart after His own.

Like Elijah, let Him restore your weary heart.

I’m crying tears as I write this, humbled at the tender sweetness He has for us. The God who shouts with celebration over our return from bad choices and broken dreams. Who RUNS to us. Loves us. Forgives us. Restores us. The God who sees the places we feel failed, our prayers that feel unanswered, our hopes that have been deferred; and fills our hearts with His peace that passes all understanding and His deep abiding love. The God who restores what the locusts have destroyed.

My heart is barely limping through the advent season this year. I’m smiling and continuing our annual traditions but it feels a little hollow and my heart is a lot weary. We’ve been quarantined for 9 1/2 months. We have not been inside with anyone but the five of us this entire time. We have not done any of our normal things or celebrated in any of our normal ways. And the weight of all the changes, all the unknowns, all the loneliness has taken the sparkle out of my heart this December. And in the midst of this Christmas desert in my heart, I realized that God has gently and persistently drawn me to Him. I realized that a lot of my normal advent “sparkle” comes from walking through Christmas decorated stores, planning matching family outfits, and zipping through a busy December of events. And sometimes, in the hustle and bustle, it’s easy to confuse the hushed anticipation of advent with the outward sparkle and glitter all around. (Which I love all of these things!)

And this year, with my normal stripped bare, my heart is stripped bare too. And it’s been in this darkness, this lonely December, that the coming birth of Christ has been more real to me than any other year. Jesus didn’t come amidst a bright sparkling backdrop, with parties and celebrations all around; Jesus came to a world full of quiet longing, desperate people longing for God’s presence again. Silence for hundreds of years. And then, in the middle of a night, birthed by a travel weary Mary, in a forgotten stable, in a crowded but lonely town, a sweet, little baby was born. This humble birth didn’t match the Savior people whispered of or the Messiah angels proclaimed; it didn’t match the name of the King of Kings and Lord of lords. And yet, there He was. In the arms of an incredulous mama, in awe that Emmanuel was wrapped in her arms; a mama who said yes when her heart was full of doubts and unknowns. A mama who sang my soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my savior in the midst of heavy quietness. A mama who trusted in the whispered Promise when the world around her was bleak and weary.

This December, my heart feels the weight of the unknowing Israelites, my heart holds the uncertainties of Mary, the weariness of Joseph. And somewhere in my heart, I feel God pressing Mary’s song as a praise on my lips. That in the midst of my quiet December, in the midst of my loneliness and longing, I can look towards the manger and sing. Because even in this hardest of December’s, He has been my Emmanuel, never leaving me but oh so sweetly drawing me nearer. He has been my Prince of Peace, quieting my fears with His faithfulness. He has been my Light, a slow burning fire of Hope in a year of loss. He has been my Redeemer, weaving the broken parts of my year into His story for me.

And so this December, with tears on my cheeks and a catch in my voice, I’m joining in Mary’s song. Because this year, I feel my need for the baby in the manger more than any other. This year, I know how quiet of a night He came into. I feel that heavy quietness in my heart. This year, in place of advent anticipation, I feel advent longing. This year, more than any other, the promise in the manger held true. He doesn’t just come in to sparkly, bright places; He comes into the middle-of-the-night places. He comes into the places desperate for His presence. This year, I might not be singing on a platform in a candlelight service, but my song feels even sweeter. Because this year, I know Mary’s song as my own and my spirit rejoices in my Savior.

And even in this darkest of years, this hardest of years, this loneliest of years, the Hope of advent still comes. And I feel almost giddy that I feel that same hushed twinkle in my heart that I feel every advent. Because I’ve had a really hard year and somewhere in my heart, I worried that the never-ceasing Hope of advent wouldn’t come for me this year.

In a year full of doubts, His advent hope has been steadfast.

In a year full of loneliness, His advent hope has been Emmanuel, always with us.

In a year full of losses, His advent hope has filled the deep spaces.

In a year full of anxiety, His advent hope has been the peace that holds my heart together.

And today, on this first advent Sunday, I’m almost giddy with the relief that His promises have held true. That His faithfulness does endure forever. That He is the forever burning bright Star of hope. I’m giddy that in the midst of my overwhelm, His still quiet voice is a tiny ember in my heart, holding it steady and preparing room in it. I’m giddy that what I thought was just an emptying of me was really a making space for the glory of advent.

And that this year, more than any other, I feel the deep, deep longing of the Israelites. The aching loneliness. The heaviness. And now I realize that this longing is what drives us to the manger, pushes us on our knees, forces us to lift tired hands to the night sky looking for signs of His coming. And in the dark night of this December, we can feel our hearts stirring, feel the tiny ember we’ve been clinging to turning into the sparkling bright excitement of advent. And we can know this Hope eternal. The hope that never ceases no matter what our hearts are going through. No matter what losses we’ve endured. No matter what we face this year. And we can sing out with the angels, that yes, even in this darkest of times and most unlikely of circumstances, the Lord has come! And our still burning hearts can receive the King. A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices. Advent.

This last year, especially the last few months, especially the last week has magnified all the hurt, the divisiveness, and the distrust our country has. Protests, accusations, op eds, social media posts are all being hurled as weapons across the divide. My heart is heavy and hurting.

Because we are no longer seen as different, we are no longer counter culture, we are no longer a refuge for the hurting and marginalized. As a whole we are known more for our stance on political issues than we are known for the gospel of Grace. And what these last few elections have shown me is that, as a collective whole, we have failed those we are called to serve. This is not a criticism, and we will always falter and be imperfect, this is a call to action. We have to step up and be grace, be hope, be truth to a culture that right now, doesn’t respect or want us much. Will there always be resistance to a counter cultural movement? Of course, even Jesus faced much resistance. But we can look to His life for guidance that is still very much relevant.

Instead of drawing uncrossable lines in the sand, Jesus welcomed all people to Him.

Instead of throwing harsh insults at those whose views were different, He sat down and ate with them.

Instead of giving empty advice to the poor and hurting, He walked alongside them, giving radically of Himself and His time.

Instead of yelling inflammatory political stances to the crowds, He preached the GOSPEL, offering deep hope to a very troubled people.

Instead of settling for a life of comfort and ease, He lived a selfless life, giving literally all He had in the most genuine love.

Instead of creating policies to bring reform, He changed hearts to bring reform.

Instead of relying on a political party to bring happiness and peace, He was the peacemaker and rested on unchanging Joy.

Instead of living out the gospel inside the church, He lived out the gospel every minute of every day.

Jesus was the ultimate radical revolutionary, so counter cultural to the legalism and hypocrisy of the Pharisees. Jesus didn’t just talk about grace, He brought redemption and restoration to the most forgotten and hurting people. Jesus didn’t talk at sinners, He forgave them. Jesus didn’t argue over political policies, He fulfilled the ultimate Law.

Please hear my call in this: we are absolutely called to take a stand for what is biblically right. We are absolutely called to speak truth. But, we are also called to walk out our faith, live daily in His redemption and grace, and love our neighbors deeply and genuinely. We are called to be like Jesus, who lived His life fulfilling the law while serving the hurting, the forgotten, and the lonely. He preached the Law AND radical forgiveness and grace.

Let’s be known for something different. Let’s be a beacon shining through the harsh divide. Let’s be a refuge, opening our arms to all who need His comfort. Let’s be Jesus to our world.

I just read another adoptive mama’s IG caption and wept. She talked about the first year home and sitting and watching her other son do karate, in the stands with her new son. She wrote about running in late and unprepared every practice, the stares of other parents, how she counted down the minutes until it was over because she never knew how her new son was going to act. And she talked about one certain side comment from another parent that made her leave and never come back. And a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying lifted. I’m not alone, I realized.

We are still at that not quite sure what’s ever going to happen phase. And it’s hard. And I didn’t realize it but I’ve been ashamed. Not of my son, not even a little, but of myself. Because I feel like a mess. And I feel like I’m failing because things aren’t how I thought they should be. And I feel alone and so lonely. Until I read her words.

So mama, here are my words to you tonight: you are not alone.

To the mama who can’t remember if she brushed her teeth today

To the mama exhausted from advocating for her special needs kid

To the mama who can’t remember the last time you slept through the night uninterrupted

To the mama desperate for the early years to be over but sad thinking of when they won’t be so needy

To the mama who hasn’t had a break in a really long time

To the newly homeschooling mama who isn’t sure she has what it takes to finish each day

To the anxious mama walking through a crazy year and trying to hold it together

To the single mama carrying the weight of two roles

To the grieving mama putting on a brave face for her kids

To the adoptive and foster mama trying to navigate trauma and deep loss

To the mamas ashamed of sharp words and short fuses

You are not alone. Your tears that are falling, your failures you’re holding inside, the tiredness that is filling your heart- a million other mamas around the world carry that with you, a cord of weariness connecting our hearts together. And here’s the thing: we don’t have to be perfect. We don’t even have to have it figured out. Because on our own, we will fail every time. We can read every book and take every class and still fall flat on our faces if we don’t keep our gaze on Him. Because in a season of exhaustion, weariness, and unknowns, He is our constant. He is the one that fills in our gaps when we fall short. He is the one that fills us up when we are empty. He is the one that gives us grace upon grace when we fail. He is the one that looks on us with tenderness and calls us beloved when we can’t believe we still don’t have it together. Mamas we are always enough when He is within us. Let Him be the one who tells you your worth. Let Him be the one you cast your cares on. Let Him be the one you lean on every waking second of the day. Lay your mama burdens at His feet and see that He is so faithful and so good and so near us. And hold tight to the hope of a savior who came to the earth through an imperfect mama just like us. An imperfect and scared mama who clung to the same hope that we have. And we can wake up each day and say yes to Him even though we are imperfect and scared. And we can hang every single mama hope we have on the cross and be held up by our savior. And we can know that we are not alone.

I’m walking through something really painful with someone I love so much. My tears are flowing alongside them and my heart is aching. And in the midst of it, I WANT to have answers to offer them, or some kind of comfort. And I don’t.

I don’t understand why there are babies all over the world with no mom and dad. I don’t understand why Adam had a stroke. I don’t understand why Isaiah has such a literal broken heart. I don’t understand why some people struggle with depression their whole lives or why innocent people are hurt. I don’t understand the pain that is literally all around me. And it would be so easy to just give.up.on.God’s.goodness. Give up on God’s promises. But I haven’t. Because this is what I do know . . . That in our darkest nights, our most broken places, our deepest cries, HE IS NEAR. In the tears running down our cheeks, in the gulps of air leaving our mouth, in our knees and hands gripping the floor. HE IS NEAR. When everything in our world is shaky, He is our solid, our immovable. He is the rock on which we rest. When everything is broken and messed up, He is our Redeemer and Restorer. When we walk through our longest, hardest valleys, He is our mountaintop. When we are filled with our deepest uncertainties and searching for answers, He is our always faithful.

In the darkest of nights, in the middle of a broken land, in the midst of hundreds of years of silence, an ever-present babe was born in a manger. And they called him Jesus, Emmanuel, GOD WITH US. And that promise remains true every single day of the year.

And Jesus never shied away from pain or turned from broken hearted people. He was near them. He walked with them. He lived with them. He taught them. He loved them. He healed them. And He is near us. His love always holds true. His goodness remains, a gritty beacon we can hold fast to. A determination we can rest our hopes on. A steadfast promise that remains true EVEN STILL.

And so like David, fearing for his life alone in a cave; like Hannah ashamed and desperately longing for a child; like the woman at the well, broken, discarded and longing to belong, we can raise our eyes and our hearts to the sky. We can lift a weary arm and whisper out a cracked praise with tears on our cheeks. And we can know that He.is.here. Emmanuel.

If you’re like me, 2020 has shown where my heart fails me. We have chosen to quarantine for Isaiah on the recommendation of his cardiologist and we just entered our seventh month of hardcore quarantine. And I am heart-weary and worn out. It’s easy to gloss over my mess ups when I’m running from thing to thing and staying busy. It’s easy to feel supported when you’re surrounded by friends, family, and your church. But take those all away, and I’ve been frustrated, off balance, and impatient. I LOVE all the time the five of us have had together- we are definitely the family who can be together 24/7 and be happy- but I miss my extended family, I miss doing things, I miss church, I just miss feeling like life is normal. And in the midst of this, I’ve seen just how deceitful the heart can be.

Because in the midst of my shortcomings, I’ve felt deep shame. I’ve frantically searched for ways I could make things better: new supplements, a different bible reading plan, a different schedule, more yoga?? And each day, as these things haven’t worked, I’ve felt my frustration and discouragement deepen. And yet, I continued on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing. I was too embarrassed to bring it to God. I couldn’t believe that after THIS LONG, this many years of loving Him, I was still messing up. Somewhere in my heart, I believed He was frustrated with me.

Then, last night, while I was cleaning the bathroom (He really can meet you anywhere), I gave up. I cried to Him. I admitted my failures. I admitted my deep shame. And HIS GRACE WASHED OVER ME. He didn’t heap shame or accusations on my heart. He didn’t remind me of all the times I’d failed before. He filled my heart with grace upon grace; generous, lavish, crazy grace. Grace that I don’t deserve. Grace that I definitely didn’t earn. He reminded me of His love for me. Of what the Cross did for me. Of what Jesus is to me. And He reminded me of the prodigal son: the one who was welcomed with a running embrace and a huge party! God isn’t waiting to punish us every time we mess up, He isn’t waiting to throw accusations at us; He’s waiting to sweep us up in His gracious arms, give us new mercies each morning, and to fill in our gaps. Our hearts will always fail us but He never will. If 2020 has brought you to your knees, look up and be overwhelmed with His never-ending grace. Look up to the One who knit you together, who knows you intricately, and who loves you deeply. Look up to the One who’s waiting, with open arms, to hold you up when you falter and to catch your tears when you cry. When we stumble, He sustains. He is the God of the mountaintops AND the deep valleys, the God of joy and sorrow. In the best of days or the hardest of years, He always holds true.