Michelle Thorne Books

Full Circle, Reconnecting with My Son

Michelle — Mon, 18 May 2020 18:31:42 +0000

You never give up hope and you never deceive yourself about your current reality. That’s the Stockdale Paradox. That’s the life I had lived for twenty years. After placing my first child, my son, for adoption in 2000, I never gave up hope that he would want to find me, and I never deceived myself about the reality of my situation. We were separated. I chose this.

The first years after placement I spent in grief just trying to make it through what they told me would happen—I would move on, he would move on, all would be well. Then, what they said would happen, didn’t happen, and the next years were spent grieving that reality, my reality. Eventually, I embraced the Stockdale Paradox. I would live as if I were going to meet him, and I would stay conscious of living without him, doing my best to live and love him well from ‘here.’

I fought hard to keep him present. To consider him in my daily life. When we were dating, I told my husband about him, and eventually, to our children from the time they were babes lying in their cribs. I kept his picture up in our home. We celebrated his birthdays, each of us offering up a wish or hope for him on his special day. And there was not a day that his name was not offered up in prayer, sometimes with weeping, sometimes with hope.

The idea was that even if he never showed up, loved me, etc., I was going to show up, love him, and keep him a part of my life as best I could because I loved him no matter what he would choose to do in the future. My son’s behavior would never determine mine.

At eighteen, this magic time that a lot of birth mothers idealize as the climax of their adoption story when they will be reunited with their children, nothing happened. He graduated high school, played a lot of soccer, and went off to college without me. We remained separated. I chose this.

I was desperate to honor him and his choices instead of getting my feelings hurt. Did I have a right to have my feelings hurt? I chose this.

I asked his parents never to push him or force him into a relationship with me. It gave me a ton of love and respect for them that they considered him first, they let him have a voice in our relationship, they let him make his own choices. It spoke volumes to me about how much they loved him. It kept us on common ground—the sacred ground of agape love for this boy, our boy.

Last July, when he was nineteen years old, he emailed me. I was just finishing a walk on the treadmill in my apartment in China. I sat down and bawled my eyes out. Was this really happening? Within 24 hours, we had a Skype call. It was an hour and a half long, and I got to say some hard things like I’m sorry and I did the best I could at the time. He said some hard things too, but they were needed and good. It was an honor to be given his vulnerable words and feelings and hold them close. I still do.

We messaged for months as I continued to live in China. It was amazing and scary. I talked a lot about adoption and wrote about adoption and encouraged birthmoms through writing, but now, I had to put my money where my mouth was in my own relationship. I had to pursue when I felt insecure, and let things be when I wanted more. I found myself feeling like a schoolgirl, relishing any contact I had with him, lighting up when he messaged me, thinking of him all the time. And the longing for him….oh, the physical ache…I thought it was bad after I placed him, but no. The visceral need to hold him came roaring back with a vengeance. I would burst into tears sometimes from the desperate need I had to touch him again.

Then, COVID-19 hit China. Our company evacuated us to the States. When things started escalating in the States, his parents brought him home. We were suddenly, unexpectedly in the SAME STATE. After enduring the lockdown mandated by our state, he messaged me. He wanted to come the next day. I could barely breathe I was so excited.

I didn’t imagine what the reunion would be like. My hope would not allow me to envision it. But when it happened, it was quiet. I had no idea what to say. “Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh! OH, MY GOSH!” That’s what came out as I squeezed him—hard—for the first time in twenty years. I barely felt his big body enveloping me, his heart pounding next to mine, his nervous laughter in my ear. I felt pure bliss at holding him again. How long had I longed for this? But there was something else—a deeply seeded fear.

Would I be enough? Would he love me? And was I worthy of his love, if he even considered it?

My younger son, Deacon, came running up to him and embraced him. I almost choked on my heart sitting firmly in my throat and swelling up with joy. My daughter Cadence was next, complete with a plate of cookies she made for him, and then, my husband Matthew. Because of COVID-19, we are still living with friends, and Ginger, who was the first person I voluntarily told about being pregnant with him, hugged him as well.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” she said, and I nearly fell over. After feeling so alone in this journey sometimes, here was evidence that I never had been alone. Still, I couldn’t look at her. It was all too much. The full circle closing around us.

After the brief introductions, our first move was to be alone. “Are you nervous?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

We spent the next 48 hours together, sometimes alone but mostly with Matthew, Cadence, and Deacon. Ginger and David made us dinner one night and Dan, our chosen-family, came up from Charlotte to be with us. I sat by my son, who was in my presence—OMG!!!—every chance I could.

He was an absolute dream. He was gentle and funny. He embraced his siblings physically and engaged them in conversation and games. It felt right, full. And it was full. It was a full, full circle. It wasn’t that this child I placed for adoption was suddenly back or that I had a piece of myself back; it was more that he was always here. There wasn’t a huge adjustment for my kids or a hurt lingering within my husband. This person was our person, and we were his. It was beautiful and good.

“Take care of him,” I told God twenty years ago.

“I will,” He promised me.

And He did.

I tried not to make my son feel too weird by staring at him or touching him too much. Also, the urge to cry was constant, and so I had to steal myself away to keep the drama level tolerable. It was intense, and yet, there was a lot of laughter, stolen glances, and pride at the man he has become.

Nothing could have prepared me though for him leaving. In all of my excitement to be with him, I had not considered that I had to let him go. I had to stand there while we were separated again. And the fear, oh the fear, and the lies, the ridiculous ones that creep up looking so legit, came flooding back.

That’s all you’re going to get. That thing you said was stupid. He only needed to see you one time. Your emotions were too much for him. He thinks you’re crazy and is glad all this is over.

Matthew poured me a healthy glass of scotch, which worked significantly better than the ice cream I had after our first separation twenty years ago, and I went upstairs alone and tried hard not to hyperventilate. I breathed deep for a long time, tears pouring out of my eyes.

Then, I finished my glass of scotch, stood up, and stretched my hands up to the sky. “Thank you,” I told God.

I’m not a girl who thinks adoption is all unicorns and rainbows. Obviously, I have lived through a lot of heartbreak because of it. But I do recognize God in my story. I recognize the process, that can be more like a cycle for me, from suffering to hope found in Romans 5. “Suffering produces perseverance, perseverance produces character, character produces hope. And hope does not disappoint us.” Hope does not disappoint me, and neither does living each day choosing to love my child despite being separated from him.

Reconnecting with my son (in his time, when he was ready, by his choice) has taught me something very valuable about God. God didn’t just choose me once, but He keeps choosing me, keeps coming after me, and keeps loving me every single day. Not because of my behavior, but because of His overwhelming love for me.

I never needed anyone to justify me as a mother to him; I was doing that with my everyday actions to include him and celebrate his life. But when my son wished me a Happy Mother’s Day the day after he left, it was a full circle—a very full circle. Love never fails, the Scriptures say. Truly, it doesn’t, and I’m so thankful.

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Please, Don’t PTL Adoption

Michelle — Mon, 10 Jun 2019 21:22:27 +0000

I had a conversation last night with a friend of mine who is a foster mom, and after our chat, I couldn’t sleep. I want to talk about something that may be hard to talk about, but it has irked me for some time. There is so much I could say about this, but today I’m focusing on people of faith, specifically Christians, and the flippant use of God’s name associated with adoption. Maybe this is something you struggle with too? Maybe it’s just me. I’m okay with that.

As an adoption professional and a follower of Christ, I am in a lot of circles that spiritualize everything in foster care and adoption. They “PTL” (praise the Lord) this and “God’s plan” that. And here’s what I think every time someone does that…GET HIS NAME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!!!

Why? Because I feel like they either don’t understand foster care/adoption, or they don’t know God.

Here’s the thing. Adoption is born out of great loss. As a birthmom, I know this well, and when I hear the bandaid of “God’s plan” go over the wound of childhood trauma, well it makes me sick. Where is the space for this child’s loss if we are covering it with our ‘spiritual’ makeup? Why do we feel the need to dress up and ugly situation? How do we honor the deeply ingrained need for love and belonging if we don’t recognize the depravity involved for these people? And HOW can we PTL and think that will sit right with anyone involved?

I wonder if our (people of faith) need to make these hard stories in line with God is rooted in our need to make God okay inside our own mind.

I mean, what would it mean if God was both good and allowed this kind of evil (childhood abuse, neglect, abandonment, trauma, etc.) to co-exist? How can I have great faith if I can’t explain everything He does? And when I can’t, I better have a pre-rehearsed, pre-loaded, disconnecting phrase like “Let go and let God” or a trite Jeremiah 29:11 up my sleeve to splash the pot with. Is that not what we are doing when we disregard the brokenness of the situation–gambling with God’s identity?

I don’t think that Jesus, who experienced trauma and did not praise God for it but asked that it not happen to Him, cried out “Why have you abandoned me?” in the midst of it, would agree with our flippant (dare I say blasphemous) use of His name in regard to the blatant, heart-breaking loss that these children experience throughout their lives. I think it grieves Him greatly. I think He would weep with them.

I wonder if we can do the same? I wonder, what would happen if the next time you encounter a child separated from their first parents you just listened? I wonder, what would happen if you sat with a caregiver at the end of her rope and didn’t offer her anything but your presence and your ear? I wonder if you would experience the heart of God in a new way, broken for this world? Can God really break our hearts for what breaks His, if we are busy covering up what we fear are His errors by misusing His name?

When we consider how we can care for widows and orphans and “orphans” (a.k.a. people whose first parents are still alive but get deemed orphans for the publicity of someone looking to make money or make themselves look better than they really are), I think we should begin with the knowledge that this loss for these lives is heartbreaking. I think we should holster our faith-words-weapons and hold hands. I hope that we can be brave enough to mourn with those who mourn and sit with those who give care and listen to those who grow up and speak and teach us how to love better.

Let’s come alongside this community in a way that breeds life and connection. Where words are insufficient, love never fails. Choose love.

*****
Image: Mark Rothko, No. 61 (Rust and Blue), 1953, oil on canvas

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Listen-Learn-Love

Michelle — Sat, 01 Jun 2019 01:38:33 +0000

It’s been ugly around here the past three years. If you follow this blog, you know I have not written much in a while. I’ve been listening and grieving and questioning and surviving. As I said, it’s been ugly.

Out of the trudging in the mud that has been my life since I lost my mom and moved to China in the same two weeks has come a few points of awareness.

1. I need to listen more to those who have different experiences than I do.
2. I need to read more diverse literature.
3. I need to surround myself with people who think differently than I do.

When you’re in survival mode, you don’t look around for diversity, you look for familiarity. When I first placed my son for adoption, I spent a long time trying to connect with birthmoms. I needed to know I was not alone. Now, I live in a country with arguably more birthmoms than anywhere else in the world, and I am only in contact with one other birthmom here that I know of, which may sound lonely but it’s fine. While our uncanny connection bonds us, I don’t need that connection as I did before. I love it, but I don’t rely on it. I’m comfortable enough with my story and in my own skin to be the only one talking about my adoption story openly.

These days, I’m searching for diversity. In my desperate longing to help women who have placed a child for adoption, I am gaining perspective. I am listening to adoptees. I am listening to adoptive parents. I am listening to social workers. I am listening.

In listening, I am learning.

I am learning about what it means to be humble in the adoption relationship. I am learning about what heals and what hurts. I am learning about grief and anger and forgiveness and connection. I am learning that re-connection is not a thing. There is only connection. It exists despite what we see or do on all sides.

All of this is driving me to a new place in my post-placement support for women. My desire to help is still a roaring fire, but the wind has changed direction. I’m spreading out, changing my approach, and hopefully, going to be able to better meet the needs of those who need it.

I am excited to tell you there are things in the works coming at you all!

I have:
1. Written a second journal. Being You: A Journal for Birthmoms is available on Amazon.
2. Created an organizational system for prospective adoptive parents. Think life planner for the adoption process.

I am:
1. Creating a curriculum for post-placement support groups/one-on-one counseling sessions to help those who facilitate these important meetings.
2. Writing a fiction novel where the lead character is a birthmom in a post-placement relationship with her daughter. The story gives an accurate portrayal of what it (might be) like to be a birthmom. It won’t be all-inclusive, but it will bring awareness.

I hope you are excited to continue journeying with me. I’ve been doing this post-placement support thing for many years now, and it’s just getting better. Much love to you all!

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Trauma (Birth)Mama?

Michelle — Fri, 03 May 2019 03:54:24 +0000

It’s been a minute. I have tried and tried to write this thing but nothing was coming. In the meantime, I wrote three books (Being You, which you can purchase here, and two fiction, which will be released later this year or early next year) and created a Home Study Organizer and adoption printables business called Handheld Adoptions on Etsy. So, I’ve been writing, but like I’ve said on this blog before, I’m not going to do a post just because. That may be marketing suicide, but whatever. At least it’s being true to myself.

Anyway, I feel like I’ve been on a huge writing/adoption/birthmom journey. I have been working in international adoption in China, and I have purposefully sought out adoptee voices to listen to and learn from. And I have. I truly have learned so much about this triad thing. Deep, deep lessons. Things, as a birthmom, I didn’t want to know. That’s what happens when you dig in and do the actual work. As a social worker, I’ve seen hundreds of cases at this point both domestic and international, and the truths involved are staggering. The depravity is tangible. The traumas are rampant. The least of these have names. My need to make this birthmother thing palatable led me to the discovery that I have work to do.

In my most recent journal, Being You, I said that I think the problem with post-placement care for birthmoms is that it’s too grief-focused. The fact that there isn’t enough post-placement care is another issue entirely, but whose fault is that? What if these lovely men and women just haven’t known quite what to do for us? What if they just saw the grief and started there? I know I did.

But, I’ve been thinking about how grief-focused it all is, and when I wrote the journal I really wanted to focus on the aspect of living out the actual choice I made. When I understand the grief and my triggers and how to deal with those, what then? How do I simply be a part of an adoption relationship? That was good, cathartic even, and it planted a seed inside me.

Lately, I’ve also been devouring everything Brené Brown, as I often do, and learning and re-learning about being my imperfect self and courage, connection, and compassion. I’ve thought about being in the ring getting my butt kicked and showing up and being brave and getting back up over and over. This all sounds sexy but it’s so not.

Then, in my work, I take in as much Karyn Purvis stuff as I can. I recently attended the Empowered to Connect conference where, once again, I sat thinking of birthmoms in open adoptions. I thought about the foster mamas and the biological parents attached to the children they care for. Trust-based Relational Intervention (TBRI®) is for them too.

All of this has me thinking, there has to be something more. What if along with the grief counseling and grief-survival skills we teach birthparents, we teach them what courage looks like, how to connect, how trauma affects the brain (which they have experienced as a result of the separation), how trust works? What if we teach them to be trauma-informed people, who have compassion for the needs of themselves and their child?

Could we change the overall health of adoption relationships if we approached post-placement, or dare I say placement, care in this way? Could we better inform women considering adoption of what the “other side” is like if we talked openly about the work they will have to do when they get there? Could this help them make a more informed decision? Would they feel more like a part of the relationship and less like a means to an end for a hopeful couple? Would adoptees feel more connected to their first moms and dads?

My mind is spinning! Is yours? I would love some feedback on this idea.

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Being You

Michelle — Fri, 21 Dec 2018 00:42:26 +0000

It’s been over a year since I posted. It’s not that I’m not writing. I’ve written a ton and almost daily. It’s that I’m not posting on my blog.

Why? I don’t know. I’ve said before that I wasn’t going to post just to post. So, I’m not. I think blogs can get gimmicky and boring. What I love most about the blog is the vulnerability of it. Whether the author intends depth or humor or to inform, I think it should be authentic and not because some guru has a formula you are forcing yourself into. YUCK!

So, today I want to share something I AM SO FREAKING EXCITED ABOUT!!!

In June of 2015, I published a journal for birthmoms called Revealing You. Its purpose was to give birthmoms a grasp on what their new normal was. It was intended to go wide, be personal to the woman using it, and be a safe place to process what their life actually looked like now with their newfound title of birthmom.

Confession: I felt like a cheater. As an author, there weren’t that many words in the book and I had set it up so the person reading it was doing most of the work. I mean, I knew that was how it needed to be. They didn’t need me telling them how to feel or what to think about their experience. They needed to work these things out on their own. Still, as a self-proclaimed author of awesomeness, I felt like a cheater.

Reality: When the book went out it served a purpose. It plugged up one hole in the leaking dam of birthparent support. It gave women a place, helped them think, let them know they weren’t alone in all of this. It was good.

But…

It wasn’t everything. Over the last three and a half years my life has been wildly full of loss. My mother died and I moved to China, to name the big ones. If you’ve never lost your mother, it’s terrible. You lose your first home, the first place and person you belonged to. This alone made me grieve my choice of placing my son for adoption in a new way. It was a kick in the gut on top of everything else.

So, I’ve been cozying up to grief and loss these past three years, and I have been thinking about healing and how as you move on it gets deeper and closer to the core of who you are. At first, I was just trying to survive the days. Next, I was getting familiar with my new normal. Then, I began to take inventory of who I was inside this new place, and I began to redefine success. With that came my annual (that I had skipped the last year) reading of The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene’ Brown. This time (because I pick something new up every time) I came across a line that let me know, for sure, I needed to write another journal.

“Fitting in is about assessing a situation and becoming who you need to be to be accepted. Belonging, on the other hand, doesn’t require us to change who we are; it requires us to be who we are.” -Brene’ Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection

MIND. BLOWN.

This is what I needed to remember. He belongs to me as much as I belong to him. No matter what. Forever. I was his first home, his first person, of belonging. And if there is belonging, I get to be myself inside of this adoption relationship.

I knew birthmoms needed this truth too. We lose our sense of belonging to that little one when we place them for adoption. I wondered, what can I do to help drive this home? What can I do to help other birthmoms know and believe this in thier hearts?

I went back to Revealing You and re-read it. We need more of this, I thought. We need it to be deeper. We need to remember that we belong to them and they belong to us.

What if we could have that security? If we did, I think we would feel the freedom to be ourselves inside the adoption relationship. What if we were so secure in our belonging that we could see the other sides? What if we could hear and have compassion for the adoptive parents and adoptee inside our adoption relationships? How would that help the relationship? What if when we screwed up or they screwed up, it wasn’t a deal breaker but an opporunity to grow together, to learn with and from each other? What if we knew we belonged to our child in a way that helped us keep him/her at the center of the relationship when things were tense between parents?

My mind was spinning. I began to write and it poured out of me. When I finished it, I titled it Being You: A Journal for Birthmoms. This journal is a force to be reckoned with. It’s a slap in the face to disconnection. It begs vulnerability and authenticity. It fosters change and connection. It claims the Brene’ Brown phrase, you are worthy of love and belonging.

If you are a birthmom, this is for you. If you worked through Revealing You and thought, “Great! Now what,” This is for you. If you are a person, who needs something a bit deeper, this is for you.

You belong. Be you.

Chapters in Being You:

1. Kintsugi Warrior
2. Keeping the Child at the Center
3. The Two Loves
4. Fitting In vs. Belonging
5. Independently Connected
6. Open-Hearted Conflict
7. Transforming Failure
8. Digital Footprints
9. Love Relationships
10. Pregnancy After Placement
11. Parenting After Placement
12. The Sibling Connection

***

“If you’re loved by someone, you’re never rejected.
Decide what to be and go be it.” – The Avett Brothers, “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise”, I and Love and You (2009)

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Adoption Connection Week 4

Michelle — Tue, 05 Dec 2017 10:03:32 +0000

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Adoption Connection Week 3

Michelle — Mon, 27 Nov 2017 02:52:04 +0000

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Adoption Connection Week 2

Michelle — Tue, 21 Nov 2017 11:00:15 +0000

***Video mentioned in the Parents’ Corner is from empoweredtoconnect.org and can be accessed here.

***Positive Adoption Language resource from Mother’s Choice and can be accessed here.

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Adoption Connection Week 1

Michelle — Wed, 15 Nov 2017 11:29:45 +0000

I’ve been doing some adoption awareness posts for my school here in Qingdao. I thought I would share them here with you all too. Enjoy!

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Sucking as a Mom? Me Too

Michelle — Mon, 23 Oct 2017 02:15:58 +0000

Two equally traumatic parent-things happened to me over the last week. Parent-things are those people/places/things that happen to you as a parent or because you’re a parent that you have no words for. Anyway, the first one was the #MeToo outcry that happened this past week. Oh, my heart! It hurt me, and I thought, “I don’t want my daughter to be a part of that. Ever.” Research was done on martial arts classes in my city for skinny white girls, without me ever consulting my daughter. And why would I do that? I am her mother…*eye roll*…which leads me to the second parent-thing.

“Your weakness doesn’t mess up the plan, your weakness was the plan.” -Paul David Tripp, speaking on parenting
2 Corinthians 12:9

I don’t know about you, but this is so hard to even register. I mean, we live in this weird polarized culture of parents being either ‘unfit’ (I hate that term, by the way) or super parents (i.e. liars on facebook).

When we become parents there is this hidden idea that emerges as “You’re supposed to know everything and have it all together.” Well, just like I didn’t become a 1950’s housewife after I got married (what I thought would happen somewhere in my subconscious, why? I do not know.), I didn’t become a parenting expert (whatever that is) when I had children. My daughter (the oldest child I parent) is nine, and it has taken me this long to figure out I want to connect with her more than I want to control her.

If connection is the goal, and not making little clones, don’t we want to connect them to Him with our arms around their shoulders and not their necks (so, to speak…don’t get crazy)? Is it easier to say, “Hey buddy, I failed today too. It’s okay. Let’s try again together” than it is to say, “Because I said so”? And if it is, can we all just admit we are all ‘unfit’ parents in need of One who’s power is made perfect in our weakness? Can we sympathize with the weaknesses of others?

It makes me think that taking my kids to God before a meal or on a Sunday is a bit cheap on my part (or should I say strong/self-sufficient), if I’m not revealing to them my desperate need for Him in the moments I am sinning against them.

Maybe I’m on about this because of just finishing the Paul David Tripp Parenting thing with my fellowship here. It was a breath of fresh air and a sucker punch at the same time. And on the heels of it, I am looking at my daughter who is moving slower than she ever has in her life this morning and screaming at her to “Get over here like her mother…*eye roll*…told {her} to a million times!” And she looked at me with her big blue eyes and all I could hear in my head was “Weak sauce, Thorne. Weak sauce.” And I guess I could tell you my defense and try to make you understand but it doesn’t really matter because all of my reasons are just stairs leading up to my mommy pedestal and away from my daughter.

As we walked to the bus (in plenty of time, mind you), I had to say to her, “I’m sorry,” but I wasn’t just sorry for yelling. I had to tell her why I was sorry and that was uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I yelled at you because I don’t want you to miss the bus because I don’t want your teachers to agree on what they already think and know, which is I am a total screw up at the mom thing. I didn’t want to be the last one at the bus AGAIN because I’m afraid all the moms will know that I’m sucking at this mom thing. I don’t want your dad to think I can’t handle this mom thing after a year of torturous depression after Grannie died.”

Etcetera, etcetera…like so much Thom York…I just let it out all over her. Fifteen steps, then a sheer drop.

I said to her, “God knew I would suck at this when He let me have you though, and I think we can both trust His decisions to do that. I don’t know if I’ll get better, but I’ll keep trying.”

I wanted her to affirm me. I wanted her to say, ‘You are a good mom,’ or ‘Who cares what other people think?’ At least an ‘I love you, Mommy.’ I mean, am I not teaching her those things??? I am her mother…*eye roll*…

My daughter didn’t regurgitate to me what I taught her. She didn’t go into clone mode. What she said was so much more powerful.

“Me too.”

And a week’s worth of #MeToo stories came flooding back to me and a thought occurred to me, soft as my pillow, if I am weak with her, she gets to be part of a Me Too that involves Him and freedom and love. My weakness, then, would seem a good place to rest if she has any chance of realizing her need for Him. My weakness, then, is not a traumatic parent-thing but His plan to bring her to Himself, something I can never really do. My weakness, then, is my connector to her heart when she realizes her need for Him, and I get to say to her, “Me too.”

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You Don’t have to Know it All as an Adoptive Parent

Michelle — Tue, 26 Sep 2017 12:51:08 +0000

After serving people hoping to adopt, adopting, and having adopted, I have seen the full gambit of going from “excited about what God is doing” to “oh, nobody told me about this”. It’s quite a steep learning curve, and I’m not sure it’s one you can ever be fully prepared for. (But hey! That’s parenting, right, dismisses everyone who has no idea what you are going through.)

The thing with adoption is that we feel like we have to be excited about it all. It has to be successful or what does that mean about you as an adoptive parent or me as an adoption professional? If we hear someone talking real talk about what adoption can be like, we ignore them. That won’t be me/us/them, we think.

So often couples start out with an idea of what adoption is. They find an agency/website/lawyer and throw themselves into the paperwork. They get busy making their profile book/site and sprucing up their home. It’s all public and community support and money in the beginning. That is the exciting part, the anticipation, but it’s actually only a fraction of the story.

When a child comes home and the excitement is short-lived. The exciting part of romance is the chase; the marriage is longer and harder. It’s the same with parenting a child. Suddenly, adoptive parents realize they are Atlas holding up the world on their shoulders.

Adoptive parents step into the middle of a child’s story and somehow manage to move forward. There can be strange demands and (false?) expectations. In no time at all, they need to be the expert on their new child, who they don’t know. Without formal education, they need to know what to do when the child is grieving, whatever he/she is grieving. They need to anticipate the child’s needs, when they just met.

In short, adoptive parents have to be know-it-alls about adoption law, human growth and development, parenting a child (and doing it when the child has experienced trauma), grief, attachment, and their particular child, just to name a few. No biggie, right?

Here’s the thing. Have you ever been around someone who knows everything? How do they make you feel? Do you honestly believe them?

Personally, I don’t know what to do with people who know everything. Understanding them is beyond me. I’m not trying to be snarky either. I mean, I literally don’t know what to do. My mouth completely shuts down around them and I just hope to get away before I’m noticed.

I feel like I have nothing to offer them, and why would I? They know everything. So, I sit there and try not to talk. Semantics matter to me and when you are talking to someone who knows everything, that is stifling.

I can’t imagine having this type of requirement thrust upon me. To go from being simply excited to the expectations of being an expert on all things adoption, answering invasive questions about your child (you may have just met), and educating and advocating all while trying to transition to your new life has to be overwhelming. For anyone who has adopted and felt this way, and I suspect there are a lot, I feel for you deeply.

What to do then? Is there an end-all be-all answer? Probably not. I guess, for my part, I would say don’t be afraid to not know things. Don’t be under the false impression that you have to know it all. Don’t get bullied into shame. This is too important for all of that. Allow yourself a margin for error. Know that screwing up at some point and in some way is inevitable and it’s okay. Grace covers that stuff.

You don’t have to know it all. You have to know Who called you to this. Adoption is a calling, truly. Every calling is a pursuit by God of your heart and life to become more like Christ.

“The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.” (I Thessalonians 5:24, NIV)

That, right there, gives you permission to not know. It allows you time to stay home with your child and get to know him/her. It gives you the space to fail and the grace to cover it. That promise, He will do it, says nothing about you and your knowledge, but it says everything about your God.

The funny thing is, I think He set it up this way. He doesn’t call us to what we can handle, He calls us to what He can handle. You have the absolute freedom to breakdown and freak out. You have an impossible calling (aren’t they all?) and your calling is about keeping a person alive and attaching to someone who has been denied their first mom (for whatever reason). How do you fix that? How do you compete with that? You don’t. He does.

Just like your calling is impossible, it is not about the person you are in relationship with. You don’t have to, nor are you meant to, mend the broken heart. Your calling is to come after Jesus with all that you have and all that you are. If you hold the tender moments of a child in the process…If you love them well…If you parent from a place of compassion…If their heart attaches to yours as you follow God, that is just the icing on the cake. God, my friends, is the cake, and you are invited to His table and to stay for dessert.

Bon appetite, friends.

The post You Don’t have to Know it All as an Adoptive Parent appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

The Dance of Grief

Michelle — Thu, 08 Jun 2017 07:27:56 +0000

This morning I spent time with a couple of friends getting manicures and pedicures (in our home because everything can be delivered to your door in China, even the nail salon!). I cried most of the time. It’s just been a hell of a year for me. It kicked off a year ago this week saying goodbye to my dear Becky, Beth, and birthmoms in Arkansas. Then, my mom died. (It’s still hard to even write that sentence.) Days after we buried her, I moved to China. With all the stress of a massive, life-changing-no-mercy move to China and a year of teaching, which I am not cut out for, I haven’t had much time to grieve her, and I need to.

So, here I am weeping and it’s hard. I don’t want grief to have power over me, but how do I make that happen? What’s the recipe for grieving? How do I turn this mixed batch of raw feelings into something beautiful, delicious and purposeful? What steps are there to take? How many are there? When will I be over this?

You can’t tick boxes when you are grieving. You just can’t. When we grieve, we dance. Some moves are harder than others, some flow, some take effort. Sometimes we get our toes stepped on or have two left feet. The thing is, we aren’t trained, we aren’t wearing proper attire nor do we have flawless music. We are moving around the floor of grief as best we can while they grade us from afar.

Grief is uncomfortable. We are tempted to hurry it along, as if grief is not a debilitating force that must be obeyed, like gravity. In the awkwardness, comes ideas about how long it’s okay to grieve and how it should be done. It’s hard to see others hurting and so we try to help them through it or leave them alone until it’s over. We work to fill our grief list, define our grief stages, and organize the chaos of loss. All the while we squander sacred moments vulnerability.

There are even books on how to grieve. Do this. Don’t do that. Say a thorough goodbye. Keep something of theirs. Have a tradition as a reminder. Forgive. Remember. Don’t run away. Move toward something new. Be well.

But I am not well. When you are grieving, you are not well. You are you are what you are. You are where you are. If you work hard to do it “well”, you will deny the ugly brokenness that is there. I don’t want to grieve well. I want to grieve honestly.

I don’t want to care about the timeline or the words or the ways in which the grief comes. I don’t want to think about others’ worry or doubt. I want to shove my middle finger up at anyone who thinks, “Oh god! Is she still going on about her mother’s death?”

Yes, yes I am.

I told my friends this morning that grief is like being naked, and I have this inherent need to cover up. Maybe we all do? If you Google the word grief, almost every image that comes up with a person in it has them hiding part or all of their face. It’s terrifying to be so vulnerable, but I don’t want to cover my face either. That doesn’t help.

What I want to do, what I am going to do is choose to suffer honestly. I think there is something holy that comes from living this darkness in the light. There is communion in being naked and unashamed.

So, I am going to acknowledge the deep sadness that I don’t get any more time with my mom. I am going to let in the pure joy of having such a woman in my life, full of tenacity and fire. I will not ignore the anxiety she felt or the things I wish had been different. I will embrace the complexity of us. I will accept the whole of our time together and I will feel every bit of it. The discomfort others feel in that can be a comfort to me that I am loved.

***

There are no uncomplicated deaths. Deaths involve people and even the best relationships and the most peaceful deaths at the end of well-lived, long lives have a dance for those left behind. Letting others grieve honestly is a gift. If you are a loved one or a friend of someone grieving, I encourage you to embrace the discomfort and pray into the hope. Hope does not disappoint us.

The post The Dance of Grief appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Seventeen

Michelle — Fri, 10 Mar 2017 13:57:27 +0000

Last year I wrote about my son’s sixteenth birthday and how it was bitter sweet. This year, not so much. It’s not bitter. It’s not sweet. It’s seventeen. Seventeen is the one before he is considered an adult. I cannot even believe it!

Today, I learned something about these birthdays: sometimes a ritual is confining.

I have written about having a ritual with my family to remember him and celebrate him on his birthday. It’s become increasingly important as my children grow to let them know and explore how they feel about having an adopted brother. I call it open parenting. They are privy to the big ‘secrets’ of my life. Having a sweet treat and singing happy birthday to him along with a prayer for him from each of us has been our thing. It has helped me honor his day and include the children I parent in that. I have been working hard to help them know and have a safe place to talk about it.

Anyway, this year there was no ritual. My husband had to be in Tianjin for work and so, with the help of some new and amazing friends, I spent the day alone. I didn’t talk to anyone, save a few people who texted me because they knew.

If you know me at all, you know I don’t like people. I can’t help it. I just don’t. It’s not them; it’s me. And honestly, it’s because I know that I have the ability to hurt people deeply. When I meet new people, I think, no, please, you don’t want any part of this. Especially on March 10th…So, being alone was such a relief. There was no danger of snapping at my kids without my hubbs there to help.

It may sound dramatic, but think about it. I relive the events of his birthday throughout the day. Usually, at one (or more) points in the day, I weep. I also craft a carefully-worded message to him and his parents. I look at the pictures I have of him from then and now. I remember. I regret. I cherish. I hope. It is emotionally exhausting, which is physically exhausting. And I usually do my ritual with my family after that. This year, I just couldn’t.

This birthday, with the massive amount of loss I have suffered over the last year, I had the opportunity to grieve in private, in my own way, without forcing anything to happen. This year I haven’t had the mental capacity to do anything more than survive the day. This morning I thought, at the end of the day if can write about this, I won.

Friends, here in China, it’s the end of the day, and I have a glass of red wine. So, here’s to all the birthmoms who survive the hard days, and here’s to my firstborn son, who is much taller than me now, but will never outgrow my love for him. Cheers!

The post Seventeen appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

The Sacred Beginning

Michelle — Wed, 08 Mar 2017 01:22:01 +0000

I love stories. I love stories about humanity. The gritty ones that my ears try to shut off and the love stories that I want to take in repeatedly, all fill my heart in different ways. Working in adoption allows me access to a myriad of stories. I usually listen with a few things in mind. One of those things when I’m talking to an adoptive couple or adoptee, is the beginning.

If you are at all touched by adoption, you know that the children who are placed, no matter the age of placement or the circumstances, don’t come from thin air, right? They come from somewhere, someone. They have a beginning that set their tone, their scene in life. As their story unraveled, there were key characters, events, and places. There was nature and nurture.

For example, can you imagine jumping into the middle of The Lord of the Rings trilogy? Frodo and Sam are trying to get to Mordor, an impossible task, they say, and they are struggling, but why? It’s just a ring. Yeah, it’s Frodo’s burden to bear, but he just needs get rid of it. That will solve everything. Now, get going Frodo…

In the beginning, we learn that it’s one ring to rule them all. We learn that in the Shire, where Frodo and Sam are from, where jovial creatures called hobbits live in community. Frodo and Sam cling to the goodness of home and the hope of getting back there throughout their journey. If we had not spent time there in the beginning, we would not care if they got back or not. The story would be over when the ring (*spoiler alert*) is finally consumed by the fires of Mount Doom.

Because we know the beginning of the story, the loss of the ring is not enough. Tolkien allows us to get back to the Shire with them. The Shire is home and though Frodo can’t stay for long, it’s such a relief to know he gets back there, right? It brings fullness to the story, completion, in a way the destruction of the ring never could.

If we don’t know the beginning, we don’t have context for the struggle, the climax or the resolution of the story. It’s not enough to tell our children they are adopted, we have to hold the details of their beginning, good and bad, with delicate and protective hands. We need to give our children the gift of the beginning of their stories and let them spend time there.

When I left my position at Bethany Christian Services last year to live in China with my husband and work for a missional company, I thought I was saying goodbye to adoption. I thought I was at a turning point in my story. When I got here, the adoption stories within my community were everywhere. Instead of having a reprieve from adoption on the front lines (I thought I was going to be in the background writing and encouraging), I am now seeing up close the daily lives of (mostly) internationally adopted kids.

And honestly, I can’t help myself, every one of those faces makes me ponder their beginning. I think of the women who carried them. I wonder how they are now. I wonder if they are able to grieve and talk about it. I wonder if their hearts break on their children’s birthdays the way mine will on Friday. I wonder if they have rituals to remember or mechanisms to forget. I wonder if they gave their child the information he/she will need/want. I wonder if these children get access to their story in a healthy way. I think about the big hearts of the adoptive families and how they step into the middle of the story with a unique and very steep learning curve.

My burden for the people in adoption is growing instead of shrinking. It breaks my heart when these stories begin with a negative identifier. “My child was abandoned under a bridge, on the lawn of a government building, at an orphanage, etc.” Maybe these things are true, but that is not the child’s beginning. That is the inciting event in their story, perhaps, but it is not the beginning.

These children come from someone. That someone is a flawed, finite being, who carried a child to term. What happened after that was ugly/beautiful, unthinkable/deliberate, careless/careful, unlovely/full-of-love, both/and. A monochromatic painting got a contrasting color. Contrasting colors compliment each other and bring harmony. They don’t block each other out. Both are important. Both make the masterpiece stronger.

I am becoming more convinced than ever that we need to create space and grace for the sacred beginning. It’s important.

Dig deep, friends, and then, dig deeper still.

The post The Sacred Beginning appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

New Post on Relevant.com

Michelle — Sun, 12 Feb 2017 23:25:52 +0000

Super excited and grateful to be part of the adoption conversation with these guys. You can see my post here. Enjoy!

The post New Post on Relevant.com appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Good Try

Michelle — Tue, 07 Feb 2017 11:17:56 +0000

I have a problem. There is a core lie I have that nothing I ever do it good enough. I am an internal cringer. Everything I say and do is usually partnered with silent self-scrutiny. Like today, I finally received my third book in the mail and I barely looked at it. Seriously. I looked at the page in the back where I thank all the amazing people in my life, and then, I closed it and stopped looking.

It’s not a good book, I thought to myself. Nobody wants to read this. It’s too honest, too challenging, too preachy. I should have written another book, a better book. This is stupid. I’m going to take it offline as soon as I get home.

I thought all of these things as I am walking toward my house along the shore of the North China Sea with the box of books in my hand. As it happens, my wonderful new friend Tash was walking up the hill as I was walking down. She knew I wrote a book, and I told her she could read it. As she came toward me, it was as if I was playing hot potato. I almost threw the books at her.

“My books came!” She took them sweetly and, unknowingly, carried my shame object with her off up the hill. I felt better, maybe even a little giddy, until I thought through the fact that now she is going to read it. Tash is going to read my stupid, obnoxious, know-it-all book and hate it. I don’t want her to hate it because I want her to like me. Ugh!

Why do I do this to myself? (That’s a rhetorical question. No email answers/explanations, please. HA!)

It takes me time to get back around to the truth. My heart in writing is for good. I want to help people. When I wrote Mine, Yours & Ours I had connection in mind. I wanted to help others love well inside of adoption. I hoped that others can learn from my personal experience and professional knowledge. My heart was in the right place. I spent months writing and re-writing and editing and and and…

Why, then, do I need a pep talk to even look at it?

There are few things as powerful as shame. Love is one of those.

If love covers a multitude of sins, hopefully it covers the good tries as well. I’m sure it does. After just finishing Brene Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection, I am choosing to let go of perfectionism and embrace who I am–just a girl trying her best to help others.

****

Do any of you ever feel this way? If you do, I strongly encourage you to pick up The Gifts of Imperfection and get cozy with your flawed, awesome self. It will be worth it!

The post Good Try appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Please, Stop Oversharing Your Child’s Story

Michelle — Tue, 10 Jan 2017 00:12:27 +0000

As we get more public on social media there is a trend to share our lives. For whatever reason, and I’m not saying it’s all bad, we put a public face out there. It is not the same as being known, it is a piece of ourselves that we are allowing the world to see, a piece of ourselves that we approve of. We are the owners of our story, and we want to tell it.

Often, when a couple begins the process of adoption, the paperwork and waiting and financial strains, they share. It’s good. They need to know they are not alone. They need a community to rally around them. Sharing our lives helps us connect.

It’s an emotional rollercoaster that we ask the social media world to ride with us, and for the most part, they do. So, when that little bundle of joy (no matter the size/age) comes home we continue that sharing. We have a whole new list of struggles and questions and we need love, empathy and connection. Unfortunately, too often, I see the sharing bleed into the child’s story.

“He was found under a bridge in this city/country.” “She was left in this specific hospital.” “They found her on the lawn of a government building.” “He was left on the steps of an orphanage.” “His parents didn’t want him.” “His birthmom was an alcoholic.” “She was born addicted.” “He has mental illness in his bio family.”

While all of that may be true, it’s not your story. If you don’t have permission from the child, you shouldn’t be telling it publicly and if your child is too young to understand or think through it, just don’t share. Sure, you are going to have people you talk to, and that is not bad. You need a core group of people, but when that group is more than the size of a basketball team, we should be concerned.

Even positives should be censored. Would you tell the world that your best friend got engaged before she has the opportunity to? No matter if it’s good or bad, it’s simply not yours.

What happens when we tell another person’s information without permission on our public pages and in public forums, is theft. We take from them the discovery, telling, and ownership of their personal story. We tell the world (and often without meaning to, we tell them) who they are, leaving little room for growth. Labels can be sticky, ugly things.

Our children are growing up with digital footprints.No longer are they merely contending with the books about adoption or awkward family photo albums in their home, but the stories of their lives posted for anyone who wanders by as well. They are asked to navigate extra sets of misunderstood relationships and find their identities in a time when most of their parents’ “friends” on Facebook know part of their story better than they do.

This is a problem. These children will grow up. They should have the rights to their own stories. If we give our child’s story away, he will stop trusting us with it when he gets older.

We have to be more careful, more protective. We have to hold these stories dear and value them. We carry knowledge that is only meant for our child(ren).

Friends, I beseech you, whether you are a birth or adoptive parent, this is applicable. Please, think about your child before you give away his/her details. Sharing given/adoptive names, birthdates, birth places, birth/adoptive parents’ names, birth/adoptive parents’ issues, birth/adoptive/foster home circumstances or information, ect. on social media is grossly overexposing an already open wound.

Do not ever underestimate the consequences of oversharing your child’s story.

Inviting people into your journey on social media does not equate to owing them all the details. You have a story of your adoption process, your child has a different story. Keep it that way.

And if your adoption isn’t final, even if you have been ‘matched’, this post isn’t for you because you are still in the place of praying and waiting. Hold off on sharing anything until you have the security of a legal document, and when you have that, think long and hard about how and what you will share.

Be well, friends. Be well.

The post Please, Stop Oversharing Your Child’s Story appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

You Get Me; You Just Don’t Know It

Michelle — Fri, 29 Jul 2016 11:58:42 +0000

I have been struggling lately.

S-T-R-U-G-G-L-I-N-G

The move to China has been slow and there are a million things that have made me angry. When I get angry I do one of three things: clean, write and/or search for a connection.

Now, while those may sound super healthy, trust me, they aren’t really. It is more of my way of hiding from what is really happening in my heart. Also, I spent a lot of years self-medicating with negative coping mechanisms and so I try to avoid those these days…

Anyway, I have been searching for connection to the struggle of transition and moving cross-culturally and I have found some. Most of it was laced with a caveat of “other people who haven’t done this won’t get it.” However, I have a couple of friends who know and love me, who have recognized that it must be incredibly hard to be homeless and dependent on other people while lingering in uncertainty of when we will leave the country, yet constantly sitting on GO. It is. But to my knowledge, neither of these women has been homeless and/or moved cross-culturally, and that got me thinking about birthmom pain.

In my new book Mine, Yours & Ours (coming soon) I make an attempt to get the reader to understand birthmom pain. I wonder though, if you already get it; you just don’t know it yet.

“And here is the best way I can relate it to you: Being pregnant, when you don’t want to be, is similar to killing yourself.

Too extreme? Bear with me. You have this image of yourself that you are constantly projecting. It is the person you want to be and you want others to believe that you are. When you get caught doing something that destroys that image, you kill that image and therefore a part of you…So, if you have ever been caught with your pants down (pardon the pun), you know how it feels.”

There is also the post-placement pain. The one that wrecks lives. It goes a little more like this:

“There are consequences to our choices. The shadow of Dylan is part of mine. If anyone thinks that women who place their children for adoption are not owning the consequences of their actions, if anyone thinks they made their bed and they should lie in it, or if anyone thinks they have taken the easy way out, let me put that to rest. I live daily with the ramifications of getting pregnant and placing a child for adoption. It is in my marriage and my family. It is explaining to my young children what I did and that I am not placing them with another mommy and daddy to raise. It is in the seven year old newly placed boy, who asked me point blank, ‘Why did you give your baby away? Didn’t you love him?’ It comes when I walk one of my clients out of the hospital without the fruit of her labor. It leaks into my overeating and my driven work habits. It is present in my distance from former loved ones. Perhaps most grievous would be the mask I wear to protect myself from caring what others think, and when someone comes along, my mask gets the love and I don’t.”

Have you ever made a choice, seemingly innocent, that haunted you the rest of your life? An abortion, a left turn before that wreck, one too many drinks before an overnight stay in the county jail, a lie to your husband about spending that extra cash before you can’t pay your light bill, watching porn ignoring the rampant sex trade industry you are participating in, letting your mind wander before you heart does out of the sanctity of marriage, believing you are not at fault about anything before finding yourself alone, and on and on and on.

Have you ever suffered a loss? The loss of a child, the loss of the ideal child, the loss of status, the loss of a role, the loss of connection, the loss of relationship, the loss of control…

There are moments in time and losses in life that shape us, that give us charged emotions for years to come. You are probably thinking of yours right now. Friend, you get me. You get this kind of pain, which doesn’t minimize the pain of a birthmom but gives you the power to empathize and connect. What a gift!!!

There has been some buzz around the internet lately about the ability to connect to birthmoms and the challenge of walking with expectant moms on adoption plans. If you are wondering how to love these women well, get in touch with that part of you, that moment, that loss, and use it for good to create a connection to that part of her. She needs it and it gives purpose and beauty to both of your stories.

Dig deep, friends. Love big.

The post You Get Me; You Just Don’t Know It appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

BraveLove

Michelle — Thu, 30 Jun 2016 16:58:14 +0000

Hey friends! I have had the privilege of writing for BraveLove.org, and I wanted to share it with you.

It’s super big to me because I am the first contributor in their new section Being a Birth Mom. I have a few links to share so far:

Meet Michelle
(An introduction to me as a contributor)

What I Wish I Knew Then, That I Know Now
(origianl content for BraveLove.org)

birthParenting
(Taken directly from my site)

You can like BraveLove on Facebook too here.

I hope you enjoy these and many more to come!

The post BraveLove appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Moving to China In the Perfect Space

Michelle — Tue, 31 May 2016 04:05:57 +0000

So, I have some big news. Really big news. Matthew and I are moving our family to China.

You may, like so many others in our lives, read that and have a mix of emotions. We do too. Mostly, we are excited, but there has been a lot of heaviness too. We feel sure this is what our next step is, and nothing but God could change our minds at this point, but…but, but, but…there has been a lot of sadness.

Most of that sadness has been about the death of other things in our lives. We have been here before. When we moved to Arkansas for me to pursue a life-changing opportunity with Bethany Christian Services, we experienced similar things. This time feels different though. This time we have less support and more questions from others.

I think all callings are lonely. Even the popular and accepted callings like marriage end up lonely. Yes, you have a partner and yes you love him/her, but hey! You have to work this thing out on your own with Christ because your partner can’t do it for you. All callings bring death. Even Christ’s calling brought death.

I talked about this in one of my most popular posts about marriage. We get married at an alter. An alter is the place of sacrifice, of death. Why didn’t I clue into that before I said yes??? Poor Matthew.

Anyway, this calling to go and live in China is not popular. “Are you going to be safe?” “Are you going to be smart?” “They are going to try to take your kids (because of their fair skin and hair).”

I want better questions. I want to be asked if we are obeying the Lord. I want you to inquire about how I’m handling the transition. I don’t want you to figure out things for me and I don’t want you to worry about my safety. I want you to sit with me in my sadness and rejoice with me in my excitement.

All of this and more has equated to a bit of death for me. I have had to lay to rest what others think of me or of my plans. I can think of another time that was true for me. Adoption. Writing. But this post is about death and it’s been on my mind lately since my mother is doing so poorly these days.

So, I was listening to my favorite band The Avett Brothers and this song came on:

“The Perfect Space” by The Avett Brothers, I and Love and You

I wanna have friends that I can trust,
that love me for the man I’ve become not the man I was.
I wanna have friends that will let me be
all alone when being alone is all that I need.

I wanna fit in to the perfect space,
feel natural and safe in a volatile place.
And I wanna grow old without the pain,
give my body back to the earth and not complain.
Will you understand when I am too old of a man?
And will you forget when we have paid our debt
who did we borrow from? Who did we borrow from?

Okay part two now clear the house.
The party’s over take the shouting and the people,
get out!

I have some business and a promise that I have to hold to.
I do not care what you assume or what the people told you.
Will you understand, when I am too old of a man?
Will you forget when we have paid our debts,
who did we borrow from? Who did borrow from?

I wanna have pride like my mother has,
And not like the kind in the Bible that turns you bad.
And I wanna have friends that I can trust,
that love me for the man I’ve become and not the man that I was.

What does it mean to fit in to the perfect space this side of heaven? How can I be present there? How do I get to a place where I feel natural and safe in a volatile place?

There is mourning in what was, what you hoped would be, what is. There is mourning in the Cross and there is mourning in moving to China, even if you know that is where God is taking you.

We are selling all of our stuff. We are saying goodbyes, hard goodbyes. We are grieving. And I have to admit to myself that this is exactly right. Do I want to be suffering these losses? No, but do I want to follow Jesus to the ends of the earth? Yes.

I don’t feel guilty either about not wanting to go through all the hard stuff. Jesus asked for a different cup but was resolute in His walk to the Cross. He trusted God and in the end, life sprang forth from His death. Life that still ripples through my soul and yours.

Am I saying we are going to our death? YES! Yes, I am. I truly believe we all are, and we all should be. I am convinced now more than ever that these deaths, emotional and social and physical, are holy and purposeful. I believe that we should encounter pain and suffering with awareness that this is what brings us closer to the nature and person of Christ. I want to walk the line of pain and praise that doesn’t see them as opposites but as equal partners in my redemption. I want to get comfortable in a space where they both are welcome and can co-exist.

If you are in a space like me that feels chaotic and yet you believe it is good, I want you to know you are not alone.

“The Lord is with you. He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you. He will quiet you with His love and rejoice over you with singing.” -Zephaniah 3:17

You can rejoice in the mix of joys and losses. Don’t think of it as being tossed back-and-forth but as dancing around with your beloved. The music may change, but your Partner remains the same.

The Lord is with you, friend, in the perfect space, and so am I.

The post Moving to China In the Perfect Space appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Open Contact in Adoption: Why?

Michelle — Fri, 13 May 2016 02:43:05 +0000

The adoption world is not what it used to be. We went through this terrible “Baby Scoop Era” where women were sent away to have their babies and if they got to choose who would parent their child, it was from a list of names on a piece of paper. That time created a lot of pain and questions and Lifetime movies.

Then, we learned a few things. Women should get to choose more than a name. They should get to make a good parenting decision since they chose life. However, society wanted her to walk away and just forget about it. I call this the “Emotional Scoop Era.” Have your baby but don’t have any feelings about it.

Today is a new day, a better day hopefully, in adoption. More often we are seeing openness in adoption. As an adoption professional, over 90% of the adoptions I help facilitate have openness. I wish it were 100%, but I don’t get to make those decisions. Anyway, I am excited by this change. I think it’s important to have contact.

You may wonder why. You may think I think that just because I am a birthparent. I don’t. It’s bigger than that. If we begin the adoption process as ‘best interest of the child’ on both sides, because believe me that is what these expectant parents considering adoption are thinking, then we should remain that way. I understand that birthparents want contact, for the most part, but I don’t think we should have contact in adoption because of the birthparents.

The reason to keep open contact in adoption is for the child.

Looking at it this way helps us to move within the relationship with flexibility and grace. It’s not one parent against the other. That can get ugly. You know those stories about ‘mama bear’…well in adoption that is times two and when those two mama bears don’t agree, well, you are going to need a professional counselor to mediate that passionate situation.

Anyway, the child. Walk with me on this.

If both sets of parents begin with the openness agreement of ‘in the child’s best interest’ and the research shows that contact and openness is in the child’s best interest, and then remain in that mindset, you are going to win because the child will get a voice. And friends, we need to hear the voices of our children!

If the child doesn’t want to see his birthparent, for whatever reason, then the birthparent (with the mindset of ‘child’s best interest’) can accept that more graciously. Then, the adoptive parents don’t have to worry about what they will say to the birthparent. The truth is sufficient. Yes, it will suck for the birthparent. Yes, it’s okay for the adoptive parent to grieve this, but parents, your child gets to have a voice. Adoption is not just a trend or a story told on Facebook but a fight for life that continues well into that child’s adulthood.

Likewise, if the child wants to see/know more about his birthparent, for whatever reason, then the adoptive parent (with the mindset of ‘child’s best interest’) can accept that with grace. It is not a rejection or a preference, but rather a curiosity about his identity. When given the freedom, when allowed to experience the love of both sets of parents, the child wins. Yes, this may be hard for that mama who has endured that pride swallowing siege that parenting is, but there is something to be said for the safety of love that allows us the freedom to explore who we really are. That is what God’s love does for us, and friends, we want to model His love for our children.

Now, I realize that some of you are reading this chomping at the bit for me to wrap it up so you can give your rebuttal, but listen, I’m not just making blanket statements. I am a birthparent whose child is not really interested in talking to me right now. He is sixteen and cool. I’m the weird part of his life. Don’t think for one second that I won’t jump at the chance to communicate with him! I will, but for now, I find solace in the truth that he has spoken and I have heard his voice in this, in his life right now. I want that for him. I want him to get to make those decisions in safety. And, if I venture a guess, most birthparents do too.

I also realize that there are some situations that make this kind of thing more difficult. I’m not trying to push anyone into something unsafe or anything like that, but you can do something. If you make every effort to connect and one of the parties refuses your advances, you can still write updates and cards and letters. Your child will grow up and make his own decisions about this. Believe me, you want to make every effort for your child to feel the most love and keep the child’s best interest at the center of this relationship. Your child will thank you for that.

Love big, friends. Love big.

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Refueling

Niki Hardy — Wed, 11 May 2016 00:00:08 +0000

Do you feel like you’re running out of gas? That despite your best efforts you’re about to come to a grinding halt slap bang in the middle of the highway of life? Perhaps you feel like you don’t have time to refuel or that life’s thrown you such a curve ball, you just need to keep on chugging on – there’s no time to stop, who would pick up the pieces and you don’t deserve it anyway.

If you’re like me, you dream of days where you’re mind’s clear of all the baggage you’ve been carrying around for years – the what-ifs, the must-dos, the should-haves and the could-have-beens. A dream where you’re energized and full of the joyful calm that’s been eluding you for years.

It can be so frustrating can’t it? Never quite being able to refuel enough to get to that dream place. Our lives are busy. We have bathrooms that need cleaning, children that need feeding, bosses that need appeasing, bills to pay and hearts that won’t mend. I know the feeling. I struggle too.

When I was a teenager my parents divorced and left home before I went off to college. Ten years ago my mum died after an ugly battle with cancer and then, six years later, my sister Jo died of the same malicious disease. Six weeks after that, I was diagnosed with cancer. My cancer was rectal cancer and there’s nothing sexy about rectal cancer. It certainly doesn’t come with a pretty pink bow. This isn’t a sob story, it’s just that life’s taken some turns I hadn’t signed up for and I know what it is to feel so emotionally and physically tired that you’re numb to the world around you.

Thankfully I’m still here and cancer free, but I’m left with a suitcase full of baggage that will take years to unpack. I’m not terribly good at self-care. But I’m getting better, because I think I stumbled on something that’s helping me slow down enough to refuel, despite my crazy life and back pack of emotional junk. It all started at the gas station.

First up, let me tell you that I’ve been driving for over thirty years now. I learned in my mums rusty Fiat Uno, that bore more of a resemblance to a sardine tin than a car with any illusions of safety. It was the 80’s, the decade of big hair and ra-ra skirts, and I quickly mastered the narrow streets of London.

I’ve driven extensively all over Britain, America, Canada and Europe. I’ve even driven in through the mountains and savannah of Africa. So you’d think that by now I’d have figured out the refueling piece of this human-automobile relationship.

Not so much.

I’m still a hot mess when it comes to all things petrol and car related.

I’ve filled up a diesel car with petrol, I’ve driven away with the pump still wedged snuggly in the gas tank, ripping the pump hose off the pump, and, despite having the same car for over seven years, I’m constantly driving up to the pump with the tank on the wrong side of the car, requiring a nifty, and highly embarrassing, three point turn smack bang in the middle of the gas station.

So it was with some degree of pride that I managed to pump gas with out drama or embarrassment the other day. The only glitch was that the little notches in the pump handle were missing. You know the ones that let you lock the lever in place and return to the drivers seat to scroll through cat videos on your phone. It meant I was trapped there, squeezing the handle, until the tank was full. I was shocked how lost I felt for those three and a half minutes. How it felt like an eternity and how I struggled to just be. To just stand there and daydream, un-tethered from cyberspace.

As I stood there, the car guzzling thirstily on the gasoline, I felt God nudging me about my own personal refueling. Do I struggle to just sit and be with God, letting Him refuel me, without the use of technology, without rushing back into the world?

Yes! Absolutely!

I realized that I’m constantly looking for those little notches that will let me be filled up hands free, while I keep my hands on the rest of my life. But let’s face it, that’s not real self-care is it? A nod and a wink to it may be, but we don’t stand a chance of being refreshed physically or emotionally, let alone spiritually like that do we?

So I’ve decided to break off all the notches that trick me into thinking I’m recharging when really my mind and body are else where, like the laundry pile or wondering what my sister would have done for her 50th birthday. So I made this little routine for myself, and I’d love to share it with you. After all, we deserve a little time for ourselves and a little time with the man upstairs who loves us just the way we are.

1. Put a little time aside each day. Even 5 minutes is a good start.
2. Find a quiet spot where you wont be disturbed. I know this can be hard, but get creative – 5 minutes in your car before you head into work is great.
3. Turn off anything electronic that beeps or buzzes, put away shopping lists, action lists and anything else you’re working on.
4. Close your eyes and take a deep breath in … and out…
5. Ask God to come and calm you and refresh you.
6. Reciting a scripture is a good idea. I have a mish-mash verse that I like to recite.
7. Meditating on His promises is another thing that helps me.
8. Breath in for four counts, hold for four counts, breath out for four counts, hold for four counts. Repeat.
9. Tell God some of the things you’re grateful for and some of the things you’re worried about.
10. Ask God to go with you into your day and fill you with His strength, His peace and His joy.

That’s it. It’s not rocket science and I’m sure I’m not the first person to think of it. The hardest bit for me is number one, just sitting still somewhere, but I promise you it’s worth it.

So dear friends, can I invite you to join me in intentionally stepping into a time of refueling each day? If, like me, you’ve got used to the notches in your life that mean you can keep going and going and going, and this is something new to you, can I encourage you to give it a go? You are dearly loved and seen by God. You are His precious child who He hates to see drive herself into the ground, tired and thirsty, when He has all you need to refuel and go on in His strength.

Niki Hardy is a Brit in the USA, a cancer survivor and pastor’s wife, a fresh air junkie, tea drinker and dog lover. Following the death of her mum and her sister to cancer, Niki was diagnosed with rectal cancer. It didn’t come with a pretty pink bow, but she found humor and grace in the midst of it all. Niki has ridden the rollercoaster of life and knows what it is to grieve deeply, laugh uncontrollably and sprint to the bathroom in heels. Her candid, humorous storytelling helps us connect with God, find humor and grace in the darkest place, and learn to laugh, when all we want to do is scream. You can find her over on her blog, MyStoryMyGod, where she’s decorated some of God’s promises for you to download and print, as a little gift to help you remember you are loved and seen, and that He will never leave you.

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BirthMom Buds Newsletter

Michelle — Mon, 09 May 2016 03:15:01 +0000

Hey friends! I am excited to be featured in the BirthMom Buds newsletter this quarter. Check it out here!

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The MLB and Me

Michelle — Mon, 11 Apr 2016 00:24:01 +0000

Wow! Things have been a bit heavy here lately. I need a breather! You? I thought you might. So, for something a little fun and in honor of baseball opening last week, please, enjoy the best poem I’ve ever written.

The MLB and Me

I can’t remember how I learned the rules of baseball
Or why I know Mickey Mantle’s middle name,
But I know that the diamonds I love
Are grass and dirt, and outlined in chalk.
Welcome to the yard.

I don’t remember the first time I saw the game
Or why I decided to keep my eye on the ball,
But I do know that with the MLB and me
There was no fielder’s choice.
Forced out at first.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love baseball
Or why it makes me feel alive when I smell freshly cut grass,
But I know that in a room full of twenty men
I can kick the ass of 19 of them in baseball trivia.
Swing and a miss.

I don’t remember the first time I had a giant hotdog at a game
Or why I can accurately define ERA, RBI, BB and K,
But the feeling I had sitting on the third base line at Fenway Park
Rivals that of my first kiss.
A walk off home run.

I can’t remember if I chose baseball
Or if baseball chose me,
But I know when the Cubbies finally win the World Series
My life will be complete.
Back, back…this one’s going deep!

I don’t know how I know not to make the third out at third
Or the first time I heard Jack or Joe Buck call a game,
But I do know game six of the 2011 World Series
Will keep me stepping up to the plate for years to come.
“We will see you tomorrow night.”

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Adoption is Not a Favor

Michelle — Fri, 08 Apr 2016 12:01:25 +0000

Hey friends! I hope you are having a fine morning. I’m up early thinkin’. You ever do that? Something wakes you up and gets all over you.

I’ve been having conversations the past month about perspective in adoption, and I think we need to have a perspective shift. Not all of us. But some of us.

There needs to cease to be the idea that adoptive parents do birthparents a favor and birthparents do adoptive parents a favor. Favor is indicative of debt. They are parenting my child and now I owe them. She placed her child with us and now we owe her. We did her a favor and now she owes us. I did them a favor and now they owe me. YUCK! Adoption is not a favor.

If you are still reading, thank you. I hope you hear me in this. When I sit down with women making an adoption plan, most of the time there is a sense of “they are helping me out tremendously.” I think that’s a problem. It elevates the prospective adoptive parents to a pedestal, where they just don’t belong.

Why? Because they are just people and they are going to fall off of that pedestal. I know plenty of adoptive parents who want off of their pedestal, knowing that they are not perfect. I have also known adoptive parents who say “she is giving us the best gift.” This is also a problem. It elevates birthparents to a place of pseudo-holiness and doesn’t give her the opportunity to regret “doing the best thing.”

Navigating open adoption is hard enough without having one party starting seemingly on unequal footing. If you really take the time to look at it, both the prospective adoptive and expectant parents are on equal ground pre-placement. Likewise, both adoptive and birth parents are on equal ground post-placement, or they should be. We need them to see that they should be.

You may say, “But they aren’t. Pre-placement the expectant parent has all the power of what will happen and post-placement the adoptive parents have all the power of what will happen.” I wonder though how this little adoptee will feel growing up knowing he is the power? That he is the bargaining chip? I believe that most adoptees just want to be loved, like everyone else. How do we achieve that for them in domestic infant adoption? How do we work to make adoption relationships ones that are for the benefit of the child in a tangible way?

I believe we start with seeing adoption differently. I had the privilege of spending some time with two women who are on the corporate staff at Bethany Christian Services recently, and one of them said to me, “We shouldn’t call it open adoption; we should call it adoption relationship.” Yes, yes we should. She is absolutely right.

We need to change the language there. It’s not just semantics; it’s attitude and perspective. If adoption openness agreements are as unique as the individuals making the agreement, then lets stop talking about ‘openness’ and start talking about relationship. If your love relationships begin with a checklist or an agreement to how often you will contact each other, there is a problem. We should see adoption that way too.

I know, I get it. You have to start somewhere, but a list of how often you want to get/give updates is the wrong place to start. When I sit with women and talk with them about “openness” they usually have no idea what they want it to look like, and who can blame them. My question, then, is “What do you want this relationship to look like?”

If I were reforming adoption I would set a standard of relationship where everyone going into it on any side knew that you are two sets of parents coming together to form a love relationship in the best interest of one (or more) child(ren). That would mandate open and honest communication. That would force you to know the messy on both sides. That would help keep everyone on the ground, eye-to-eye and not forced onto a pedestal.

We all talk about how we all love the children. Let’s love the children well by giving them the gift of relationships with everyone who loves them. If you don’t want to be in a relationship that is hard and worth it for a child, then maybe you are not called to adoption, and I’m not just talking about the adoptive parents. Expectant parents on adoption plans should strongly consider that they are not the lesser part of this triad but an equal contributor. You have to be willing to get into relationship, to be vulnerable, to forgive, to suffer, to rejoice, to pray alongside another set of parents who call your child ‘mine’ just like you do for the rest of that child’s life. Think about it. Think hard. They are not doing you a favor. You are not doing them a favor. You all are coming together in a love relationship for your child, not a one time gift or a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, but a commitment to love, honor and cherish this child as long as you all may live. You are entering a covenant. That kind of relationship you don’t get to walk away from. Either of you.

Can we change our perspective? Can we make a closer shift toward ‘best interest of the child’? Can we see each other as God sees us, on equal footing, and choose to love?

Be well, friends.

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Bittersweet Sixteen

Michelle — Thu, 10 Mar 2016 07:32:36 +0000

I don’t know what to say. My son is 16 years old today. SIXTEEN!

Today is hard. Today I put my money where my mouth is. Today I only focus on being present.

There is something in me that feels like I should just be smiling and telling the world. There is a part of me that holds this too close for anyone to touch. I also feel ashamed that I can’t go to work today, but I am proud that I am taking care of me. I’m afraid of what people will think if they know I struggle on this day and I’m afraid of what others would think if they thought I didn’t.

It’s like I don’t know how to be, you know? There aren’t rules or greeting cards for this sort of thing.

If I thought he was struggling today, that his birthday was hard for him, like it is for some adoptees, I think I would die. Likewise, I hope he is thinking of me too.

I guess nothing can prepare you for this. No one could have told me how hard it would be to explain myself to my other children. My son that I parent Deacon and I had a heart-to-heart the other night after watching Kung Fu Panda 2. When the mommy panda put her baby panda in the basket he started bawling his eyes out and had to leave the room. He went to my bed and just wanted me to hold him.

“I didn’t like that. I don’t want you to do that to me. That was mean of his mommy.”

OH GOD! OH DEAR GOD!!! Please, don’t make me do this. Please, don’t make me tell him that I was the mommy panda to his big brother.

Opportunities for learning born out of sin are not easy. Opportunities to teach your child about the consequences of your sin and the innocents that were/are affected are excruciating.

Because to his five year old mind, it wasn’t loving. I wonder if it is to my sixteen year old’s mind… And I know, I know that he is five, but so was Dylan at one point. There has to be a special place in heaven for adoptive mamas, who hold their child’s pain and questions and confusion until they are old enough to understand. God bless the woman who held and comforted my son, her son, our son while he wondered.

Today is hard.

Sweet sixteen is bittersweet.

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Mine, Yours & Ours Teaser #2

Michelle — Sat, 27 Feb 2016 12:28:37 +0000

Friends,
I have been talking about this thing for a long time. I really want to get it to you, and it is coming. The problem is every time I think I’m done, I run into something more that I want to say about the topic of sharing children through open adoption. You must know why, right? Because it is an endless topic…

Here is a teaser:

Adoption is trendy right now, especially in American churches. We preach it from the pulpit or the stage or the front of the coffee shop. God adopted us. We want to be like Him. He cared for widows and orphans. We are to care for widows and orphans. If not us, then who? I used to think this was a good question, but it’s not.

A better question is, “God, what is Your best for me?”

If we step back and really look at the Word, we are under no obligation to care for widows and orphans through adoption. We want to be like Christ, yes, but are we called to feed 5,000 with a loaf of bread and a few fish? In my professional opinion, that seems to be a rather stunning similarity to adopting when you are not called to. To think that you will be totally ready to meet every need your child has after reading a few books is silly. You will need an all-knowing, creative God to get through the first few years, let alone a lifetime, as a parent. Therefore, the calling has to be His, of Him, from Him, or you will be working from your own resources; friends, you can’t stretch your bread that far.

It’s coming, friends. It is coming, and while I have written it for prospective adoptive and adoptive couples, I believe birthmoms will enjoy it as well. After all, birthmoms are my people, and I work hard to represent them well in this book that reveals the birthmother’s heart and experience to the couples God has called to adopt their children.

Knowledge is powerful, and when she share our experiences with the other parts of the adoption triad and when we hear their stories, we are all better for it.

So excited to share this short, heart-felt book with all of you!

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Sin and Error, Pining

Michelle — Thu, 10 Dec 2015 04:40:56 +0000

Okay, I should be crocheting right now because I have a major project I’m working on, but I’m not. I’m sitting here thinking about O Holy Night. It gets me every time. It’s that line:

Long lay the world
in sin and error, pining
’til He appeared
and the soul felt its worth.

That just sums up my entire life.

His presence changes things, changes me. His presence does not allow me to be still anymore. Instead, I feel and I see differently. I am different.

I have noticed it most in the massive amount of depravity around me. Ten years ago I would have just ignored it. Five years ago it would have made me sad enough to do a shoe box for Operation Christmas Child out of sympathy for those poor souls. But now, now I weep. I don’t know if this is growth or depression, but it’s real and heavy. Maybe it’s both. I just can’t help but think, I’m broken too.

I like that the song says sin and error. It makes a distinction on purpose. It’s as if I wasn’t just choosing something other than God’s best for me before He came into my life but that I was wrong about Him too. Do you know what I mean?

I think that is the beauty of Christmas. They were wrong about how the King of kings would enter the world. They were wrong about what He would say and do, about who He would be and how He would respond to them.

I’ve been wrong about Jesus plenty of times, and I venture to guess there are still things that I don’t know about Him.

***Isn’t it the most wonderful, exciting thing to think about?!? I get to continue in this discovery of the Person to whom my heart belongs.
#swoon #bliss***

I wonder if you know anyone who is wrong about Jesus. I think, and I think this verse says, that it is His presence that changes them, that wakes their soul up to their worth. I long for that. I bet you do too, but what can we do about it? How then shall we live?

This Christmas, I beseech you, be Christ to others. Make His presence known. Feed the hungry. Clothe the poor. Give generously and then, give more. Show up for your children. Look people in the eye. Let your family be where they are spiritually, emotionally, socially. Be loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, gentle, kind, good, faithful, and have self control. That stuff, that is Jesus. The Spirit is present in those things. That is ministry. That is how lives change. That is Love.

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November, and the Beginning

Michelle — Sun, 01 Nov 2015 13:16:58 +0000

November is National Adoption Awareness Month, and this year, I want to encourage you to begin with the beginning. Birthmoms.

Who are these women, the first moms? What types of women are they? What are their motivations? How do they survive after placement?

I’ve been doing my own research, and I have a crying headache from reading story after story of women who have placed their children for adoption. They are grieving. They are longing. They are desperate to connect.

We don’t put those women on posters. We don’t parade them around in November each year. National Adoption Awareness Month, traditionally, is not for birthmothers. It is for children who need to be placed in a home because they have no other options. But if November and National Adoption Awareness Month is not for birthmothers, then when is the time to educate people?

The time is now. The time is always now.

Because I work professionally in adoption, I am always ready to educate people about adoption. If you hear a woman tell her story about placing her child for adoption and she says she made the greatest choice and didn’t have any trouble what-so-ever and she is happy about it all the time…SHE IS LYING, or worse, not free enough to express what she feels at her core.

I have never met a birthmother who has a squeaky clean story with no regret or questions or sadness. Not even one.

Perhaps you think that is only in domestic infant adoption. You are wrong. I have known women who have lost children to the State because of their choices, and those women grieve. I bet you a million dollars that the women outside this country who place their children grieve for them as well.

With National Adoption Awareness Month now here, I just want to encourage you all to reach out to a birthmom. Full disclosure: Most of us don’t like this month. It’s like the American Indians on Thanksgiving. We aren’t very thankful or celebratory. Perhaps that is because some of you are uneducated about birthmoms? You may have innocently picked up a stigma or idea about women who choose to place their child for adoption, or maybe you have had one or two experiences with birthparents. Please, whether your encounter with birthparents has been good or bad, don’t make judgements on one experience. You are probably, on some level, wrong, which is okay. You don’t have to stay there.

Reach out to a birthmom and ask her to tell you her story. A birthmom loves and misses her child. She is most likely grieving and longing and desperate to connect, and she is solid. That’s my word for birthmoms. Solid. They are solid. Nothing can shake their love for their child. I wrote to a birthmom the other day that the magnitude of her grief mirrors the magnitude of her love. Believe it, friends.

Honor these women by asking them about their experience. If they don’t want to tell you, they won’t, but my guess is that they want to share. Love birthmoms well this month by acknowledging that the joy of the adoptive family began with with pain of a birthmother’s loss.

This year, let’s become more aware during National Adoption Awareness Month. Let’s begin at the beginning and recognize the women who have made this possible, who chose life. Birthmoms.

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Waiting for Baby

Michelle — Wed, 28 Oct 2015 14:59:43 +0000

Ever feel like God is not paying attention? I do. I can see all my stuff and I’m like, “Hey! Look all this stuff. It sucks. Help me out!”

I’ve written before about not defining God by your circumstances and today I just want to give you a brief example.

When women come into my office and choose an adoptive family for their child, that adoptive family has no idea. None. They may know there is an opportunity for their book to be shown but they are not in my office when their lives change. It happens in what seems like a mere moment, but they may not find out for a few hours or a few days/weeks. Their entire lives just got a holy disruption and they have no idea.

Waiting is hard.

I want to encourage all of you prospective adoptive mamas out there. If you are in process, in waiting, in court proceedings, God is with you, God is for you. You can be sure that He is working on your behalf, on your child’s behalf, on their first mom’s behalf. I have heard women say, “I was just weeping about being childless yesterday” or “I never thought this would happen.”

What are those feelings about? I think, if I may be so bold, they are about the person of God. Is God who He says He is? Can I trust Him?

Listen, no judgement here. We all have our thing, right? Will I ever get married? Will I ever make it through school? Should I be going to this country as a missionary? Will a man who loves God ever love me after I did that? The real question hidden deep in those questions is this: Can I trust God to be who He says He is?

Waiting is hard. If you are called by God to adopt, take heart! The Lord, who called you, will do it. The waiting, the process of waiting, is a sweet and terrible time where you get to actively be still and know that He is God.

In those moments, in those times of longing and wondering and crying out, I pray that you are open to the reason God has called you to adoption, to make you more like Him, to be in deeper relationship with Him, to know Him more. That is your joy and your prize in the process of adoption, a baby to love and care for is just bonus.

Be encouraged, sweet waiting hopeful mamas, you have the best part of adoption right now in the process. You have the Lord, and His love endures forever.

Much love, friends! Much love!

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Redefining Success

Michelle — Sat, 24 Oct 2015 01:13:34 +0000

Matthew and I went to Italy on our honeymoon. It was amazing in so many ways. My very favorite works of art were the Unfinished Slaves by Michelangelo in the Accademia Gallery in Florence. If you don’t know about these amazing works, you can read about them here. These statues are stunning in person, and they are powerful and beautiful and famous because they are unfinished. Michelangelo was a genius, artist who thought that leaving these four sculptures in process was important…

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about redefining success. I was talking to a woman who works in pediatric hospice the other day and she was saying, “I don’t know how you go to work. I guess you’re like me and have to redefine success. That’s the only way I can keep going back to work.” Um…yes and amen. Though I hadn’t verbalized it before, that is what I have to do in my work.

Placing is never a success in my mind. Never.

I also have friends and family members and clients and colleagues who are hurting and experiencing something different than the ideal, than the goal. It has been hard lately to see light at the end of the tunnel with/for them. It breaks my heart.

I have been heavy lately with the depravity around me. I have wept over children who are being diagnosed and cut open and placed. I have been angry over women who are (whether they are allowing it or not) abused and mistreated. I have struggled over the strain in relationships between adoptive parents and birthparents (Please, friends, we need each other and this child needs both of us.).

Social work gives me an in-depth look into depravity. Depravity sucks. It just does.

How in the midst of all of this can I find any measure of success? How can I get up and go to work tomorrow if I have to look at that again?

I find that the only way to define success is to not define it. When I name success, I create this false idol and align my identity with that. For example, if I name success as having a college degree and then, I don’t, I have named myself a failure. On the other hand, if I do obtain a college degree, I am successful and anyone who doesn’t have a college degree is failing. I’m soooo proud of myself.

You see where I’m going. I hope you are all above this sort of behavior, but I doubt it. With all the depression and suicide and pain in this world, I think we want to define success and make it be “good” because God is good.

Yes, He is, but God is good and He let His son die on a cross for my wretched self. Just saying.

I’m not saying don’t have goals. I’m saying be careful with the end result. What if the good part was the journey? What if success is simply being a part of the process? This is where art, Michelangelo, and my hubby come in.

Art is about process. Period. If you happen to have a marketable product at the end of your process, well, good for you. Art, however, is all about the process for the artist. The piece is done when it’s done. The success of art is the process of making the piece.

We are God’s workmanship. We are His masterpieces. I, admittedly, do not always feel that way, but in light of that, I would argue that success in your life is in the midst of the molding and shaping and scraping away and adding to. If you are in Christ, you are a success to God because you are His right now, even here, as you are in process this side of Heaven.

Think about that! Now depravity is part of it. Now we can rejoice in trials. Now we can cling to the hope found in Jesus while we are bleeding out. Now we can put away the ideal and embrace the reality of right now. Now we don’t have to appear perfect because perfection is found in the process of being perfected.

You are holy and dearly loved. You are stunning and powerful and beautiful because you are unfinished, and guess what? Everyone else on this planet is too. I want to encourage you to redefine success. You are as you should be. You can’t sculpt yourself. Wherever you are, be all there. Redefine success for yourself in light of Who is molding you, in light of Whose masterpiece you are.

Much love, friends! Much love.

The post Redefining Success appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Still saying “still”

Michelle — Sat, 10 Oct 2015 11:03:55 +0000

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I respond to people when they find out that I’m a birthmother. It’s interesting to think about my natural response because it tells me a lot about myself.

First, I’m immediately defensive. I got over being ashamed of my pregnancy (not my child, big difference!) a long time ago, and I know how to talk about my story. BUT there is something that happens inside me that makes my chest bow out and my mental boxing gloves come on. On the inside I’m feeling something like, “Yeah! That’s right. Now, say something stupid because I’m ready for a fight.”

Why do I feel this way? Why am I okay with my story but always ready to go guns blazing at someone who says something that offends me? People, let me just tell you, none of you are an expert on my story and so you are very likely to say something offensive and have no idea you did it. Nor should I assume you meant to offend me. Maybe you are learning something about you. (Could it be that it’s not all about me???)

Perhaps I need to be more comfortable with your discomfort…

Second, I say stupid things. “I still love him.” Why do I feel the need to say still as if any mother on the planet ever really stops loving their child? Granted some moms suck royally at loving, but not birthmothers. Yeah, I said that. (And here we see the fight in me again…) But seriously, why? Why do I feel the need to justify my love, the way I love, how much I love, etc. to you (universal you, of course)? Why do I feel the need to defend my decision or position or educate you about all things Michelle’s adoption? If you assume that I don’t love my child at this moment because I placed him for adoption over fifteen years ago, the shame is on you.

Perhaps I need to let the information that I’m a birthmom hang out there in the conversation without trying to wipe it clean. It’s not clean; it’s a huge mess. Even the most open and loving adoption relationships are messy because they involve people.

Let me tell you, if you meet a birthmom, you are safe to assume that she loves her child. She does, and you are safe to love them too with her. You don’t have to clean up her story for her. Jesus did that. God does that.

Finally, when I let people in on my not-so-secret secret, I feel responsible for every birthmom I know and adoption in general. It’s suddenly my job to convince you of everything I know to be true and destigmatize birthmothers and adoption. I want to sit you down and educate you about one of the most complex topics in the world. I want you to understand the transitions and exchanges and sacrifices, not just the law or what physically happens, but the painful and joyful collaboration of what adoption truly is.

The problem is, I’m a terrible teacher, and you didn’t necessarily sign up for an education when you stumbled on my story. Perhaps I need to let you be free to not know.

I suppose I write this for my birthmom friends who are like me. This one is to let you know, yet again, that you are not alone. Talking about my story is hard, and I’m a professional! It’s okay to have two left feet when your telling your story, and let me encourage you to take an internal inventory next time you do it and continue to learn and grow from it.

My husband used to have a bumper sticker that said, “Comfort the disturbed. Disturb the comfortable.” At the time we thought this was for the Church (and I still think it is). Then, I realized that is was Jesus’ mission (thus still for the Church). Now, I know it’s a way I can follow Jesus through my story.

Adoption, for me, is about so much more than that one day I placed a child. It has been a catalyst for almost everything else in my life. I suspect it’s the same for you.

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Revealing You Preface

Michelle — Wed, 16 Sep 2015 00:17:57 +0000

Remember that one time I wrote that second book and it was awesome? Revealing You is being used. Man, I’m so excited about it! Women are interacting with my little love offering to all birthmoms and I am pumped up!

I wanted to share the preface with you, friends, to give you a taste of the journal. It has writing prompts and then pages and pages to write. If I have learned anything in my time as a birthmom it’s this: We all have a story to tell. So, I provided a way to tell it. Enjoy!

Revealing You Preface

This journal is for birthmoms from a birthmom. I am a birthmom, and you are my people. Let me tell you, my love for you is big. So, so big!

I am also a Pregnancy Counselor. I have seen a need for a journal for women post-placement—a workbook, if you will—to tell these amazing stories and get some of the feelings out. But the trouble is you don’t know what you don’t know. It’s hard to begin to get things out when there is so much to get out. It’s hard to commit to a feeling when there are so many. Which one is the right one?

The grief alone is paralyzing. It is completely overwhelming, right? I know it. I know it well, friend.

In John Green’s heart-breaking book, The Fault in Our Stars, Hazel has a conversation with Peter Van Houten after the death of her beloved Gus. Van Houten makes this remarkable comment. He says, “Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you.” Your journey through adoption post-placement will reveal you. It will give you choices. It will be honest, even if you’re not.

When I placed my son in March of 2000, I did nothing but unabashedly bawl my eyes out and write for weeks. I had to get it out, but I had no direction. It was tender and painful, and almost impossible to touch, like an abscess deep in my heart. I was crazy with depression and I couldn’t talk about it.

I was supposed to be “better” since I “did the right thing” for my son. No pressure there to fit in a box and make others more comfortable with my story than I was myself. Nope. No manipulation either. Not a bit!

Needless to say, I needed help. I didn’t know any other birthmothers who lived near me. Nobody got it. I wasn’t even sure I got it yet. Journaling saved me. It gave my grief an outlet, let me be completely honest without fear, and allowed me to ask questions that were scary. I hope you find the same freedom here.

I created this journal using a gray scale. I did this on purpose. First, this stuff isn’t pretty. There are parts that are dark and nasty and there are parts that are pure and light. So, I needed the contrast. Second, I didn’t want to color any of your pages. I wanted you to choose and respond however you see fit. Different colors of ink can mean different things to you. Crayons in the margins, stamps in the corners, watercolors across the page—this journal is blank so you can fill it. Fill it with whatever you want to. Paste pictures inside of it, draw, and/or write poetry. There were days in my journal when I could only manage one word—help. You have the freedom to do as much or as little as you can/want. Do whatever helps you.

This journal is for you alone. You don’t have to go in order. You don’t have to do every chapter. You don’t have to like what I say. You can follow along and use the prompts as a guide, or you can mark over every word I wrote and swear, though swearing will only get you so far. Either way, get it out. Name it. Name the thing. Name the pain. Name the offense. Name the anger. Cry out to God. Cry out loud. Cry out on paper. Cry out. Cry.

It is a process. God loves process; we hate it. This journal will hold your hand and lead you through the process of grieving and healing, as it relates to being a birthmother. This journal is not all inclusive. As every adoption is as unique as the individuals in them, you may not feel that some of this applies to you. You may have to alter the language. You may have to do more work with a counselor or support group. That’s okay! Take courage, friend. Your story isn’t over yet, and you are not alone!

The post Revealing You Preface appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Celebrating Birthdays

Michelle — Thu, 02 Jul 2015 14:22:52 +0000

Hey friends! I write to you with such joy in my heart. This week I have several friends with children having birthdays. It’s such a joy to celebrate life! And it got me thinking…how do you celebrate your child’s life?

My amazing, loving husband and my children have a bit of a tradition for my son’s birthday. We get a sweet treat, put a candle in it (each of us have one), and we each say a silent prayer or wish for him. Then, we sing Happy Birthday to him and blow out “his” candles. I did it on my own at first, but now that my family is getting old enough to understand more of who this child is, my son and their half-brother, I get to share this with them. It is great to let them ask questions and celebrate him too. I love that my daughter made him a birthday card this year!

It’s funny because some people might wonder about this, but I think it is good and right and necessary. Let me tell you why…

When I placed him for adoption, I wanted him to grow up knowing that he is adopted. I wanted him to know that part of his story and I didn’t want it to be traumatic. The same goes for the children I am parenting. Can you imagine if I demanded that Dylan’s parents tell him the truth and then I didn’t do the same with the children I am parenting? It would be traumatic on some level. All of my children deserve the truth.

And let’s face it. The truth can hurt, especially if self-inflicted. We don’t have to be afraid of the truth though. The Word says that the truth sets us free. Matthew and I use the truth to teach our children. These moments, the hard questions, the painful truth are opportunities for growth. It’s just another way that God is redeeming me through my story.

So, birthdays…

How do you celebrate? Do you do something similar to me? What about reading a story inside a book that can record your voice and sending it to your little one? What about a Build-a-Bear every year, where you pack love inside? What about a coffee date with yourself? What about retelling your child’s birth story in writing or to a loved one?

Whatever you do, I hope you celebrate. These are lives that God created and they are worthy to be celebrated!

Love you, friends! Be encouraged. Be truthful!

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Write? Okay. Publish? UGH!

Michelle — Fri, 12 Jun 2015 04:08:46 +0000

I am so insecure about my writing. I sit and worry about every word, every phrase. Is it going to be taken how I intended? Does that matter? Who is going to read this? If I offend you, will you stop reading my posts? Does that matter either?

On June 1 I published my second book, Revealing You. It’s a journal really, and it is needed. I wrote it because of the number of women I leave in the hosptial with nothing but my phone number, a hug, and hope that I will see them again. Most of them I don’t see again. It’s very hard to connect with such a painful subject. Very hard. My face is associated with that tender, excruciating time. I understand and it makes me sad.

I want so badly to love them. I want to be a person in their lives that speaks truth and love and the truth in love. I want to challenge them and I want to learn from them. I said the other day on Facebook that I want to travel around the world and hug as many birthmothers as I can. I do want that badly, but I can’t. I can write, and so I do.

I wanted to write this second book because I wanted to love these people well, and I wanted to keep loving them when I was not physically present. This journal allows that.

But I’m insecure about my writing…Writing for me is uncomfortable. Well, let me say this. Writing is fabulous, but publishing anything, even this post, is uncomfortable. I feel like people are rolling their eyes at me or patting me on the head. When I wrote Delivered, I had friends comment on how shocked they were, pleasantly, that they were not embarrassed for me. Now, after publishing Revealing You, I have had more than one person say to me that I am a writer now. That only affirmed my fear that one book wasn’t enough or that self-publishing, with its long nights and steep learning curve, was somehow less than.

Feeling less than…that’s a common theme in my life.

Anyway, why do I do this? Why do I sit in the discomfort of my calling? I guess I do it because I have to. Both of my books have erupted out of me like the cork from a champagne bottle. I make myself vulnerable to anyone who will listen because I can’t contain this tragically half-redeemed story. I want to tell people.

I want them to know the truth of why women choose adoption. I want birthmothers to stop being stigmatized. I want expectant parents to know the truth of what it’s like on the other side of adoption. I want women who volunteer at Crisis Pregnancy Centers to love and accept the people who come to them and not assume that adoption is the only/best option for the person in front of them at any given time. I want adoptive moms to hear that we love you and we are jealous of you. I want adoptees to know that though some of us can’t reconnect, our hearts long for it too. I want birthmothers to know they are not alone. I want…I want…I want…

I want so much, but tonight, I want you all to know that I am insecure about my writing. I don’t want you to know that so you will comment back to me about my writing. Please, don’t. Honestly, you can’t fix my insecurity no matter what you say. It’s my issue for God to resolve. I want you to know because I want to encourage you. You can do that impossible thing. You can let your light shine and the fire in you burn and you don’t have to have anyone else’s approval or permission. You can, with Jesus.

Sitting in a place of vulnerability when God has called you there is not as vulnerable as it is sacred. Any path that follows after Jesus is holy ground. Take off your sandals, friends, and get comfortable being uncomfortable.

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Revealing You: A Journal for Birthmothers

Michelle — Sun, 10 May 2015 11:27:29 +0000

Yes, friends! That’s the title of my new book!!! *squealing with delight*

BUT…

It’s not just a book. It’s a journal for women who have placed a child for adoption. This journal is a tool. It can be used in a group or one-on-one counseling or done individually. It’s purpose is to help initiate and facilitate healing after placing a child for adoption. It’s not all-inclusive but it has the energy to take you deeper. I AM SO FREAKING EXCITED ABOUT IT!!!

I have included topics like talking to your children about being a birthmother, forgiveness, worthy to be known, and the new normal. Most importantly, I have included pages and pages to write your heart out. Most of the work of healing from trauma is done on your own. This journal will hold your hand and guide you through your own journey post-placement because, friends, ‘birthmother’ is a train you never get off of.

Here is a teaser, and because it’s Mother’s Day, I will go with that:

A word about Mother’s Day: sucks. Well, that’s it…

Seriously, Mother’s Day is a huge trigger for grief to pop up. It can be going to church and not being able to stand when they ask all the mothers to stand, because what they mean is women who have parented or are parenting children. (I hope that’s not happening at your church, by the way.). It could be that you are not recognized as a mother by anyone, which is so hurtful. It could be that you are parenting other children, they give you a flower and celebrate you, and yet, it still doesn’t feel complete somehow. Maybe it’s just a nationally honored day of shame for you. Whatever it is, Mother’s Day can be, will likely be, a hard day every year.

My best advice, for whatever it’s worth, prepare for it. Make it a ‘treat-yo-self’ day! Go to eat at your favorite spot. Curl up with a good book. Watch your favorite movie. Surround yourself with people who support you and love you and give you the freedom to be where your at and feel how you feel. And give yourself the freedom to have fluctuating emotions. Don’t get stuck. Push through the moments, and know it’s one day and you’re not alone. Connect with your support group or an online forum for birthmothers if you don’t have anyone present in your life to reach out to.

Your role as a mother cannot be justified by anyone. They will not do it justice. Don’t rely on them.

Take courage, friend! You are a mother. You made an enormously selfless parenting decision. Know that you are loved and accepted by God, and treat yourself accordingly.

How can you prepare right now for Mother’s Day? What do you anticipate will be your biggest challenge? What are some ways you can celebrate yourself and the choice of life?

Stay tuned, friends! Reavealing You: A Journal for Birthmothers is coming your way very soon!

I love you all big time,
Michelle

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Flawed Mothers’ Club

Michelle — Sat, 09 May 2015 21:06:56 +0000

One of my most favorite quotes about being a mother is this:

“Yes, Mother. I can see that you are flawed. You have not hidden it from me. That is your greatest gift to me.” —Alice Walker

I am flawed, and I share that with my kids. We talk about it, and it is hard. I want to be more for them. I want to be great. I want to be great to the point that I can get a little crazy. With so much of my heart and my days wrapped up in being a mother, I wonder if I am gaining my identity from it at times.

There is this struggle to define what being a mother is. The semantics of the title mother and the role in which it should be carried out have been debated for a long time.

I don’t think we were ever meant to have a clear definition because love can look like a million things. That is why good mothers work and good mothers stay home and good mothers breast feed and good mothers bottle feed and good mothers say turn the other cheek and good mothers say don’t go down without a fight.

The idea that we can be so different and still do ‘mothering’ well is not surprising. We love because He first loved us, and He loves all of us differently and the same. His love is in tune with our need.

That is what it means to be a mom. For our love to be in tune with my child’s need, even at a price. And with that definition, anyone can be a mom, and this is where the nuances between ‘mother’ come in.

By birth, by adoption, by the foster system, as a stand in, as an older sister, as a single father, as an aunt, as a mentor, as a teacher, as a nurse…to those who feel called and are childless, to those who are hoping, to those who are waiting, to those who have lost children, to those who are standing in, to those who are with and those who are without…however you step in to the role mother at any given time, I celebrate you!

It is not an exclusive club, but a wide-open community of people who love deeply and dare greatly and sacrifice and weep and mourn and sing over our beloved. We hurt with them and we guide them and we partner with them. We do all this and a million more things for them because we know that loving them is our reward and we do it flawed.

I think being flawed as a parent is a gift. It humbles me when I deal with my flawed children. It helps me connect with them, helps me understand their heart.

I want you all to know your flaws are a gift from God. They help your child relate to you and be okay in their own skin. They give your child hope that they will be able to love like you one day–you, who strives to love like Christ. Because when you fail, He doesn’t, and that is a promise your child can count on.

This weekend, I invite you all into my “Flawed Mothers’ Club” where all welcome, loved, wanted and worthy in Him.

I see you and I stand with you.

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extraORDINARY

Michelle — Fri, 17 Apr 2015 15:56:09 +0000

I used to think that God was mysterious and out of reach. I could not figure out how my friend Vanessa could sound so intimate when she talked about Him. It was like she knew Him. I know how that sounds, but hey, I felt that way.

Last night I met with a group of women and we talked about God. We weren’t supposed to really. We got derailed from my brilliant topic when I said something about the father of the prodigal son being a role model for me and a couple of the women didn’t know who the prodigal son was. Why was I sweating about a topic for the night again? Oh yeah, because I thought I had to have the brilliant idea, when really God wrote the script forever ago in Luke 15.

I stopped everything and read it. This led to a discussion that God is not like that father really, and how do we know this even happened and there was also a good bit about those ‘crazies’ who get a vision and tell you about your future. And what of my sinning, because I do a lot of that and do not foresee stopping in the future. Also, these people who get baptized because it’s trending are gross. It was so great! One woman even said something like, “I believe in God but I don’t know about that stupid book.”

I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT! Seriously.

I told them to continue to ask questions and doubt what people tell them and to ask God directly. And what it all boiled down to was this: How can I know who God is today, in this world, in my circumstances. Where is there evidence of Him that I can trust because that book written a long time ago by a bunch of old guys isn’t one I can relate to.

So, I have been thinking a lot about how we can encounter Jesus in the everyday. Jesus is extraordinary, there is no denying that, but He is ordinary too. He fed 5,000. That is both extraordinary–5000–and ordinary–feeding people.

My friend Hunter, whether he wants to/means to or not, causes me to have an encounter with Christ.

Hunter has been feeding homeless for a while now. He doesn’t think it’s this amazing thing he does that only he can do. He thinks that is what we are supposed to do. It should be an everyday thing. The way Hunter does it though, he feeds a lot of people without homes amazing meals. Hunter is a chef, perhaps the best chef ever, if I may be so bold (and since this is my blog, I will be). He isn’t giving them the bottom of the muffin like the Seinfeld episode. No, he is using his gifts as a chef to make those in need some really fantastic food.

And there are other things. Holding my children’s hands. They are miracles, and yet, I do this everyday.

I want to encourage you today, to look around you, to experience your daily world and find God in it. He is there. He is here. Yes, even here.

*And please, feel free to share in the comments below, if you are so inclined.

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Front and Center

Michelle — Mon, 30 Mar 2015 02:48:29 +0000

I went to a surprisingly refreshing Palm Sunday service this morning with my family. This Sunday prepares us for the week. The unbroken colt he rode into Jerusalem during his triumphant entry. Jesus weeping over the city as he sees it. The heaviness of betrayal, denial, and death. The angry mob, who begged for it. The torture. Palm Sunday reminds us of the mockery they made of Him.

I don’t know about you but I can’t waive a silk palm leaf at a white guy dressed in a robe with any sort of gusto or imagination. I hate every part of it. Maybe it’s because in a few days they would exchange those palm leaves for angry fists waved at Him as they begged for His death. Maybe it’s because I can relate to the crowd too…

Honestly, I didn’t want to go to church today. I was reluctant to get up and shower. I have just had enough of suffering lately and I didn’t really want to hear about any more. The service talked about the last days of Jesus, and that is not why I am calling it surprising.

What surprised me was the lack of a pastor to look at this morning, to gain insight from. Instead, they showed images of the events leading up to the Cross, and those images were front and center. The pastor was present but from a place that we couldn’t really see him. There was no spotlight on him when he spoke or read or prayed. He wasn’t the important part.

Jesus and His story were the focal point.

It may have been a bit uncomfortable to some. After all, it was the church not being churchy. But for me, it was exactly right.

This week and weekend as we are invaded by eggs, chocolates and bunnies…As we dress to impress and make sure we show up to a service…As we spend time with family, laugh with excited children, and enjoy the hunt…I pray that we would keep Jesus and His story front and center.

Because the story hasn’t changed, friends! God still thinks you are worth the life of His Son. He is still pursuing you even now, even here.

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Why Write?

Michelle — Fri, 27 Mar 2015 17:32:15 +0000

I’ve been writing for five years now. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have been writing most of my life, but for the last five years I have been actively seeking a writing career. I say career lightly because only the top two percent of writers have an actual writing career. The rest of us have day jobs.

Anyway, it’s been five years. I began writing Delivered in 2010. Looking back, it seems like a rough start. I recently re-read most of my first book and I was pleased to find that my writing has gotten stronger.

Also, looking back, I haven’t made any money. It makes me laugh because I didn’t start writing for the money, but the work—both physically and emotionally—I have put into not making any money is hilarious. I’m not being sarcastic either. It is actually hilarious.

So, why do I do it?

Because it is who I am. I am a writer. That is part of how God made me. Why pretend like it is less than it is? I am a writer, who has no monetary gain, but who loves to share with the world.

My writing is about connection and story. I don’t write to merely entertain, but I write so that others know they are not alone. Whether it is my blog or a book, my desire is for connection.

You all reached out to me after I talked about my lingering sadness over my mom. You said to me, “Me too.” That is perhaps the most stunning sentence I have ever read.

I want you all to know that each of you stirred my soul and reminded me of something wonderful. When I let you in, you let me in. We are like colors that mix. Upon our encounter, that part of us is changed into something new.

So, thank you, friends. Thank you. Me too.

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Jesus though…

Michelle — Sun, 22 Mar 2015 14:17:08 +0000

Just when I’m writing about it being my turn…

Over the last three days I have had the privilege of hearing three birthmother’s stories. It rocked me to my core.

Let me start at the beginning.

Thursday night I was in the post-placement support group that I facilitate for birthmothers. It’s called Imprint. An imprint is a lasting mark made by pressure. It is something that happens to a whole—meaning, it is not the whole. I think this describes a birthmother perfectly, no matter what her individual adoption experience is/was/will be.

Anyway, I’m sitting there and we are talking about annoying/hard questions/comments we encounter. Here were some of them:

Didn’t you love your baby?
Aren’t you undermining the parents’ authority by being in relationship with/seeing the kid you gave up?
Just say you don’t have a baby because you don’t have a baby.
Can you get him back?
Where is your baby?
Why can’t you just move on and forget about it?
You’re going to hell.
You will lose all of your blessings and never get blessed again.
How many children do you have?

But there are others. We started with the negative ones, but there are others.

You’re my hero.
You did the best thing for him.
You are so courageous.
I’m so proud of you!
You’re story is amazing.
He is so lucky.

All of this reminded me of my post the other day about not condemning nor clothing a woman caught in adultery. I said to the group, “I feel like half of the people are dragging us through the town and into the Temple naked and the other half are trying to clothe us or politely ignore that we are naked.” Everyone in the room could relate to that, each of them experiencing both sides of this story portrayed for us in John 8.

And I feel like there was a time when I stood before Him with disbelief. What could He possibly offer me that is any different?

Jesus though…

He is the One who does not condemn you, nor does He clothe you, but He frees you so that you stand in His presence (and in the Temple), as you are—exposed—with your head lifted to Him. The nakedness doesn’t shame you anymore, it just bears witness to the saving power of Christ, who saves us in ways that we need most.

I wonder if there were others near that woman. I wonder if any other adulterers understood that day that Jesus loves and forgives and frees them too. I wonder if they revealed themselves to God and found that they are loved, accepted, worthy, and secure in His love.

I want to believe that when we are naked in the Temple and the streets and in prayer and in relationship, when we bear witness to Jesus through our story, others are able to understand Him better, encounter Him and receive freedom. I believe that is the power of story. I think Hebrews 11 agrees with me.

I went home thinking about that. How these women reveal themselves to each other in our group in a real and surprisingly inviting way. All are welcome. None are judged. And in that, the healing, miraculous and minute, happens.

So, here I am talking about being so sad I can barely stand it because of the digression and coming death of my mom…Here I am wondering if Jesus is with me even here in this dark hour, and Friday morning at work we have scheduled a videographer to come and help us tell the “birthmother story” through three different women. Being the Pregnancy Counselor, I am to be with them. They are to tell their story to me.

I sat in three different rooms with three different women, and friends, I wept. These stories revealed Jesus—Jesus in hurt, in healing, in joy, in pain, in uncertainty, and in me. These stories were a reflection of the Cross and the Resurrection. I drew closer to Him after witnessing these women naked before me and hearing of their encounter with Jesus.

“Yes, even here.”

I have big love for you, friends. Big love. And I am praying that you are naked and unashamed to tell your story, to live your story out loud. Whatever that looks like in your life, it is a witness to who God is and how He loves us, all of us, no matter where we are physically, emotionally, and/or spiritually.

Even if your story is unresolved, especially if it is unresolved—and all of our physical and emotional stories are unresolved this side of Heaven—I hope you are sharing it. God loves process. He is in it. Even here.

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Even Here?

Michelle — Thu, 19 Mar 2015 02:30:20 +0000

Everything I say lately to my husband is a complete downer. The book I just finished writing is sad stuff. My personal life is hard, real hard. There is no margin for error. You may regret even clicking on this post, but you know what? As my four-year-old son says to me when I want a kiss and he doesn’t, “I’m just sorry about that, but I just love you.”

Here’s the thing: It’s my turn.

I don’t want a turn. I don’t. I was fine being happy and in love with Jesus. Being really sad and in love with Jesus feels less romantic somehow. It’s not, but it feels that way.

There were times in my life when I would have felt like I needed to be happy externally. There are teachings that urge us to think or speak our way out of depression. We are intrinsically motivated away from pain.

But pain is unavoidable this side of heaven and it’s just my turn. This doesn’t have to become bigger than it is. This doesn’t define God or me. It’s simply my turn. We all get a turn. I hope yours is not next.

Looking back on my last few years, I have talked a lot about grief, but it was a grief that I am familiar with. My son is fifteen. Adoption grief is complicated and strange, but it seems to evolve more slowly than this. This sadness is speeding toward a brick wall, and yet, never coming closer. It is a marathon in the mud.

News flash: IT SUCKS. It sucks hard.

I find myself making a list of what I can directly control, and friends, that stupid list is so freaking short. I also remind myself of the purpose of pain. That doesn’t much help.

I guess what I am saying is there are times when you just have to sit in it. You have to feel it around you and in you. You have to join in with your suffering. And wait on a Lover/Healer/Friend who is never late and who will always help you.

I will say it again. It sucks.

The helpful thing for me right now is to know my Love intimately. If I had not been giving Him my heart—the good, happy, in love, passionate, attractive heart—than, I would not feel so comfortable giving it to him now—the bad, ugly, disturbing, apathetic heart. My heart right now is like a hot potato, I don’t want to touch it. I keep passing it off to Him.
So, if there are times I have to sit in it, and if this is one of them, and if I keep giving Him my heart and it doesn’t get better, that doesn’t mean I have to be afraid.

“Fear not! For I am with you.”
“Even here?” I ask.
“Yes, even here.”
“Because this sucks,” I have to tell Him.
“Yep, I’m with you there too.”

Jesus being with me in Suckville doesn’t mean He is powerless, but that He is present in this purposeful pain.

I totally just Peter Piper’d you all! Sorry! And now I am laughing, as I type this.

“Yes, even here.”

My counselor years ago told me that if I ever get clinically depressed again (yeah, I said again), I should not be afraid of that but I should just realize that there are moments of joy in every sorrow. Even if they are tiny, like making it to my favorite bathroom stall at work ahead of the other girl, even if I am going there to bawl my eyes out, moments of joy are there.

“Yep, I’m with you there too.”

Moments of joy may better be described as moments of relief. Those seconds that I get to come up for air. The Lord is with me, even here, as I take my turn. And as He speaks to me when I want out but He hasn’t helped me yet, I think he is saying, “I’m just sorry about that, but I just love you.”

If you are feeling down, pain, grief, depression, you don’t have to be afraid. You don’t have to be ashamed or embarrassed. This does not define God or you. If it’s your turn, take heart, friend, the Lord is with you even here, even now.

“You whom I have taken from the ends of the earth,
And called from its remotest parts
And said to you, ‘You are My servant,
I have chosen you and not rejected you.
Do not fear, for I am with you;
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you,
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’” Isaiah 41:9-10 (NASB)

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Balancing the Scales

Michelle — Wed, 11 Mar 2015 02:13:33 +0000

For a long time I talked about my adoption process like this, “I sinned, and then I fixed it by doing the right thing.”

That kind of talk turns my stomach now.

As if I could do the right thing and the wrong was then dismissed. There is a young man who might say otherwise. I know I do.

Why do I still grieve this much if the wrong was made right?

I have felt the need to show people I am better than I was when I did that one sin. I think people like to hear that sometimes. It makes them feel more comfortable. It makes me more acceptable.

Am I?

I think when I focus on that one sin and call it out like a snake-charming preacher, I reinforce this idea in my mind. I was bad. I am better now. And I need to be. I need to be better or what in the world did I do that for? If I’m not better than what does that say about God?

I’m so responsible for Him, right? There have been times when I have felt that way. A lot of times. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted.

Why do we preach ‘CHOOSE LIFE’ and then, make women facing unplanned pregnancy pay for their choice of life? I read a quote last week that said, “I would rather take my abortion to God, than my unplanned pregnancy to my church.” Friends, I get that. That was me, and this is grievous.

Not every church is like that. I was a part of a church in Charlotte that embraced me, my story and my process. So, it’s not a blanket statement by me, but I get where she is coming from.

I feel like the Church has suggested adoption as the end all, be all in unplanned pregnancy, and I wonder why? Why is it better to place than to parent as a single person? Is it because single parents struggle? Does that make it worse than adoption? Do you think birthparents don’t struggle? Is God not in the struggle? And if so, then how do we determine which woman should struggle one way and which should struggle another?

Maybe I’m just tired of trying to justify my actions. Maybe I’m just tired of trying to make up for something that I did when I was so young, so lost.

Here’s the thing: I don’t justify myself, and therein lies the problem. I never can justify myself, and I never will. I have been trying to balance a scale that I was never meant to be on.

I have been applauded for supposedly doing so. People celebrate my actions, like I did something redemptive. I wonder if my son thinks so?

I hate the words, “You did the right thing,” or ” the best thing.”

Did I?

I’m not saying I doubt my decision. I don’t. I’m just saying when it comes to unplanned pregnancy, let’s stop pretending like we have the answer and that one answer is adoption. Let’s stop selling it like, “There are so many infertile couples out there.” I doubt these sweet couples want their infertility flashed like a car commercial.

It’s hard for me because I can’t disconnect the sacrifice from the selfishness. It’s two sides of the same tree, good and evil. I need something different than this. I need something other.

The truth of my redemption being only in Christ relieves me, though I admit it is still a challenge to articulate that inside of my adoption process. I know other birthmoms who feel the same way. If these birthmoms are not rooted in the goodness of God, if they don’t know the saving power of the Cross and the newness of Life found in Christ, they may feel like I did for years, responsible for making up for that one sin.

Here is my encouragement to you, friends, and to you, Church. When you encounter a birthmother/first mother/biological mother brave enough to expose herself to you, please, don’t condemn or commend her for her act of placement. Please, please, don’t pat her on the back. Take it from me, it is awkward for her at best and it only reinforces the lie that she can somehow do enough good to abolish that one sin. Instead, offer her enough love and freedom to talk about it how she wants to, feel how she is feeling, and be where she is at in the process.

Take Jesus’ example in John 8. “Neither do I condemn you.”

He didn’t clothe that woman, and you don’t have to either. He didn’t clothe her because that is not what she needed. He gave her acceptance, forgiveness, and grace. And it wasn’t because He had to; He gave those things because that is who He is. There is no such thing as reluctant grace, that’s simply masked pride. If you are in Christ, you can walk in acceptance, forgiveness and grace.

You can because He does.

Take courage, friends. Jesus’ action on the Cross justifies any woman who is in Him, even if she is facing (or has faced) an unplanned pregnancy. Jesus is enough, and Jesus is who she needs.

Give her Jesus.

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birthPARENTING

Michelle — Mon, 23 Feb 2015 03:35:56 +0000

The idea of birthparent seems so weird sometimes. It can make me feel like an alien species that none of the “normal” population can understand.

I just have to say this out loud.

When I stepped into an adoption plan as an expectant parent…(notice I didn’t say birthparent; I’m saving that rant for another time)…I thought, “I’m going to do the very best for my baby and then, it will be over.” There is a lot of parenting on the front end. I decided who would raise him, how well I took care of him, if I would (or would not) take him to the doctor in the womb, give him prenatal vitamins, etc. Lots of parenting decisions.

When I placed him for adoption, there weren’t any more. Not really. I made the only parenting decision I could and it would be my last for him. Right? Wrong.

Maybe that is why they used to tell us (birthmoms) to move on and forget about it. As if we could do that! Whomever thought that up was an idiot or completely selfish. Probably the latter. So many times people have wanted me to get over it or to be better because it would make them feel less uncomfortable or more relieved, but it doesn’t work like that. He has stayed with me.

The idea of birthparent is weird sometimes, until I remember that he is just a boy and I am one of his parents. Then, the idea of birthparent seems normal. My normal. If I can attempt to describe it, birthparenting is parenting from a distance.

As a parent to two children that I help raise, I have to say that there are things I do for them as their parent that I do for my son that I placed. First, pray. Good googly moogly do I pray for them! Second, worry. I know, I know…totally not what the Bible tells us to do, but I’m in process, so…I worry. Boast about them. Protect them. Love them. Love, love, love them.

The praying, the loving, the worrying, the loving, the boasting, the protecting, the loving and on and on. It is all parenting from a distance in a small way (to me), and that is precisely why I didn’t just walk out of the hospital and forget about it. That is why the grief and the joy stay close. I am actively and continually invested in him as my child. Those parenting decisions didn’t stop when I placed him.

And I wouldn’t want them to. I am privileged to pray for him and love him and boast about him. He may or may not feel “lucky” to have love from two mothers, and I would never suggest that he should, but he does have love from both of us and mine isn’t going anywhere. It’ll be fifteen years in a couple of weeks, and friends, his life is still impacting mine.

Thank you, Lord, for the weirdness of birthparenting. Thank you for life, Yours and his. Life begets life. Amen.

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Parenting is Pride-Swallowing

Michelle — Mon, 16 Feb 2015 20:27:14 +0000

All I can hear is everything they don’t like. We sit down to the lunch table and my two children let me know their opinion of everything I have set before them. The meal that I have worked hard to prepare. The preparations that I have worked hard to provide. The job that I work at and the school that I went through and loans I’m still paying off and suddenly this is all about me.

I can take my son saying, “I don’t like this yogurt,” to a personal level. Somehow him not liking yogurt transforms into him not liking me. What is that about???

I have to laugh. This is not about me, and my sweet boy is allowed to not like yogurt. He just is.

Parenting is a pride-swallowing saga that we never fully tell our children about. Pride-swallowing is hard, especially in a world that lifts high the woman who has it all together. A Christian culture that holds parents responsible for their children’s behavior, both good and bad. A community that prays for mothers, but does not help them.

My journey seems different. I swallow hard.

We focus on the power of a praying mother and the love of a mother and how to raise Godly children. I think those things are good, but they are not the only thing. They are not the thing.

There are so few verses in the Bible about parenting that I am left to conclude that weren’t meant to all do it one way. While this may seem obvious, when mothers have their standards set on a woman who has obedient children, a clean house, home baked goods, and stellar fashion all the time, it can be a little shocking. It was for me.

The ideal is the goddess of the norm. We worship her. We long for her. We live or die by her rules, and ultimately friends, we die.

I had to get off the internet and drop the illusion that I could ever be like “her.” It was driving me mad. It was my false idol, the woman I was trying to breathe life into and begging God to bless. This was not God’s best for me, and I learned, boy did I learn, a thing or two.

1. My kids don’t know that mother I want to be. They know me. They know me and love me and want more. The moments when I let them in, they come closer. When I look them in the eyes and engage, they do too.
2. I have to say I’m sorry when I am sorry. My children don’t know or understand my good intentions. They shouldn’t be expected to operate on an adult level, but saying ‘I’m sorry’ is a very elementary thing.
3. I am a model. They are watching and learning all the time. That is sobering.
4. I don’t want to parent children, who grow up to be perfect and conform to what “right behavior” looks like at that time in our society. I want more than that. I want my children to grow up to be themselves. I want them to discover who they are, who God created them to be, and go be it.
5. One day, when my parenting days are over and they are grown and we are friends, I want them to choose me, not be obligated to me. To think that they would care for me because I am their mother is not enough for me. I want them to have a deep, honest relationship with me and choose to continue in it.

I think the times when I don’t humble myself with my children are when I fail most. The moments I’m trying to live up to this unattainable mother figure that we have cultivated into desirable are the times I do a disservice to my children and myself.

When my children challenge who I think I should be, I should thank them. My children liking everything I give them to eat is a far inferior goal to them knowing me. And there is a lesson in that. A teachable moment. Jesus is in there somewhere, and I hope to lead my children to Him.

Because friends, it’s about Him.

Him.

Not me.

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Mine, Yours & Ours

Michelle — Tue, 03 Feb 2015 03:54:49 +0000

Hey friends! I have to tell you, I have labored over whether or not I would do this and how I would do this. What is this you ask? Over the last couple of years I wrote another book for prospective and adoptive parents. I finished it last summer, and it has gone nowhere.

I took my story, my experience with birthmothers and my professional experience with prospective/adoptive parents and wrote down one long encouragement. It started as something very different, a sequel to Delivered, where I tell you the rest of the story, and there is some of that in there. But for now, my heart is to love on and encourage people called to adopt. I want to encourage them in a way that gives them a realistic and honest perspective. One that pushes them toward Christ, into deeper relationship with Him through their adoption journey.

This was written mainly for those who feel called to adopt or have adopted, birthmothers, and/or professionals who would like more insider look into the world of birthmothers. It is called Mine, Yours & Ours, because that is the sequence of adoption. First, the baby is mine, as a birthmother. Then, I place him with you, as adoptive parents. Finally, he is ours, to love and celebrate.

This book would seek to connect the prospective/adoptive parents to the expectant/birthmother at various points in the process, from conception into post-placement. I have created study questions at the end of each chapter to help foster an environment of discussion and introspection. I hope you talk it over with your spouse or use it in a small group setting, and I pray you go to the Lord and wrestle, wait, and walk with Him through the amazing journey of adoption.

Here’s a teaser:

***

I recently heard someone close to me wonder aloud, “Why do people who want to have babies seem to be infertile, but girls who don’t want to have babies always seem to be knocked up?” There was a time that I would call this a good question, but it’s not. That question reeks of anger, as if there is injustice that is going unnoticed by God. That question speaks of a silent fear. I want to have children and I’m afraid I will end up like one of those unfortunate souls who is forced to adopt to fulfill her dreams.

If you have thought this or felt this way, you are not alone. I am with you. I have thought this before, even said it out loud. I remember being so annoyed with an all-elusive God who would dangle babies in front of women like a carrot, only to never give it to them. I have friends who have wanted a child so badly they can think of nothing else. And I have been knocked up. So, the question is a good one, right?

Alas, no.

Adoption is trendy right now, especially in American churches. We preach it from the pulpit or the stage or the front of the coffee shop. God adopted us. We want to be like Him. He cared for widows and orphans. We are to care for widows and orphans. If not us, then who? I used to think this was a good question, but it’s not.

A better question is, “God, what is Your best for me?”

If we step back and really look at the Word, we are under no obligation to care for widows and orphans through adoption. We want to be like Christ, yes, but are we called to feed 5,000 with a loaf of bread and a few fish? In my professional opinion, that seems to be a rather stunning similarity to adopting when you are not called to. To think that you will be totally ready to meet every need your child has after reading a few books is silly. You will need an all-knowing, creative God to get through the first few years, let alone a lifetime, as a parent. Therefore, the calling has to be His, of Him, from Him, or you will be working from your own resources; friends, you can’t stretch your bread that far.

***

Sound interesting? I hope so!

Mine, Yours & Ours coming soon!!!

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A Brief Look at Joy and Grief in Adoption

Michelle — Sat, 31 Jan 2015 03:39:58 +0000

I’m still on about my last post. Joy and pain being ever present at any given time. Of course, when I think about things for any length of time, I tend to see them in view of adoption.

There is no moment in life that I can think of where joy and grief are more present (in an all out battle, if you will) than during an adoption.

Adoption is born out of loss. Joy out of pain. Continued joy out of continued pain. The gift that keeps on giving.

There is so much pain in placing a child for adoption. There is so much joy in adopting a child. Those are the big stigmas.

But I’m willing to bet that if you talk to an adoptive mom about her adoption journey, she is going to talk to you about the grief involved. Maybe her grief is about her own infertility (if that is relevant). Maybe, if she is really lovely, it’s about her sadness over her child’s birthmother’s loss. Maybe it’s about the paperwork, the process, the waiting, the agency, the lawyer or even God.

You may be surprised by that. You may wonder, “But she has the baby! She should be happy!” This is where the joy/grief thing comes in again. She is joyful. She loves her child, but there are moments in this journey that just hurt. Period.

Looking at the birthmother you may think she lives in grief for the rest of her life, but I have to tell you, with Jesus, I have moved from grief to celebration.

I chose life! That’s a win. My son is alive and well and thriving. Oh and friends, in every picture I have of him, he is so handsome! I just adore him. Simply, positively adore that boy. Even with the distance and lack of communication, a piece of my heart is his, and I am fond of him.

You may think, “How can you be happy? You aren’t raising him! How can you get over something like that? How do you live with yourself?” Joy/grief. I rejoice in my child, and I feel the loss. You find me on March 10th of any year, and as hard as I try, I’m a mess. My poor family…

In any given moment during the journey of adoption, joy and pain are present. And I think that both are important. Most of us run wildly away from pain, but I want to encourage you, the way I encouraged a young client during labor a couple of weeks ago…

You need to rework your thinking. Change your mind. The pain is good. It tells us life is here with us, inside us, working its way out of us. Embrace it, work your way through it and in the end, you’ll have unfathomable joy. In the end you will behold new life.

Suffering ultimately leads to hope, and hope does not disappoint us. Friends, this promise is for you. Whatever you are struggling through today, press on, Beloved. In the end you will behold new life.

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I Wonder About Joy

Michelle — Sat, 31 Jan 2015 02:39:27 +0000

Man, I have been mopey lately. Wow. Such a downer. I’m kind of sorry, or as my husband would say, “Sorry; not sorry.”

I told Matthew, just last week, that I am the most joyful I have ever been in my life. I have this deeply-settled joy in my heart. There are a million reasons for this, and you, like my husband, may be surprised to hear me say that, especially after my last two posts.

Well, let me tell you, I am. I am deeply joyful and keenly aware of it.

I have been thinking about this a lot. I used to worry that if I was sad or not externally joyful (i.e. smiling, laughing, singing, and such) that I was losing my joy, that some negative force was stealing something away from me that God gave me. I wonder about that now. Especially lately because external indicators of joy have not been part of my routine when I’m alone and not performing (Yes, I too wear a mask a lot of times. Not intentionally, of course, but I am guilty.). External indicators of joy cannot be the defining mark of joy. It’s deeper than that.

Joy can be present in times of mourning.

I think about a wedding. A daddy walking his little girl down the isle. Both are present. I think about the funeral of an elderly woman who lived a long, full life. Both are present.

I think about the movie Shadowlands (1993). “The pain now is part of the happiness then. That’s the deal,” C.S. Lewis said after the death of his wife.

Maybe one isn’t more valid or truer, but more present and more felt. Lewis felt joy with his wife while she was alive, and knowing she would die was painful but not as present.

This brings me to a question, I wonder if both are present, if both are true, is one more valid than the other? Is joy more valid than pain? Are we expected to give in to joy and not grief when the Word says there is a time for both?

I guess, what I think is that at any given moment, both joy and pain are true about us. In a million ways, we carry both joy and pain around with us daily. I guess it depends on the moment, time in life, or circumstance which is more present.

I think joy is about an internal reality, a spirit that is one with Christ.

Thoughts?

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A Word About Yesterday’s Post

Michelle — Wed, 28 Jan 2015 02:44:22 +0000

After talking about my mother in my last post, I felt I needed a follow-up. Not that I don’t stand behind every word, because I do. It’s more that I feel the need to explain further.

I received some surprise at my curt ending. Isn’t Jesus the Comforter, as [I] so poetically put it? Yes, He is. Don’t [I] trust Him? Sometimes. This suffering is a gift. Yes, yes…*yawn*…

Here is the thing. Yesterday, I had that moment when I told the world the truth about my mother’s disease and how angry I am. Today, I’m having that moment where I don’t care what anyone thinks, I’m still mad about it. Tomorrow, well, tomorrow I’ll see how well the anti-depressants are working.

Like I said in the previous post, if I believe that He who called me is faithful and He will do it, and I do friends, I really do, then I have to believe that I am not supposed to manufacture a joyful heart over my mother’s death, a positive attitude about my family’s suffering, or fake it until I make it. No, friends, that is hiding my heart from the Lord, and I don’t have to do that. I don’t have to.

And neither do you. Whatever grief you’re going through, whatever loss you have had today…You don’t have to be fine. You don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to subscribe to your pastor’s opinion. You just don’t have to.

What deepened the relationship of the disciples with Christ was not agreeing with everything He said or He thought. We all know they did not agree from time-to-time. What brought disciples of Christ into deeper relationship with Him was the act of going back to Him repeatedly. They physically, verbally, and emotionally connected with Jesus. This honesty between them was a level of respect, a place of honor.

I don’t always believe God or agree with Him about my circumstances. I don’t always trust what God has for me, but I do trust that I can talk to Him about it.

I’m not saying He is ever wrong; don’t hear that. What I am saying is my flesh is in process and my God isn’t. He can handle me. He’s okay with me where I’m at.

So, no. I don’t have to muster up a happy post about my mother dying from Lewy Body Dementia because I’m a Christian.

And I won’t.

What I will do, is go to Him over and over and over and let Him have it. I will square off with Him—Him with His grace and patience and me with my anger and loss—and I will ring the alarm.

I believe in wrestling with God.

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Losing to Lewy Body

Michelle — Tue, 27 Jan 2015 02:49:31 +0000

I know. It’s been a while…again. It’s not that I’m not writing. I am. I am writing alot. But I’m not writing about anything that really matters to me. I’m escaping…or not really.

You know when we use our vices (positive or negative), to escape we don’t really ever escape. We just delay the inevitable. There is something I am trying to escape that I can’t get away from unless I just face it.

What is it? My mother.

She was diagnosed with early onset dementia a few years ago. Last summer she changed. We noticed a dramatic downturn. We knew something was definitely wrong. We just didn’t know what, and honestly, I’m not sure I wanted to know. I kept thinking she would snap out of it, but she didn’t.

In October my mother was diagnosed with Lewy Body Disease.

It was devastating.

Lewy Body Disease is a progressive form of Dementia that is fatal. Fatal…that word is suddenly very hard to say because I’m saying it about my mother.

Lewy Body Disease is unkind. It mocks Parkinsons. So, she has the memory loss, confusion and psychotic episodes of Dementia and the shaking and (eventually) complete loss of motor functioning. She walks with a shuffling gate, doesn’t know where she is at, doesn’t recognize me sometimes, and has developed chronic fatigue along side her anxiety, which makes it hard for her to sleep. Her tongue is loosing its ability to function and she is hard to understand. She can’t follow conversations, hallucinates and lives in fear of what is happening to her. Some days are good, but more often than not lately, there aren’t too many good days. Except one day soon, I’m going to be thinking that her bad days now are good days.

Dementia has been aptly named “The Long Goodbye.” It’s called that because you slowly say goodbye piece by piece. This is true for me as well. Lewy Body Disease is a series of small losses. The loss of the word, the loss of a name, the loss of recognizing family, the loss of being able to dress herself, the loss of being able to feed herself, the way she walked and talked and how she presented herself to others.

Lewy Body Disease is defeating my mother and the grief is momentary and eternal and in pieces and the whole, all at the same time, over time.

This disease, this crippling disease, is about a complete and total loss of control, both for her and for her family—the victim and the caretakers. And I feel it. I feel the loss. I feel the chaos. And so does my mother. We are together in this, and we are alone in this. She is suffering and I am suffering, together and separate. God only knows how my siblings who live near her can stand it…I feel for them too.

I wonder what God is saying in all of this. I have been such a big talker about grief and suffering and loss and holy crap when it happened to me in this way I feel like taking down everything I have ever written about the subject and saying, “Drink heavily. It works.”

But it doesn’t work. Nothing works but to face it. To say out loud to God, the Comforter, “I am angry. I have hate in my heart. What are You going to do about it?” To say it again and again. Because the truth is, I do have hate in my heart, and the only One who can help me is Him.

If I believe that He who called me is faithful and He will do it, then He has to do it. He has to take me to a place of peace and healing because I can’t make that crap up. At this point, I can’t manufacture one warm and fuzzy feeling about any of it. He will have to do it. And boy do I wish He would hurry up.

My friend Charles tells me that we hurt in pain and we heal in pain. When I try to escape it, I eventually have to face it, and that means hurting twice. That sucks. Losing to Lewy Body, well, that sucks too.

So, there. I’m facing it.

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Excerpt from Delivered: The Surrender

Michelle — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 05:55:58 +0000

If you have ever wondered what it feels like to place a child for adoption, here is an excerpt from my book Delivered and how it felt to me.

Luke and Noel let me lead. I walked over to Mary as she took him out of the harness. She handed him to me, and I eagerly took him. I needed him.
I brought him to my chest and placed his cheek next to mine. It was soft and warm. It was familiar and intoxicating. His smell was all over me like a misty rain in the hot summer months, welcomed and refreshing. I wanted that moment to last forever.
I looked at Noel, equally eager to get her hands on him. I cradled him and offered him to her. She carefully placed one hand under his head and the other under his bottom.
I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. I just stood there weeping and not letting go.
She spoke warmly, “I am sharing him. Let’s just share him.” Her words were a caress to my aching heart. I looked down away from her eyes as they tried hard to decipher how to best love me in that moment. I couldn’t even see him anymore because my tears were blurring my vision. It was a moment in time for me. The only one I would have like this, and I knew it.
A full minute passed. We stood there sharing him and laughing through tears. Laughing the kind of laugh that comes out when one experiences too many intense emotions at once. It was awkward and appropriate at the same time.
Finally, after several more minutes I was ready. In attempt to stop crying, I laughed once more and then cleared my throat. I looked her straight in the eyes and with a firm voice declared, “I’m giving him to you now.” And I let go.
She took him in with all the love and experience of a woman who is already a mother. She was fluid and careful. She spoke to him of her love, and I noticed that she was running her eyes over him the way a newly engaged woman does her wedding ring. She kissed him and held him close, wanting to be in his face.
I was relieved to find that she wasn’t hesitant. She was sure. Her heart was already there. He was already hers.
After taking some pictures and talking about his sweetness, they let me be alone with him one last time. It might have been five minutes or five hours. Time stopped, and I was nowhere else but there. I was present for that moment. I looked at him and spoke softly to him.
“I love you. I will always love you. You are my first-born. You are my gift. You are my gift to your parents, and you are my gift from God. You have changed my life in ways I don’t even know about yet. I promise to love you every day for the rest of my life. I promise to make you proud. I promise you won’t find me wanting or in need. If you should choose to find me, I will be right where God wants me. He will keep me and guide me, and He has promised to keep you and guide you as well. I will celebrate you and the miracle that you are. I will think of you fondly and often. You are my gift, and I am your birthmother. Grace and peace to you in all your days. I love you.”
As I said my well-rehearsed speech, he looked at me like he understood. I knew in my heart that he must have. I knew I was binding my soul to his with my words and trusting God with my actions.
I continued to hold him close until the women came back downstairs followed by Luke, and it was time. I handed my baby, their baby, to Luke and hugged Noel tightly. I told her to love him well and that I trusted her. Then, I walked out that door without looking back.
As the door closed, my throat closed as well. Just keep walking, I repeated in my mind. Just keep walking. I felt like I had swallowed something too big. I was sure my carelessness from so many months ago was choking me now. I was a home with no heart, a cage with no bird.
When I got to the car, I was breathing heavily, and I doubled over. I can’t do this. I just need a little longer, I thought as the pavement came toward my face. Then, I saw my hands shoot out in front of me. I just want one more kiss. If I could just take in his smell once more it might make it easier. I was on hands and knees gasping for air as snot and tears fell freely from my face. I can’t do this. I can’t! I have to go back and get him. I forced my body upright, but my head felt like an iron weight. He needs me. I was on my feet now, black splotches clouding my vision, and I was hanging onto the roof of the car like a boat does to a dock, hoping to not drift away as it sways with the tide. I need him. I felt like I might throw up. God help me. You have to help me! My body was physically protesting leaving that place. Leaving without that little one.
“I have to get out of here,” I said in between breaths to Mary, who bent over next to me. She was responsible for driving me back to the house we were staying at.
“Ok!” She said, and then she paused and thought. “Let’s go get ice cream. Do you want to?” That’s just what you do at that moment, I guess. I looked up and an unconvincing smile made its way across my face. Ice cream. Hmmm…yes. I have earned some ice cream today. I nodded at her, and she seemed relieved that I had taken the bait.

When the day was finally over, I crawled into bed and pulled out my journal.

3/27/2000
I said goodbye to my little boy today. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I was weeping as I left Luke and Noel’s house. I prayed for him and told him I loved him. He is so precious! He was really alert when I was saying goodbye to him, which I’m so thankful for. I love him so much! Keep him safe and loved, please.

I paused and reread everything I had written. I found myself suddenly angry. No! That’s wrong. That’s not it. It wasn’t satisfactory. It was just words on a page. I decided to try again.

Today was gut wrenching. I have not known pain until today. I have not touched death until now. I am lost. These words are void of the gravity of the situation. This feeble attempt at capturing such a thing is ridiculous. I am crushed under the magnitude of it. Part of me is now dead. I can only hope the rest of me will soon follow.

I stopped short surprised that the last sentence actually scared me. I couldn’t erase it though. At least I was being honest now, and not just factual. I looked it over, and decided I was happier with this. I hoped this would serve me in the long run to get in touch with these days and moments and process them. I would need to process them, as I had officially died to myself. My whole life for the past nine months had been Baby Dylan, and I had given it away that day. I had lost my life.

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Still Waiting With Him

Michelle — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 22:47:44 +0000

Why does waiting feel so like grief?

Anger, despair, bargaining, denial…positive self-talk, self-loathing…pain, numbness, no movement…except back around to anger.

I’m not talking about being still. I’m talking about waiting. Waiting on a promise from the Lord. If I trust Him, if I believe He is who He says He is, shouldn’t I be rejoicing? But I’m not. I am pacing the floor of my mind wondering what’s taking so long.

When Cadence was turning three, Matthew asked her what she wanted to do for her party. If you know my husband, you will know that he is the king of good times and parties and his little girl’s heart. We affectionately call him “Daddy Fun Times” at our house.

Anyway, Cadence exclaimed, “A bouncy house!!!” Matthew, King of yes and amen for his little princess, determined it would be so. You should have seen her. She was elated! For weeks she ran around the house squealing about all the things she would do at her party in her bouncy house. She told everyone she met that she was having a bouncy house at her party. She was pumped!

I have shamed myself for not feeling the same in my waiting. But I’m not turning three. I’m turning thirty-seven, and I’m jaded and aware of this world. I’m not an innocent. I’m Michelle. I’ve grieved the loss of my ideal over and over.

This is what waiting with Him looks like today. “God, I’m disappointed in You.”

Yes, I said it, and you know what? He can take it. He can take me as I am in this moment and change my heart.

Why does waiting feel so like grief? I guess it’s because my idea of life needs to be put to death. Again.

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Waiting With Him

Michelle — Tue, 21 Oct 2014 18:20:57 +0000

There is something so exhausting about being still. Waiting. I hate it. When I feel called to it, I hate it even more. I wait everyday. I wait for Jesus to come back and for the traffic light to turn green. I wait for things to change and I wait for things to steady.

Sometimes I think I can manipulate the waiting, like the antenna on top of an old television. If I tilt it to the right and hold one leg up while wearing foil on my head, it will happen. I can fix it.

But beloved, there are somethings we weren’t designed to fix.

Waiting stuns us. It makes us claw at loose dirt in our lives. It sneaks up on us and mocks our relationship with God, the One who calls. Waiting forces the issue.

Why? Is He not trustworthy? Of course He is.

And here is where it happens…

I begin to name call and beat myself up. I begin to doubt that intimate moment with God when He told me to do something. I wonder about myself. Have I chosen my depravity again? Maybe if I repent…Maybe if I work it out more, or write about it. What if I suggest this or mention that? Perhaps I have been looking at it all wrong…UGH! And now I’m exhausted again.

This is when I remember that working out your salvation with fear and trembling has everything to do with admitting your honest feelings about God to God.

Is God who He says He is?

Sometimes, I’m not sure.

Right now I am waiting for something in particular, something that feels big to me. I am waiting for a promise. And trust me, just because I know, I know, in the depths of my soul that God called me to do something, doesn’t mean I trust Him to complete it.

Waiting forces the issue.

Do I trust God?

Some moments I do. Some moments I don’t. But the moments that I try to work out the wait with my own devices, I end up conflicted and frustrated. I end up in the flesh because I started with the flesh.

Today, friends, through gritted teeth and an exhausted body I’m admitting that I am afraid to trust Him, and I am trying to remember that God calls us, equips us, and finishes it for us. He always has. He always will.

When waiting, don’t worry about waiting well…wait with Him.

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The Marriage Altar

Michelle — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 15:16:59 +0000

My husband made an altar for our wedding. It was a giant cross made of bamboo and copper. The rich green and the shiny orange were perfect. It was simple and inviting. And the thing about the cross was that it was not in its final state. It would change. Over time, the altar would transform colors. The bamboo would dry out and turn from green to a golden hue. The copper would age and exchange its orange for the light green verdigris. They almost exchange colors with time.

When he first showed it to me, I got very excited. We were married in a venue built in the 1920’s as a theater, complete with the cascading red curtains and tiered floor plan. I thought the altar would be a great compliment to our eclectic setting. It was completely lost on me the significance of this piece of our union.

I knew it was a place where the human and divine worlds interact, and since this was a covenant before God, well, it seemed appropriate. However, I may have changed my mind if I had known what the altar really symbolized.

The Hebrew word altar comes from the root meaning “to slaughter” and the Greek, “to sacrifice.”

I was signing up to die, to lose myself.

Looking back on it, I have to laugh. I have to, or I will cry.

I started out my marriage trying to get my husband to be what I thought he was supposed to be. I didn’t marry him for who he was supposed to be. I married him for who he was, but somehow after our visit to the altar who he was wasn’t good enough anymore.

Years and children later, he told me he didn’t like me. I was so mad at him. So mad. If he was just…if he would just…then I…

I experienced my dissatisfaction in public, private, alone and together. After thinking that I had it made because I was married, I was heart-broken to find out that he was so much work, and I was tired.

Other women in my life encouraged me in this fight. “I would not put up with that.” “He doesn’t have to know everything.” “Get your husband to do it.” “That would drive me crazy.”

That’s when I met Charles. He was our marriage counselor for as long as we had left in Charlotte, which was over a year. Charles freed me, in Christ, to let my husband be himself.

He reminded me, in a million ways, that my covenant was with God. I stepped up to that place of slaughter and sacrifice and signed up to die in the context of the calling of marriage. God called me to that, and God called my husband to that.

And if I am called to that, what does that mean? What does that look like in my daily life? Here are a few things I have learned that, hopefully, will help you as well.

I have learned that my husband doesn’t have to compliment me or be my compliment. The truth of who I am is rooted in the person of Christ, not in my husband’s opinion of me. My calling to be a wife, to love and submit, comes from Him. If I am working to please my husband, I am missing the mark. If he doesn’t compliment my efforts, I’m working for the wrong man, so to speak.

Also, we don’t have to be each other’s compliment. He doesn’t have to be my better half. I am whole, in Christ. Being married is a calling that brings me to the place of sacrifice day after day. I give up my closet and my bed and my agenda. I yield to another person out of love, for him and ultimately for Jesus.

And don’t miss that second part. It’s out of love for God because honey, there are times I don’t love that man with every ounce of my being, and you know what? That’s okay. I don’t have to. I don’t have to for two reasons:

1. God loves Him with every ounce of His being. He is wholly and dearly loved outside of me.

2. I am whole, in Christ, and in Christ, I am free to struggle and to question my calling.

Let me say it this way, if you sign up for the slaughter of the flesh that marriage is, prepare to die.

Another thing I have learned is that everyone, everyone, has the capacity to cheat on their spouse. The Lord knows a man’s heart…need I say more? But here’s the thing with that: If my husband cheats on me, he is not cheating on me. He is choosing something other Christ. That should be my heartbreak. That should move me and grieve me to the point of on-my-face prayer for my dear one. The idea that he would willingly choose something that is other than his ultimate good as far as it can be obtained should wreck me. The thoughts of I’m not good enough, my body isn’t sexy enough for him, I’m the best thing he ever had, etc. are irrelevant. I am never going to be enough or do enough or talk enough or be a good enough example for my spouse to hold his heart to the Lord. Only God Himself is enough for that. It is beyond me. So, no amount of living life to keep my husband bound to me will keep him. That is a work of the Holy Spirit.

A last thing, although this list is in no way all-inclusive, is my need for him to be a man of God. I don’t need him to be a man of God because I have an intimate relationship with God. It is outside of my husband. This shifts things. This frees me. I don’t have to be his mother or model Christian behavior or yell at him until he gets it right. I don’t have to pretend that he is a puppet on my strings.

He is not my clay pot to mold.

This radical truth calls me deeper with God, into more intimacy. This beckons my heart to His and in turn, changes me. I die in a way. A piece of my flesh gets cut off, the one that wants to rebel and scream about my rights as a woman inside of marriage. The part of me that wants to be adored by all my Christian girlfriends because my husband is such a godly man…The need I have to be a trophy wife, the best wife anyone has ever had…The burden of ‘having a grown kid in the house’…All these things get put in their place when I realize the freedom I already have in Christ.

I am whole and wholly loved. I am independently dependent on Jesus inside of my marriage. And like any calling from God, my calling is to be more like Him and more intimate with Him. It’s a work of the Holy Spirit, and He will do it. I am free to enjoy my husband, the way God made him (imperfect like me), along the way and to know that he is a gift of God to bring me to the altar every day. The place of sacrifice. The place where the human and divine meet. And while I’m there, I may need to check my self-righteousness…

Because I am not in my final state. My husband and I, our marriage, and our spiritual journeys are changing. We are like the bamboo and the copper from the altar, not exchanging our own colors, but changing into Christ’s color, giving in to the beautiful process of becoming more like Him.

My husband says, “Cleave is the opposite of cleave.” I don’t think there is a bit of irony in that but a stark truth. And I am thankful. I don’t care what anyone thinks, I can’t change my husband by nagging him to death, but God can change him by loving him to death.

The post The Marriage Altar appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Misunderstood

Michelle — Mon, 22 Sep 2014 14:47:24 +0000

I just spent the weekend with a collective group of birthmothers. We were retreating to a safe place to be and heal and find acceptance for our journey through placing a child for adoption. We laughed. We wept. We did art therapy. Some of us didn’t make it through the weekend. We talked about joy and love. We talked about hate and pain. We took a walk through our individual stories, the moments of that particular adoption journey, and we asked, how does this fit with God’s story?

That is the ultimate question, right? How does this present chaos and struggle and grief fit with an eternal God of love, joy and redemption?

We wrote it all out on two panes of glass.

Our story: Grief, pain, anger. Joy, love, peace. Gut-wrenching. Disappointment. Surprise.

God’s story: Grief, pain, anger. Joy, love, peace. Gut-wrenching. Disappointment. Surprise.

They looked a lot alike, we all had to admit it. The circumstances were different, but the truth was present.

This told us two things.

First, God can relate to us and we can relate to Him. He is not untouchable or unapproachable. He is sympathetic and receptive. He gets it. That’s an important thing in a room full of birthmothers. So, often our chief complaint is that hardly anyone can relate to us; they just don’t get it. But there it was, plain as day. Jesus gets us. We are not alone.

The second thing the truth told us was that all of the “bad” has purpose, a purpose for good. How can that be? We have a hard time understanding when people beg us to choose life and then look at us in disgust during our pregnancy and in our process after placement. Post-placement life for a birthmother is a train they can’t get off of. The ride keeps taking them up and down but never stops because the story stands as it happened. We cannot take away the pain and anger and grief because it would no longer be our story. Likewise, we cannot ignore the joy and love that are so real and present in birth of our child.

And maybe that’s the point. Jesus’ “bad” was important and relevant for our good. We couldn’t ignore His “bad” because it was vital to His good. It comes to us, then, with that truth before us. If we can relate to God, our “bad” is important and relevant for our good. But it’s still bad, right? I mean, because it feels bad and looks bad and others agree that it is bad.

So many times I have come to my view of God by way of my circumstances or my story. I have tried to organize my thoughts about the truth, using my truth.

My truth. My truth is not sufficient because my truth is temporary. I have to know God’s truth and His story in order to understand mine.

Could my “bad” be a gross misunderstanding of what bad is? Could bad be defined as anything that separates us from Christ? If that is true, my adoption process has led me straight to Christ, connected me to Him in a radical way, and is therefore good. All this time of misunderstanding my pain and running from it…Should I be embracing it instead, the way Jesus embraced the Cross?

I look again at the two panes of glass sitting side-by-side, and the questions come.

Could it be that this train is not headed for a wreck, but for a deeper relationship with Jesus? Could that moment of sin so many years ago be a catalyst for your overwhelming redemption? Could you be free, in Christ, to process and feel all of these things, in order to relate to Him? All these little rejections and forgotten birthdays and lonely Mother’s Days and misunderstood intentions and need, oh this desperate need, for your feelings and process to be valid…Could all of this suffering be a gift? To know and be known?

The truth comes as well, and the truth frees us.

He suffered to be intimate with you. You have suffered and can be intimate with Him. You are not alone. He gets it.

Hallelujah!!!

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Pulled Taut

Michelle — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 03:10:50 +0000

Today was the day that my daughter started Kindergarten. It was a big day for both of us. I walked her in the pouring rain to her school and down the hall. Tomorrow I will not get to go to her classroom. She is a big girl now. But today, I got to go.

Hand-in-hand, we walked and I looked at her. I am so fond of her. She is light and salt and a blessing. She looked back at me and gave a hint of a smile. She was excited!

In these innocent moments, these milestones, I often have company—birthmother grief. It’s unforgiving and quick, like the thud of a punch on my cheek. She found her name and sat in her chair. I got down on her level and looked her in the eyes. Then, kneeling there beside my sweet daughter, I lost it.

I kissed her goodbye. I walked out of the classroom and went to my car with tears falling as freely as the rain. I felt a shadow. I felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I felt a sense of guilt; this was my daughter’s big day. I felt tired. I have been running this race a long time.

Last year I took a job as a Pregnancy Counselor, and this job has put my personal story front and center. I see women everyday walking through different parts of a narrative I have lived. While I am honored to be a small part of their story, it still surprises me how true my Pregnancy Counselor advice is for myself.

I have waxed poetically about resurfacing grief. Last month at Imprint, the post-placement support group that I facilitate, I talked about it like it was for the other birthmothers in the room. But God knew it was for me.

“Grief comes up at life events. It doesn’t get easier; you begin to recognize it. When it comes up, take a good look at it, hold it, allow yourself to feel it, and give yourself grace.”

This morning, I grieved missing the joy of taking my first born son to his first day of school. I felt the distance between us, between parenting and birthparenting.

It’s not just the milestones I miss, but the moments too. The excitement in his eyes as he learns. The thrill of running on the playground. The stories from school about his day. The little moments, where he smiles and waves goodbye to his mom.

His mom who takes him to school, not me. And I love her, and I love her for it. I love her for all of it. For providing for him and for catching the moments and for treasuring him. I am thankful.

Still, on days like today, I can’t help but feel the pull in a million different directions, like my heart is a preschool parachute.

Grief comes at life events. It doesn’t get easier, you begin to recognize it.

I recognize it.

I know what this is, I think. I take a deep breath. I begin to drive, and I give in to it. I proceed to bawl my eyes out the whole way to work.

And as I park my car, I remember playing with a parachute in Mrs. Diven’s P.E. class. I remember the way the parachute works. Pulled from every direction so tight it might split in two, we would hold on and yank that thing in a million directions. Everyone got to play. Everyone was needed to participate and make the parachute work.

It was a group effort.

And I wonder then, about my heart. I feel it being pulled. I feel the danger of it splitting in two. Joy for Cadence. Sadness over my oldest son. Pride in my children. Grief over my children. The sweet gains. The significant losses. The hopes, the anticipations, the hurts, and the fears. My heart feels them all.

And I wonder about God. Jesus was a man well-aquatinted with grief and the Savior. He was moved with compassion and had righteous anger in the Temple. He commanded demons and He wept.

And I wonder about that preschool parachute. How it only works with a group of individuals working together all around the edges. How pulling it taut allows it to work properly. How each person attached to the parachute is necessary.

And then I recognize it. This pain reminds me that placing my son for adoption was the hardest thing I have ever done—-still, to this day. I welcome the reminder. I take a good look at it, hold it, allow myself to feel it, and give myself grace.

This pain is important. This pain is connected to all the other things that I feel.

This pain lets me know I still love him this much.

The post Pulled Taut appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

An Open Response

Michelle — Fri, 15 Aug 2014 04:57:58 +0000

I would like to say a few words to those of you who have, are in process or considering, or who believe they will foster/adopt. This was spurred on by a regretful post I read a few days ago. The post is here, if you care to read it.

Let me start by saying that I believe God calls people to foster/adopt. I believe that it can be His perfect plan for some. However, I also believe that some get pressured into it by the Church. There are so many ways to care for orphans. Please, please, do not for any reason choose to foster/adopt a child out of guilt from a pastor, family member, or misinterpretation of Scripture. The only reason to bravely step into the life of a child is because God has called you to do that. Only God should be the one calling you.

Said blog post started off wrong to me when she complained of not getting any congratulations. Okay. I get that those may be the realities of fostering, but why would anyone celebrate depravity? These children are being taken from their biological parents because the State deems them unfit parents. What is there to celebrate about that? Can the Church step in here for another way to care for orphans and have a “Blessings Closet” for such occasions? Can a member of the community donate all of their gently used baby items to this new mom?

Consider the motivation of the next statement, “Instead of a baby shower and well wishers I was greeted with paperwork, prying questions, and weekly investigations.”

If you are fostering to be celebrated as one who cares for orphans, maybe you should rethink that. I mean that seriously. Caring for children is extremely hard, and when you mix that with them being taken from their parents when they do not understand why, it can be excruciating. These children might not see you as caring but as the one who kept them from their parents, whom they love. Do not foster out of obligation and do not hesitate to get involved out of fear. Those are two sides of the same coin.

Also, if God has called you to foster/adopt, His purpose is not for you to save anyone. You can’t. You can’t save one child. You may better their circumstances, yes, but is that really saving them? What happens to the children in a woman’s care who had a savior complex but was blessed with human, sinful children? These children may never be thankful. They may have other ideas about your rescue of them. It may look to them like you have kept them imprisoned from the parent they love.

If you are choosing to foster/adopt children out of anything other than God’s call and His love, then don’t. Choose love, and pay for a home study of a couple that is called by God to foster/adopt. They will be so thankful that you are partnering with them in caring for orphans.

Perhaps most importantly, God’s reason for calling you to foster/adopt is not for you to pay for anyone’s sins, as if you could. This writer made the choice to say how she is paying for the biological parents’ sins in bold face type. This was the worst part for me. Only Jesus pays for sins. His blood. His choice. You, foster parent writer, do not. If your attitude is such that you believe this, you are misleading yourself. How dare you minimize what Christ did on the cross! How dare you hold those innocent children to their parents’ flesh!

You are not, have not, will not pay for biological parents’ sins as a foster/adoptive parent. Please, remember your own sin here. You are not perfect. You needed God too.
We were all dead in sin, but God…

Those people who disappoint their children and don’t show up and leave them in cars and do drugs while they are pregnant are your equal in the eyes of Christ.

Your equal.

He died for every single one of us.

Don’t begrudge a biological parent his sins; teach his children why they should choose Christ. When they long for their father; introduce them to your Father. If they fight and kick and scream, give them room to get it out in a safe place for their anger where there is grace for their deeply wounded hearts. When they let you, talk about what they love about their parents and affirm them and their feelings. They will grow up. They will grow wiser. They have the right and should be given the freedom to make their own choices about their biological parents. When the children you have been entrusted with cry out, cry with them. It hurts you because it hurts them because it’s depravity. Depravity sucks. It will eat you alive. It will make you do things you never thought you would.

When asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up,” I don’t know of one child who has ever said, “So strung out on drugs that I abuse my child.” Nor have I heard, “I want to abandon my child,” “I want to disappoint my kids over and over again.”

Separation from Christ is not a goal, it is an outcome.

I have also, consequently, never talked to a biological parent, whose child was taken from them and heard, “I felt really good about screwing up to the point of losing my kids. I hope I can do it again some day!” Hurt people hurt people.

I beg you to see these biological parents who are relieved of their rights because of their behavior as eternal, spiritual beings and not failures. Grieve their choices with those children. Know God better because of what you experience, but don’t, please, don’t pretend that you are saving anyone or paying for anyone’s sins.

Know the truth, friends. If God is calling you to foster/adopt, He is calling you to that because He loves you. You. He is pursuing you. He longs for deeper connection with you, more intimacy. Any calling God puts on your life is about oneness with Christ.

Too often I see people step into foster care/adoption because they mistake God for J.F.K. “Ask not what God can do for you, but what you can do for God.” I know the answer to that question.

Nothing. You can do nothing for God. Apart from God you can do nothing (John 15:5).

But you can partner with God. You can join Him. You can respond to Him. You can be with Him. It’s not about what you do or don’t do. It wasn’t then, it’s not now. It’s about God, His call, and His completion of His work.

If God has called you to foster/adopt, He has called you to do something you are incapable of. You do not have enough love to give, but God does. If you are going after Him in this calling to know Him more, then you are going after the prize.

Being called ‘mom’ is not the prize; a deep, intimate relationship with Jesus is.

The post An Open Response appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Deleted Scene: The Other Beginning

Michelle — Mon, 04 Aug 2014 14:49:26 +0000

As I tore up the gravel road leaving Little Forest Refuge, the camp that I lived and worked at, I felt a sense of ease. The way my tires kicked up the gravel under my car sounded a good deal like popcorn kernels popping on a hot stove in a tall pot. The smell of dust coming through my vents was not as appeasing, but no matter. Dylan would be back at the Refuge when I got back from my job at Diamond Grove, a full time gig at a local mental hospital for adolescents. I hated it, but it gave me money and insurance. I worked the third shift, sitting up all night making sure none of the patients did anything crazy.

My unit was long-term care, and they were so doped up on medication that they almost never stirred. Because I liked to read, I would read all night. I went through book after book sitting there in the silence. The acute unit, however, was like boxing match, there was never enough time between rounds. The people that worked over there went home sweaty. I did not envy them.

Shift change was always an exciting time for the patients because the doors were opened. It doesn’t take much in a lock-down facility. That night I let myself in and made my way to my unit. The facility was set up as four separate buildings, like a cross, with a rounded atrium in the middle. A large cement wall connected the building and enclosed the atrium.

Pulling into the parking space next to a black Jeep Grand Cherokee I giggled. Beef was there. Beef, as everyone called him, was my boyfriend, kind of. We met in February when he started working at the mental hospital. He held the door open for me one night and we hadn’t looked back. It was the end of June, and I was not in love with him, I really liked hanging out with him. He gave me what I needed—a distraction. I gave him what he wanted—sex.

I checked my hair and got out of the car hoping to run into him. He worked the second shift on the acute unit, which meant we hardly saw one another at work. We made up for it though on the nights I was off of work. I made my way inside and I was just coming out of the main building door and into the atrium when he caught my eye.

“Hey Michelle! Come help us over here!” His voice was panicked. He was dark and handsome in a Carolina blue polo shirt that was just tight enough to show off his muscular body and just loose enough to still be masculine. They don’t call him Beef for nothing, I noted.

“What’s going on?” I called as I made my way across the grass.

“Katrina is going crazy over here.” Katrina. That explained everything. Katrina was a tall, stout seventeen-year-old girl who was a regular at our facility. Her parents didn’t want her and she was given to her aunt at the age of seven. She remembered it, and it was the driving source of her anger, which was the driving force of her psychotic episodes. Apparently she was having another one.

When I walked onto the floor there were three men holding her down. She was kicking and screaming and trying to bite them. Curse words were flying out of her mouth like debris in a tornado.

“We need to get her into isolation,” Beef told me. “Hold the door for us.” I nodded and threw my purse down. I watched as four grown men picked up this poor girl, who was out of her mind, and slowly began to walk toward me. Holding the door open with my left hand and foot, I pressed myself against the wall to give them as much space as possible. The other patients were locked into their rooms, a feature of the facility for emergencies such as this one.

As they made their way past me with their writhing cargo, Katrina’s hand locked onto the front of my scoop necked shirt and she didn’t let go. There was a scuffle for several seconds with shouting. I had to keep the heavy door open with one hand because they were half way in and half way out. Beef grabbed ahold of her hand and tried to pry her fingers from my gaping shirt. That made her flail all the wilder and that’s when my shirt ripped at the seams exposing my sheer black bra and pale skin. The room stood still, shock filling the dead silence. I looked down at my body and up at the men. They were all staring at me standing there half naked. My eyes met Beef’s.

“Let’s go!” he shouted at my colleagues, who were sure to have the vivid image of my bare upper body in their minds every time they looked at me from that day forward. The men recovered and moved Katrina, into the isolation room. They put her on the floor and locked the door behind them. I stood there wide-eyed and trying to cover myself. Beef pickup what was left of my shirt and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said without looking at him, and I continued awkwardly, “I don’t have another shirt with me.”

“I’ve got one in my car you can have,” he offered. Mortified I walked out to his car with him. It was dark by then. He grabbed a Mississippi State t-shirt out of his back seat. Tears were running down my cheeks. He put his arms around me and held me for a moment. “Shh, Boo. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He kissed the top of my head and moved back just enough to wipe my cheeks. It was the first time I had been so vulnerable with him. I did not like to cry, which left me feeling extremely uncomfortable. I was not a girl who let myself go to my emotions. I was always fine. And with someone like Beef, with whom I had an emotional business relationship, I did not want to appear weak.

“I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.” He shook his head and I looked away. “I’m going to go tell them that you need the night off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay, well you can just be fine with me tonight.” He left without saying anything else. I stood there in the heat of the southern night embarrassed by what had just happened. I felt something so familiar and infuriating—weakness. I did not like to be weak. I did not like to cry. There was nothing wrong with me. I was fine!

Convincing myself of how fine I was, I felt the memory of that horrible night slipping. Relief began to wash over me. I wouldn’t talk about it. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I was fine. It was no big deal. I was fine—until I woke up the next morning still wearing Beef’s shirt.

I stood there looking back at myself in the mirror. Seeing Beef’s shirt reminded me that I was not in mine. A shiver crawled up my spine. Remembering how exposed I felt, how utterly out of control it all was. Things that I wanted to keep hidden were revealed without my permission. I was victimized.

Victim. It was a role I played well. It was something I could hide myself into. I could get lost talking about what went wrong, instead of focusing on how I was in the moment. Because in that moment, I was queasy and terrified. The thought of all of those people seeing me exposed like that was horrifying. How would I recover when I went in tonight to work? Maybe I could avoid all of them. Maybe they would have pity on my and not mention it, but probably not.

I took a quick shower and headed to eat. It was around five in the evening. I had slept most of the day, as I often did when I worked all night. It was a typically hot, wet day at Little Forest Refuge. The pine trees kissed the sky and sent the comforting smell of Christmas all year long. I took it all in under their canopy; the small cabins forming a crescent shape, the gravel roads, the man-made lake. Everything around me felt consecrated from another time period.

I popped into the kitchen through the back door that the cooks used. Ms. Katie was calmly loading up the platters with food, while Ms. Sarah was barking orders at the work staff. I stood in the door for a minute debating whether or not to wait for dinner.

On cue, in walked Dylan Myers. He was about my height, blue eyed and the most gentle gentleman I had ever met. He and I had similar wounds. I was like a sister to him, and he was like a savior to me. His wound was healed. Mine was continually leaking fluid.

He made his way over to me and gave me a quick hug. “Hey Sissy!”

“Hey!” My smile was present. My joy was missing.

“What’s wrong?” My eyes gave me away. “Hey, let’s get out of here.” I nodded, not trusting my voice. We left out the back door, and I was feeling a little more than needy. I was an all-out drama queen, Dylan my audience. I hated that feeling.

“Sorry,” I said, looking away as we walked toward the porch at Lakeview.

“No worries. What’s up?”

“I just…” Where to begin? “I just had a bad night.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Not really. It’s embarrassing.”

“What happened?” Dylan pushed, wanting to help me get it out. Today it was a good idea, but not always. I proceeded to tell him about my incident the night before, and when I had walked him through to the part where I was half naked at work he went bug eyed and his head jerked back slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” was my only reply. I decided to leave out the part about my leaving work and spending the night with Beef. Dylan would not approve. He would definitely not approve. I didn’t want to complicate things between us. I just wanted him to love me and like me and want to be with me. If he knew about Beef and me, if he suspected that I was not progressing in my relationship with God, then I thought he would not love me anymore. I thought it would all go up in smoke, and I needed him to love me.

“Well, I’ve got to eat, but we could catch up later?” he asked. “I’ve got some time this weekend.” While it seemed like he was putting me off, he wasn’t. The demand on counselors was intense at the Refuge. Besides, Dylan loved me so well. He was gentle and thoughtful. He was not always serious or even at the whim of my emotional state. He loved me. His love for me was outside of me, and unlike any other love I had ever experienced.

At a young age I bought into the lie that I was not good enough for anyone at anything. Everything I did, everything I was, fell short. I was a size eight in high school, but not a size six like most of my friends—not good enough. I was making an A in all of my classes, but they were not AP classes—not good enough. I was on a NCA National Champion cheerleading squad, but I couldn’t do a full twist—not good enough. I prayed, but not without ceasing—not good enough. I read my Bible, but not everyday—not good enough. There was nothing that I did that I believed was good enough.

When Dylan came along and loved me no matter what, I was terrified. I kept trying to avoid him around the camp, but he pursued me. In the end I gave in to him and quickly became enchanted. What kind of man is this that loves so freely and so openly, without regard for his heart, only mine? I had to keep encountering him and testing the limits of that love. I needed to know what made him tick.

As our friendship grew, so did his insistence on me seeing myself the way he saw me. He would talk about the beauty that I had within, the love of a Savior that would hold me close living inside me.

I tried, oh I tried, to see it. I caught a glimpse one morning in the pouring rain. I was standing by the lake thinking of my dear friend, Vanessa. I was missing her and thinking about how she let me be, how she didn’t push or hover. Vanessa was a soft-spoken force of love who carried with her grace and beauty, enough to hand out. I was powerless against her accepting nature. I was in, she was sure of me. That’s how Dylan treated me, leaving me addicted. I was addicted to being accepted by these people, but they were the only ones. Well, they were the only ones I believed.

So, I was leaving the Upper Room one morning and it was raining and while everyone else ran for cover I stopped short and let it soak me. I stopped and took in the rain and the lake and a God who would call me Beloved. What did that even mean? I was busy running in my private life, inside my head, but here in the rain and my aloneness by the lake I felt the Lord wash over me. I felt Him tell me He was delighted in me, and I didn’t believe Him. I lost myself in that rain. I had a glimpse of myself as desirable, and I was terrified. I didn’t believe Him. I couldn’t.

I grew up believing that I was bad until God saved me, and then, I better get my act together make Him love me. I grew up believing that God was out to get me, that He enjoyed it when I hurt and despised me when I sinned. This belief created a culture of fear within my mind. My will began to perform, and my emotions were uninvited to my life. I was allowed to be happy. I was not allowed negative emotions.

With this view of God, I lived my life. I went to church every chance I got, because if God was a loving father, then I wanted to be His favorite. I led Bible studies and prayed for people. I…I felt it was never enough. I was never good enough, so what did it matter? And even if Dylan was right, even if I was desirable to God, when would that wither away? My desirableness was only skin-deep, it always faded. I was waiting for it to dissolve in Dylan’s eyes.

In mid-summer of 1999, it happened. I was with Vanessa on a road trip when I walked into a dirty little gas station bathroom along Highway 55 somewhere in Mississippi with a pregnancy test. The filth was evident, and the filth was me standing there holding a stick with two blue lines.

Two blue lines. Two little lines glowing and shouting and telling on me. My secrets were revealed, my shirt ripped off by two blue lines.

The post Deleted Scene: The Other Beginning appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Right to Life Sermon

Michelle — Sun, 11 May 2014 17:01:50 +0000

I was honored to be a part of this Right to Life Sermon on Mother’s Day. I will unashamedly admit that it was the first time that I felt extremely comfortable on Mother’s Day in church. Thank you, Fellowship and thank you, Ben!

The post Right to Life Sermon appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Relevance

Michelle — Mon, 30 Sep 2013 02:23:29 +0000

I know. It has been a while, but believe me I have some good reasons.

1. My computer quit almost the second I moved to Little Rock and had to wait for my husband to get here.
2. When my husband got here with my kids, well…in a match between writing and those guys, they win.
3. I have been thrown into the job (Pregnancy Counselor) and, as my Director says, baptized by fire. It’s been busy and a steep learning curve. My team is amazing, couldn’t have hand picked better co-workers, and they are so encouraging and gentle. As a bonus, I genuinely like them. I mean, I really like them, who they are, as people.
4. This is the last one, and perhaps most relevant to you as a faithful reader of mine (haha!), and it’s simply this: I have had nothing good to say. I’m not a fan of blogging just to do it. Why waste your time and mine? I’m really not that interesting and my book either interests you or it doesn’t. This blog is really more of my expression of who I am and how I continue to encounter the Lord on a daily basis.

So, why now? I guess I have something to say.

I came to Little Rock and this job with an advantage, or so I thought. I came here having experienced the journey that my clients are on—unplanned pregnancy. I thought, I have been gifted in this area. I can relate to them. I can speak into their lives.

Now, while all of that is true, I was crushed to learn that none of them care. At all. These women are at a place in their lives where they are under water, drowning. These women are stuck in paralyzing grief. These women can’t be reasoned with beyond their present situation.

And I have struggled to be relevant.

When I go with my Director to talk with pastors or business people, they all seem impressed. They all are thankful that I am there for these women. They have called me a witness and patted me on the back.

But my ministry is with these women, and I have been left wondering how I, with such a powerful and personal testimony, can make a difference for these women in the here and now.

I have discovered it is not, in anyway, helpful to tell a drowning person how you survived your own near drowning. I also cannot save anyone. Go figure!

So, what then? What am I doing here?

I have wondered that same thing, and I think, and I’m open to suggestions, I think that I get to stand there and see myself in each of these women, some more than others admittedly, and know that God pulled me out of that water, out of that grief, and He wants to do that for them too.

The pastor at my new church is on about living on mission. He talks about it all the time. My favorite part of his idea (well, not his alone, but I’ll give him credit for it here) is that it’s not a big production. It’s simple. You just live in relationship with Christ and those around you. That’s it. You just be yourself in Christ and live where you are living.

Having this truth spoken over me has answered that mysterious question for me of how I can be relevant to these women. The fact that I am a birthmother is not why/how I am relevant to these women. The fact that I am in Christ is.

I have been busy waving my I’m better flag and selling my book instead of being Christ incarnate. I have been too attached to my own redemption to dine with the Redeemer.

If my relevance includes His redemptive story played out in my life for some, that’s great. If it only looks like treading water with those who can’t get themselves out, I’m in. But for me, my relevance is found in the person of Christ, forever amen.

The post Relevance appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

BirthMom Buds Retreat

Michelle — Fri, 03 May 2013 20:19:53 +0000

It’s a bird.

It’s a plane.

No, it’s BIRTHMOMS!

This year the BirthMom Buds annual retreat is themed with superheroes. I think this is very appropriate, as birthmoms are heroes, in my humble opinion.

It takes a lot of strength to choose life and to place a child for adoption. I am excited to be among such excellent and admirable women this weekend.

I have the privilege of leading a breakout session. I’m going to be talking about How to Share Your Story. I think sharing your story as a birthmother is crucial to healing. I think it is crucial to others healing. When I share my story, I heal. I go there. I feel it. I take it in again, and I relive the grief over and over again. When I do this with others, whether they are birthmothers or just have experienced some grief, they realize they are not alone. When I share my story, when I celebrate the life that was conceived, chosen and placed, others can celebrate too. They can celebrate with me and for their own stories too.

This weekend I won’t be alone. I will be with other women sharing, grieving, feeling and healing together. This weekend we will celebrate and remember.

We are birthmothers. We are super. We are heroines!

The post BirthMom Buds Retreat appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Kara Thrace and Her Special Destiny

Michelle — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 15:34:14 +0000

Have you ever heard of the “eighteen-inch journey?” Eighteen inches from your head to your heart. That’s all it takes to be transformed by what Jesus did for us. We learn truth in church and we understand the concept. The eighteen-inch journey suggests that we just have to get that concept from our head to our heart.

I’ve been wondering lately about this. I mean, how exactly am I supposed to get that kind of truth into my heart? There are sermons based on this concept. I’ve heard a preacher say it’s the longest journey you’ll ever take. From what I understand, if I could just stuff that knowledge into my heart I would stop sinning and begin to live in freedom and joyfully obey the Lord.

Right?

When I first heard of the eighteen-inch journey, it sounded so simple and yet so mysterious. Even if I wasn’t sure how it happened, I wanted to do it. I wanted to live a life called according to His purpose. I wanted to do anything and everything to please Him. So, I followed the journey according to the recipe given.

If you would take what you have learned in church and read in the Bible and apply it to your life…

I did. It doesn’t work.

Quite frankly, it’s exhausting. I find myself coming up short and a little angry, if I’m honest about it. I mean, who can keep up with all of that stuff?

I don’t know about you, but I have struggled with the to-do lists in the Bible. As much as I know that I am saved by grace, I still see them…the things to do standing out in my quiet time. Love your neighbor. Resist what is evil, cling to what is good. Abstain from fleshly lusts. Keep your behavior excellent. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t covet. Don’t have any other gods before me. Honor your father and mother. Submit to your husband, and don’t even get me started on the Proverbs 31 woman.

Not only that, but when I got exhausted, I looked around and saw all the other women in my church who were diligently making it all happen. They were patient and kind, had obedient children, curled hair, and a freshly baked pie to share with the unfortunate ones who couldn’t get it together, who just needed a little more Jesus, who looked like me.

Enraged, I cried out to God.

Where is the freedom? Where is the joy? Why can’t I get this through my thick heart? Surely, if I was doing it right, doing it well, doing it enough I would be living in wedded bliss with my Bridegroom!

But I wasn’t, and it had me wondering, why isn’t my Christian life working for me?

I thought about getting off the pain train and hailing a cab for the nearest bottle to drown myself in. I considered planting a garden. I contemplated writing my next book. What would make my heart realize what my head knew was true?

That’s when I read Romans 12:1.

“Therefore I urge you, brethren, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies a living and holy sacrifice, acceptable to God, which is your spiritual service of worship.”
(NASB)

Dear God is there no mercy? What is He telling me to do now? How can I do this if I don’t even know what that means? And worse, I was not a virgin when I got married. How could I ever present my body to Him as a living and holy sacrifice?

Just when all hope was lost and I was drunk on my pain and shame, I stumbled forward to verse 2.

“And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect.”

By the renewing of your mind…renewing of your mind…of your mind…your mind…

The echo, soft in my ears and intoxicating to my soul, sobered me up. Renewing is present tense, transformed is past tense. The renewing is of my mind.

That’s when I heard Kara Thrace from a late episode in the Battlestar Galactica series screaming at the top of her lungs, “YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!”

It hit me in my face, yes in my head, that the journey is not from my head to my heart, but from my heart to my head. My spirit knew this. My mind needed some revelation from the Lord.

When I got saved, I became spiritually alive and reconciled to God. I am now in Christ and He is in me. It didn’t happen in my mind or will or emotions for me. Those things are still in process. I know that because all three of them keep needing to be renewed, but my spirit is transformed and new in Christ.

There it is…the freedom, the joy. There is the truth I have longed for. Engaging in an intimate relationship with Christ renews my mind and allows me insight into what the will of God is for me right now, today, and in the future.

This love affair, this sweet communion with the Father has transformed my “Biblical to-do lists” into opportunities for intimacy with the One who loves me enough to journey with me. And friends, He wants to journey with you too.

Today, I want to encourage you to realize the truth of who you are in Christ, and let that flow out of your heart and into your mind, will and emotions. Then, you will be able to prove what the will of God is for yourself, that which is good and acceptable and perfect. Then, you will find your freedom, your joy.

The post Kara Thrace and Her Special Destiny appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

In a Nutshell

Michelle — Fri, 08 Feb 2013 15:39:05 +0000

I just wrote this for consideration to be on the National Council for Adoption website, only I was supposed to use 450 characters, not words. Oops.

So, here I am. A recap of my story in 450 words, most of which will not show up on the NCAF website.

When I was twenty I faced an unplanned pregnancy and a choice that would shape me as a person. Through time and consideration, I knew that I was supposed to choose life and place my baby for adoption. At the time my heart was like a cup with a small hole in it. I couldn’t ever quite fill it up, as desperately as I tried. Being pregnant and not married, after being raised in the church, only compounded the problem.

I went into a maternity home and hid from the world, feeling ashamed of my situation and myself. My life was ruled by fear. The fear of what people would say or think being the foremost among my fears.

In March of 2000, I had a healthy baby boy. After I handed my baby to his parents and walked away, that small hole was ripped into a huge, gaping wound. My heart no longer had the capacity to hold anything, good or bad. I was numb.

As time went on, my wound wasn’t healing. My grief was a nasty little man with pale skin and a whip, reminding me of my slavery to a great loss. How could I move on? And if I did move on, would I lose my connection to my baby boy? If I wasn’t thinking of him every moment of every day, what did that say about me?

Fear, grief, and sadness—a perfect cocktail to keep me numb to my pain and never heal. As I kept drinking from that cup, I was getting worse.

Then, a few years ago I decided I had nothing else to lose. I would face this pain head on, feel it and grieve it. To do this, I began to write my story just for myself. Reliving the events and moments was incredibly painful. I would sit at my computer and weep while typing.

To my surprise, grieving didn’t look like giving up my experience or loosing my connection with my son. Instead, it looked like living without fear and being filled with joy. Now, I do not grieve the loss of my son as much as I celebrate the life of my son. That is a very healing thing.

Being a birthmother is a wonderful, gut-wrenching experience. It is a unique and quiet journey that most of my birthmother friends only talk about with other birthmothers. Because I wished others knew more of our side of the story, I published my book, Delivered: My Harrowing Journey as a Birthmother.

Unshackling myself from fear and speaking out about my experience as a birthmother helps me continue to celebrate my son, my choice, and life.

The post In a Nutshell appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

The tree of Life

Michelle — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 15:11:14 +0000

“Out of the ground the LORD God caused to grow every tree that is pleasing to the sight and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.” Genesis 2:9

It’s right there in the text. It’s in black and white and has been since the beginning.

In the Garden of Eden, that beautiful place that I have felt such sorrow and longing over, God caused every tree that is pleasing to the sight and good for food to grow. He also caused two important trees to grow—the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

There are two trees. Two.

I missed it.

I just skipped passed that tree of life and focused on my anger at the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I channeled my energy toward the negative moment in the garden when the serpent deceived Eve. I believed it was Eve’s fault and thought up a few choice words for her. I labeled all men by the silence of Adam.

I missed it.

I focused on the separation. I zeroed in on how these two people had everything and the one thing God told them not to do, they did. I felt like Adam and Eve were like the field goal kicker on an NFL team—one job. So, how on earth could they screw it up for the rest of us?

I missed it.

My gaze was drawn to their shortcomings, which in turn pointed to mine. Of course I would have sex at a young age. Of course I would get pregnant before I was married. Of course I would be a disgrace. Of course I would never live up to the standards God sets, I was a daughter of Eve.

I missed it. I believed the lie that I was sentenced to Eve’s separation and there was nothing to be done about it. The garden disaster was somehow about me, pointing me to a life of whoring myself out to anything and anyone but God.

But God.

Yes. But God caused two trees to grow out of the ground. I had only been looking at one.

My mistake, though common, would be like staring up at the Sistine Chapel for thirty-five years and only looking at the trump l’oeil columns. Being sucked into a trick-of-the-eye when there is a masterpiece to behold in full color. I would have sacrificed seeing the most famous piece where God is stretching out his hand to Adam and Adam his hand to God. That energy between them both longing for the connection. The intimacy intended. The electricity portrayed in the reality that Adam could touch God. The anticipation in that glorious moment like two lovers coming together before a passionate kiss.

This is the tree of life—longing for connection, intended intimacy, the reality that I can touch God, and the anticipation of the glorious moment when I meet God face-to-face.

This is it. This is what I’ve been missing. This is the focal point—that God always intended intimacy with his children. That God wants to be intimate with me, here and now, and that a relationship with God is not about good or evil, but life.

I can hear freedom ringing. I can sense my wings spreading. I can feel the presence of God, and I can hear him singing over me.

Friends, I have been looking at the wrong tree. Trying to make my way back to God. I have prayed and volunteered and fasted until I am stark raving mad with awareness of my own flesh. And now I can only describe the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in more detail, not to mention my flesh.

The tree of Life though, that inviting endless discovery of God, intimately connected to my heart by His Spirit inside of me, is offering shade.

Friends, we have this big wonderful God who loves us intimately. We have a Life from which to draw from—our visions, our movements, our love, our rest. Consider taking that Life in and resting with Him. It’s under that tree we will begin know God intimately.

The post The tree of Life appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Morning Air Interview on Relevant Radio

Michelle — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 16:36:58 +0000

***UPDATED 10/20/2012***

It was such a treat to talk with Sean Herriott yesterday morning. Click here to listen to our fabulous interview.

***

Hey friends!
I am so pleased to announce that I will be a guest on Relevant Radio’s Morning Air with Sean Herriott this Friday, October 19. Listen in from 9-9:30am EST!
www.relevantradio.com

The post Morning Air Interview on Relevant Radio appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

God is not an iPhone

Michelle — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 15:55:01 +0000

God is not an iPhone.
He does not come with changeable, trending cases.
There will be no updates,
or sexy rounded corners on all the squares
who hold Him.
No touch sensor or meaningless applications.
There will be no games,
though He is fun to interact with.
You can’t adjust His brightness.
He doesn’t require an external energy source to keep going,
Nor will he misunderstand you when you are speaking to Him.
God is not a miracle in your pocket that you can turn off.
He doesn’t require a black turtleneck
or seemingly nonchalant blue jeans.
His screen doesn’t crack.
Though your view of Him may change,
He won’t.
God is not an iPhone.

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I Quit

Michelle — Sat, 13 Oct 2012 19:05:53 +0000

Spiritual Disciplines. Let’s end this charade. Let’s give up this fight. Let’s take off these masks and get down to it. Because I am sick and tired and weary and wanting more. I am fed up with ways to meet with the Lord in just six easy steps. Opportunities to beckon Him to be with me by praying in just the right way for just the right amount of time. Attempting to get my needs met by striving through a fast. Manipulating the Almighty in the name of relationship by vowing silence.

I have had enough, and I am tired. Boy am I tired.

What I want is Jesus, not a formula. I long for God’s presence, not a remedy for my poisonous flesh. I want to know that He is here before I call on Him. I want to be aware of my Savior before I fall. I crave Him.

There are those who seem content to teach about these spiritual disciplines like they are medals of honor to be worn proudly around your neck and envied by all. My efforts, my medals, are heavy and choking me to death. My futile attempt to pull myself up by my flesh and work out my salvation is leading to my demise. I am killing myself trying to be a good Christian (whatever that means!). And for what?

What am I doing it for? Why am I exercising the spiritual disciplines? If anything not done in faith is sin, then why am I fasting and praying, vowing silence, simplicity, and memorizing scripture? Why am I working myself to death?

My flesh is sagging. Its elasticity has worn out. I have put too much weight on it. I have nothing left but to let the Lord pull me up. I am at the end of my spiritual discipline rope after jumping it for so long my feet are now bleeding.

My friends, I quit. I officially quit. I will not make another effort to make God love me. I will not strive for His presence. I refuse to create another opportunity to meet with the Lord.

I will instead try to realize the truth. I will take a lesson from The Matrix.

Boy: Do not try and bend the spoon. That’s impossible. Instead… only try to realize the truth.
Neo: What truth?
Boy: There is no spoon.
Neo: There is no spoon?
Boy: Then you’ll see, that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

There is nothing that I can do to bend God toward me. There is no Jedi mind trick or wizardry that I need possess to get God to love me. That is impossible. I only have to try and realize the truth.

“Behold, to the LORD your God belong heaven and the highest heavens, the earth and all that is in it. Yet on your fathers did the LORD set His affection to love them, and He chose their descendants after them, even you above all peoples, as it is this day. So circumcise your heart, and stiffen your neck no longer. For the LORD your God is the God of gods and the Lord of lords, the great, the mighty, and the awesome God who does not show partiality nor take a bribe. He executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and shows His love for the alien by giving him food and clothing.” Deuteronomy 10:14-18

He has set His affection on me. Yes, before the Cross even, and He does not change. I am an eternal spiritual being. God has made His dwelling inside of me. His love for me is not given partially based on my completion and repetition of spiritual disciplines. I cannot con God into loving me. I cannot pay Him off by doing anything.

Do I dare quote the whole first half of Romans 8? Alas, no. I will leave it at this:

“So then, brethren, we are under obligation, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh—for if you are living according to the flesh, you must die; but if by the Spirit you are putting to death the deeds of the body, you will live.” Romans 8:12-13

The deeds of the body—good or bad. Why did I think living by the flesh was isolated to the big bad sins? Why did I think that doing “good things” apart from God was okay? How did I come up with the absurd idea that if it is in the bible, I am obligated to do it?

I have been living from the flesh disguised as fruit. And it is rotten!

That is not the way of the Lord.

But if by the Spirit you are putting to death the deeds of the body, you will live, says the Word. And friends, I want to live. I want so desperately to live.

So on this glorious day I am getting honest about my motivations for spiritual disciplines, and I am quitting. If in my intimate love affair with the Lord He tells me to move, I will move, but for now, there is only this being with Him that can satisfy. There are no spiritual disciplines, no sacrifices, no praises I can bring to increase His love for me. There is nothing that I can do to bend God toward me. That is impossible, for His mind is made up. I only have to try and realize the truth. It is not God that bends. It is only me.

And today I am bending down face first and laboring to enter into His rest.

The post I Quit appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Struggle

Michelle — Tue, 18 Sep 2012 03:56:32 +0000

I come to you grieved and struggling. I am not grieved at my struggle, yet I am simply grieved at the truth that I am enough. Sounds weird. I know. It sounds almost precarious and in need of a real problem. It’s not a real problem and I am aware of that, but track with me for a moment.

I inherited a lie that I can and should work hard to make something of myself. I believed that I should sacrifice everything, yes even my own happiness, in the name of success. I was taught to suck it up, do something, and work myself into the ground.

Then, God found me, struggling on.

I was new, fresh. I put all of myself, my old self, into God. I should volunteer for everything, be at the church every time the doors were open, and I should be joyful while doing it. If I started to resent it, and often I did, I would question my loyalty.

Then, God revealed to me His love.

I tightened my grip. If God loved me like that, then I would double my efforts. I would pray without ceasing, lead a bible study, and volunteer at a soup kitchen.

I have found myself tired, discontent, and angry at the guilt I feel toward this impossible role of being God’s child. And I wonder, is this all there is?

I have been living my life by the endless lists I have made. I have been measuring my success by the boxes I check. I have been content to struggle and to feel like I have to do more. I have been ensured that God is well pleased with me writing a book and letting you all in on my little corner of the world. “Job well done” has a nice ring to it. “You’ve worked so hard” is equally serving to sustain my identity as worthy.

But it doesn’t satisfy my hunger for intimacy. It doesn’t hold me close, protect my heart, or let me in on the great secret of the Scriptures.

That secret, plain as day, that I have searched for like the eyeglasses on my face is this: I AM thinks that I am, so I can just be.

This is my grief, that my identity is lost. I don’t know who I am apart from works. And while I sit here and learn to stop treading water and trust the Lord to keep my head up, I am learning something of the character of God. He is content to let me struggle.

In that revelation, I have a new appreciation for struggles and the process that we go through to get through them. If the Lord sees value in struggle, then I can try to as well. I can have confidence in the Lord’s decisions for my life. If He feels like joy is an inferior emotion for me in the moment, then I can learn to see things His way and agree with what the Lord is doing in me.

So, today I am thankful for the struggle. It is not joy that marks a child of God, but intimacy.

The post Struggle appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

This Story, This Passionate Story

Michelle — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 02:54:40 +0000

Last night I went to a leaders meeting at the home of my pastor Al Hardy, where we talked about having passion—passion for God and passion for the various groups we are leading in the church. Al told us a story of a guy who became a train spotter because a man rushed past him when he was a child shouting, “Kudo is in the Vick” with such enthusiasm and excitement that a crowd of people followed him, followed his passion, to see this train.

Oh, that’s cool, you say? Yeah! We need to be pumped about our group. We need to be excited about the work the Lord is doing in us and through us. If we are passionate about what we are leading, those who follow us will come willingly, riding our coat tails to an unknown glorious end chasing down Jesus and His passion.

It was good. I mean—I was ready to go. Put me in Coach! I’m ready to play!!!

Then, we prayed. As we prayed, Al encouraged us to offer up short praises of thanksgiving to God.

“Thank You, God, that You are passionate about us.”

The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. God is passionate about us. God is passionate about me. Over and over the Bible describes His passion for us.

Fearfully and wonderfully made, chosen, special possession, bride, favored, beloved, known, new creation, blessed, etc.—and the list goes on.

The revelation of His feelings for me stirred my soul. The Lord is passionate about us. I mean, passionate. He pursues us continually, gives us good gifts, and takes great delight in us.

God has created me, in such a specific way, to carry out His purpose and advance His Kingdom. He is excited about me. He is excited about watching my life unfold and my love grow. God is thrilled to speak to me and gush over me and tell the world that I am chosen, favored, His.

Me—with the scandalous past. Me—the woman who gave up her gift from the Lord. Me—the human doing. Me—the needy one. Me—the maker of mud pies. Me—the wretch.

Our God, our great big God, our intimate Friend, is passionate about me, and now that I know this, now that I have experienced His excitement, I am passionate about me too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not full of myself. I’m full of HIM, and that, my friends, is something to start shouting about to everyone and get a crowd to follow you just to see what you are so passionate about.

How can I not share my story with everyone I meet? How can I sit idol now and hope they read my book?

I can’t. I won’t. I will lose my voice to this story.

This story, that is so much like your story, is the only one worth telling.

“And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest. But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not as a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.”—Ephesians 2:1-10

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Cadence & Deacon

Michelle — Thu, 16 Aug 2012 19:39:39 +0000

I don’t think I have shown you all my children. There they are on the right. I know, they are beautiful.

Cadence and Deacon are amazing. They love me when I don’t sell books. They love me when I don’t get my blog written. They are quick to forgive and keep no record of wrongs.

More than that, they are a piece of my heart, and more than that, they are a piece of His heart.

They are the love of God in the flesh at my fingertips every single day.

What about you? Whom or what is your love of God that you can touch everyday?

The post Cadence & Deacon appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Sharing on Kindle

Michelle — Sun, 12 Aug 2012 19:54:22 +0000

I just found out on Kindle.com that someone shared my book with a friend after buying it this week. It was my first digital “borrow” and has gotten me very excited. Do you want to know why? Because someone out there in the world bought my book, read it, and said their friend, “Oh Honey! This book will rock your world. It’s so raw and real. It tells this amazing story of how the Lord redeems even the worst sinners. Here! I’ll let you borrow it.”

Okay. Maybe they didn’t exactly say that, but a girl can dream.

Spreading the truth of God is what Delivered is all about to me. It’s the reason I keep doing the interviews and selling the book. It is the reason I am on social media overload from Twitter, Facebook, Amazon, Google, my website, etc. It is the reason I am writing more books, a Bible study companion, and this blog.

The word of God as it was revealed to me through my adoption process is this: God’s love for you is not based on your behaviors (good or bad). It is sure, full, irresistible, wild, and reliable. God pursues you (even now as you read these words), and God is counter-cultural, completely surprising, and deeply personal in the way He makes us new creations.

There is nothing sweeter than being an instrument of the Lord for His Kingdom to come on earth as it is in Heaven. I pray that you all will experience a real God in a real way on this, the Sabbath.

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100 Huntley Street

Michelle — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 17:46:14 +0000

I had the amazing experience of being a guest on 100 Huntley Street this morning. I loved every minute of it! I hope you do too.

Click here to see the interview.

The post 100 Huntley Street appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Psalm 34

Michelle — Wed, 25 Jul 2012 16:59:52 +0000

I will bless the LORD at all times;
His praise shall continually be in my mouth.
2 My soul will make its boast in the LORD;
The humble will hear it and rejoice.
3 O magnify the LORD with me,
And let us exalt His name together.
4 I sought the LORD, and He answered me,
And delivered me from all my fears.
5 They looked to Him and were radiant,
And their faces will never be ashamed.
6 This [c]poor man cried, and the LORD heard him
And saved him out of all his troubles.
7 The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear Him,
And rescues them.
8 O taste and see that the LORD is good;
How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!
9 O fear the LORD, you His saints;
For to those who fear Him there is no want.
10 The young lions do lack and suffer hunger;
But they who seek the LORD shall not be in want of any good thing.
11 Come, you children, listen to me;
I will teach you the fear of the LORD.
12 Who is the man who desires life
And loves length of days that he may see good?
13 Keep your tongue from evil
And your lips from speaking deceit.
14 Depart from evil and do good;
Seek peace and pursue it.
15 The eyes of the LORD are toward the righteous
And His ears are open to their cry.
16 The face of the LORD is against evildoers,
To cut off the memory of them from the earth.
17 The righteous cry, and the LORD hears
And delivers them out of all their troubles.
18 The LORD is near to the brokenhearted
And saves those who are [d] crushed in spirit.
19 Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
But the LORD delivers him out of them all.
20 He keeps all his bones,
Not one of them is broken.
21 Evil shall slay the wicked,
And those who hate the righteous will be [e]condemned.
22 The LORD redeems the soul of His servants,
And none of those who take refuge in Him will be [f]condemned.

AMEN!

I know this is supposed to be my blog, but the Word of the Lord is so much better than anything I can come up with.

The post Psalm 34 appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

CityChurch Charlotte Blog

Michelle — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 15:30:48 +0000

Hey friends! Today I am a guest blogger at CityChurch Charlotte’s Blog. Click here to read my fun blog about hearing God, praying for others, and baseball bats.

Cheers!

The post CityChurch Charlotte Blog appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Give Up

Michelle — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 15:35:33 +0000

It’s always interesting when someone tries to educate me about my own experience. I try to listen patiently. I am hopeful that they mean well, but I usually get frustrated.

I recently had an encounter with a person who was disappointed in me for using the words “give up” as opposed to “placed” when talking about my adoption experience. This person felt like I misrepresented the adoption experience as a whole for birthmothers. This made me sad for a few reasons, and I wanted to take this opportunity to clear up a few things for those of you who might have the same concerns.

Whenever I speak about my experience as a birthmother I cannot whole-heartedly say that I “placed” my baby boy for adoption. For me, and I beg you to remember that I am and have always only shared my side of the story, for me saying “placed” reminds me of what I did to my plates on the dinner table last night, or that I placed my shoes in the closet. “Placed” cannot, nor will it ever, be the full weight of my experience with Baby Dylan. I gave him up.

Let me talk about the meaning of “give up” for just a minute. To give something up is to surrender. It is yielding oneself to a particular thing, influence or feeling. When I say that I gave my son up for adoption it is because that is the true and raw emotion that I felt when I actually did it. It is the way I feel now, knowing that I chose to relinquish my right to parent him in the day-to-day. I did not merely place him effortlessly into the hands of another woman. No! I surrendered. I died that day, and only by the grace of God am I living a new full life and celebrating Baby Dylan and his life.

I think we are doing a disservice to birthmothers when we tell them how to talk about their painful experience. Some birthmothers may be fine to say that they placed their child for adoption, and I support that. But some are barely even able to talk about it. My hope in sharing my story is partly that more birthmothers will begin to talk about their story and find healing in that sharing. In order to do that, I hope to help create a culture of openness and safety where birthmothers are free to be where ever they are at in the moment.

For me, I think if I were to mechanically talk about placing him for adoption out of some weird obligation to someone else’s needs and/or desires, it would be untrue to the gravity of the situation for me. Part of what has enticed people about my story is the honesty with which I told it. Pain is relative. My pain is relative.

So, in light of my self-awareness on the subject and at the risk of making a few people uncomfortable, I choose to deliberately say that I gave my son up for adoption. I hope others will feel free to talk about their experiences however they choose.

The post Give Up appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Glamour Owl

Michelle — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 19:09:28 +0000

God has gifted each of us in unique and exciting ways. I am thrilled that God chose to give my friend and clothing designer, Marie Matthews, the gift of beauty and a love for all things fashion. Here is her new line Glamour Owl.
Go, purchase, and proceed to adorn yourself in beautiful and comfortable style.

The post Glamour Owl appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

and

Michelle — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 15:10:57 +0000

I love words. I love how you can have the same set of words and rearrange them to mean several different things. I especially love how the word and is used in the middle of Romans 3:23-24. And is a conjunction word used to connect words of the same part of speech, clauses, or sentences that are to be taken jointly. For example bread and butter. This is a glorious and extraordinary discovery for me. God’s word does not stop with my sin, and therefore, I don’t have to either. Michelle has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, and Michelle is justified freely by His grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.

Today I pray that you will live in the reality of your redemption.

The post and appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Interview with Sean Herriott of Relevant Radio

Michelle — Fri, 22 Jun 2012 15:52:58 +0000

Just in case you missed it, here is Michelle’s interview with Sean Herriott from Relevant Radio this morning. Go down to 6/22/2012 and click on Hour 2. http://relevantradio.com/audios/morning-air-with-sean-herriott

The post Interview with Sean Herriott of Relevant Radio appeared first on Michelle Thorne Books.

Answering the Lurking Question

Michelle — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 15:07:46 +0000

Why did you give your baby away?

In March of 2000 I handed Baby Dylan over to his parents. I literally stood there and gave him to his mother. It was a moment most hated and most cherished by me. It was a time in my life that I relive over and over and still find it hard to come away unscathed. In fact, I spent years of my life grieving it and holding onto it and longing for him. I dumped a pile of money into therapy to be able to function on a daily basis.
And the lurking question is why. Why did I place my child for adoption?
To answer that question I would have to begin by talking about love. Love is often mistaken for street kiosk knock-offs like lust or pleasure. In this culture I find we throw the word love around like a little league baseball player in his big debut, often and careless. It is common to hear someone talk about love flippantly. I love those earrings, or I love the way you write. Perhaps it is about a person. I love his abs, or I love how funny she is. There is also the occasional, I love Justin Bieber.
But is this love? Or are we using a word in a way that it was not meant to be used? What is love truly, and how do we know we are in love?
Love is perhaps best defined by C. S. Lewis. He said, “Love is not merely affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.” (Interesting how he concentrates on the loved person, not the lover.)
I am fortunate to know this kind of love. If you are a parent you know that you are connected to your children in an unimaginable way that alters you. Being a birthmother does not make that bond less. In fact, it may be heightened to a degree. Sophia Loren said, “When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” This is why birthmothers place their children for adoption. We are thinking of our children and making an honest effort to love them well.
I was watching Downton Abbey recently and a woman who had gotten pregnant out of wedlock chose to keep her son instead of placing him with his rich grandparents. I was not disturbed by her choice until she explained why. She said, “What will [he] need more than his mother’s love?” I cringed. While this may seem noble to some, I find it rather selfish. When loving someone well, shouldn’t we always be focused on them? I’m not suggesting being a doormat, for who benefits from that? I am merely saying that love is unselfish, and just so you know, my Baby Dylan (who is a preteen now) has my love, my thoughts, my prayers.
Why did I place Baby Dylan for adoption? I wanted him to have a chance at a full life. I wanted his soul to stir when he considered love and know that love is not self-seeking. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, and endures all things. I wanted him to experience a love that did not fail him, a love that is a steady wish for his ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.

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Make Your Mark

Michelle — Wed, 23 May 2012 15:03:31 +0000

“But a Samaritan, who was on a journey, came upon him; and when he saw him, he felt compassion, 34 and came to him and bandaged up his wounds, pouring oil and wine on them; and he put him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn and took care of him.” Luke 10:33-34

One of the things I love most about having preschoolers is their artwork. The other day my children came home from preschool with some amazing artwork. Cadence, my 3-year-old daughter, held up a picture of all of her Barbies that she had painted. It was orange and red and yellow and very abstract.

Not wanting to be left out of all this positive attention, Deacon, my 2-year-old son, rushed over to share his masterpiece as well.
“Mommy! Mook at me,” Deacon exclaimed as he held up his picture.
“I love that!”
“Boobood! Boobood!” he shouted.
I looked at the picture and saw them, the thumbprints used for the body and wings of the bluebird. Blue ink, a tiny thumb, and a seized opportunity for art—a masterpiece indeed.

It strikes me that nobody else could have made that exact bluebird. That bluebird was made with his thumbprint. He had to get in there and get his hands dirty to make his unique mark, to create the artwork that impacted me so deeply this week.

And you know what else? He was so proud of it. He was not cautious that his artwork would not be good enough, nor did he consider what others would think. He saw an opportunity to get his hands dirty and create and he did it.

If only I would seize every opportunity to participate in the work of God’s masterpiece. What would happen if we each took the opportunity to use what we already have inside ourselves for good? I wonder how my life would be different if I had enough confidence to make my mark, the one that only I can make, and then hold it up for the world to see.

There are so many ministries and social justice projects out there in the world. There are opportunities with people at work or in your neighborhood. I know that there are times in my own home that I am needed to step up and speak the truth of God’s love over my family-to make my mark.

Are you willing to get your hands dirty to further the Kingdom of God?

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America Adopts Interview

Michelle — Mon, 21 May 2012 16:12:27 +0000

Hey friends! Here is a link to my recent interview with America Adopts. Hope you enjoy!

*UPDATED 8/4/2014*

It has come to my attention that this link is no longer available. So, I have posted the interview here for you to read instead!

AMERICA ADOPTS INTERVIEW

1. Let’s start at the beginning of your journey. When you first discovered you were pregnant, your world fell apart. Things were so bad that you even thought of killing yourself. What did you know about adoption at the time?

About what the average person knows, that you give your baby to new parents. I had no idea all of the things that adoption encompasses and just how beautiful it can be. This is part of why I felt so stuck and was looking for alternative ways out.

2. You described yourself as selfish, but not stupid. And yet you still resisted adoption — why?

Fear. I had such fear of going through with the pregnancy. I knew that being pregnant and not married was a social stigma (less so today), but at the time I did not want anyone to perceive me as anything other than perfect, which of course I wasn’t.

3. So what made you change your mind?

I had a moment in the car alone when I felt like God spoke to me and said, “This baby is not for you.” That may seem harsh or overly intense to some, but I was somewhat relieved. The weight of the burden for raising a child is not something I took lightly. I knew then I would definitely choose adoption no matter what. I thought there might be a formula, but when I started to do the research and went into Mercy Ministries, I found that adoptions are as unique as the individuals involved in them. My experience and my hopes for this little person could be tailored to fit my desires.

4. Your thoughts and feelings about adoption are directly tied to your relationship with God. How has one helped you understand the other?

I think placing a child for adoption has helped me understand the father heart of God. I fell in love with my little boy from the first moment, and not because he had done anything. I loved him simply because he was mine, and I believe that is how God loves us. His love for us is before a good or bad performance, and we can have confidence in that. This revealing lesson revolutionized my view of God, and now I can live my life in response to that love. In all, my experience as a birthmother has been a catalyst for healing in all areas of my life. Without my journey to and through adoption I would not be who I am, I would not see God the way I do, today. Adoption is part of my freedom, part of my abundant life.

5. Finding a family for your baby, you said, was fun but draining. I can imagine the draining part. But the fun part? Tell me about that…

It was fun to get to know so many different people through the books they had, no doubt, methodically put together. To me, it was like visiting a beautiful house of a friend’s friend and being aloud to look inside all the rooms. I would imagine my baby there in those houses and with that dad’s interests. I would think about the siblings, if there were any, and consider the mother’s involvement on a daily basis. It was like I got to create his story, which was sure to be much more rich of an experience than I could give him.

6. As you went through the parent profiles, you worried that you were being too picky. Did you ever feel like you wouldn’t find the right family for Dylan or that you were being forced to make unnecessary compromises?

No. Mercy Ministries was exceptionally accommodating. I was told to take my time, look through as many books as I needed, and if I still couldn’t agree on one, then they would find a family that suited me. So, I didn’t feel like I compromised at all. Dylan is still thriving in his home with his lovely parents 12 years later.

7. Even after the placement, you write that you feared that placing Dylan for adoption would scar him for life– that “he would not feel loved because the woman who gave birth to him had given him away.” How did you eventually conquer that fear?

Honestly, I kept that one hidden for a long time. It was on a visit to my friend Lindsay’s house that God revealed to me that Dylan was okay. Here is a quote from the book recounting the event.

I was recently at my friend Lindsay’s house with my children for the afternoon. Lindsay and her husband adopted their son, Grayson, at birth a few weeks before Cadence was born. He is a bright, happy boy, full of life and mischief. I love him.
When it came time for us to leave, Cadence did not want to go.
I looked at her and said, “We have to go home and see Daddy.”
To which she responded, “Daddy!” with such delight that I had to smile as she ran for the door.
Grayson looked up at me with his beautiful baby blues and said, “Up.” I immediately bent down and picked him up.
“Ah! Do you want to come home with me?”
He vehemently shook his head yes, and then he said, “Daddy.”
I am not sure if I can describe for you the feeling I felt at that moment. I believe the earth shifted under my feet. I couldn’t speak.
After a moment I kissed him twice and then looked at my friend and said, “That is the sweetest thing I have ever seen.” He heard the word daddy and he wanted to go to his.

I think you can learn very big things in very small moments. In that moment, I felt like Dylan’s daily joy and pain would have little, if anything, to do with me. I was one part of who he was, and because his parents were honest and open with him about his adoption and why I chose that for both of us, I felt in my heart that I no longer needed to fear that I had permanently damaged him.

8. You mention that people have no idea what to do with the information that you’re a birthmother. What are some of the some of the typical reactions you get and how do you react to them?
.
I have had people ask me how I could give my baby away. I have had people tell me I shouldn’t talk about it, or that they could never do what I did. My reactions are mostly scripted now.
“I placed my child for adoption because I wanted his upmost good as far as it could be obtained, and I knew I could not provide for him the way he deserved to be provided for.”
“You are only as sick as your secrets.”
“You don’t know what you can do until you are faced with that choice,” or “You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you (for the Bible reading folks out there).”

The most prominent reactions I get are stories of adoption. Anything from the most amazing story of a baby longed for to horror stories of birthmothers changing their minds after the parents have bonded with the baby seems to be fair game. Because I am talking about it, others feel the freedom to talk as well. I like that. I think we need to talk more about adoption and demystify what is a beautiful way to have a family.

9. And yet, even in this age of social media, you point out that it’s hard to connect with other birthmothers. Why is that?

In my 12 years since becoming a birthmother, I have only met a few women who were willing to talk about being a birthmother, and almost always their openness is in response to mine. However, since publishing Delivered, women are coming out of the woodwork to connect with me. I believe that birthmothers are the forgotten, or perhaps hidden, piece in the triptych of adoption, and I think that we all have a story to tell, a voice. I am hopeful that more birthmothers will begin to speak out and tell their side of the story. I know that every time I talk about my experience as a birthmother I get to celebrate life, and that is a very freeing thing indeed!

10. You’ll be speaking at a birthmother’s retreat this month. What message will you be sharing with them?

I spoke at the BirthMom Bud’s retreat on May 5th, and my message was one of hope. I have found that placing a child for adoption is like the death of a child. It is a process to grieve the loss and then, move into celebration of that life. Grief is so intense at first, but as it wanes it makes room for joy. I thought for a long time that if I was not in the throws of depression that I was forgetting my baby. However, when I began to rejoice in the life that he has now, the life that I gave him, I found that I remembered him more often, and that it brought me a lot of freedom and joy. I talked about how we, as birthmothers, must grieve and we must also celebrate.

11. What message do you want expectant parents who are considering adoption and waiting parents to take away from your story?

For expectant parents and waiting parents, I would hope that they read my story and see the heart of one birthmom, how adoption can be healthy and beautiful, and that they should feel free to really celebrate their child. Perhaps the last one is the most important. Because Noel was so excited and so in love from the first moment, it really helped me in my grief and healing. I knew I could trust her. I knew she loved him the way I did, and that was a very powerful thing.

12. I have two other questions I didn’t include below that I could add, depending on your thoughts: what was the most harrowing part of your journey?

The most harrowing part of my journey was the day and following two weeks after I saw Dylan for the last time. Hands down. The grief was so intense and so constant that I couldn’t move without feeling its sting. I describe in the book a moment when I told myself to simply breathe. This is the part that everyone fears, but looking back, it was so brief compared to all the time since then, the time spent in joy and thankfulness for his life.

And 2) and this is mostly for me, a clarification really: the reference in the title of your book to your “Journey as a Birthmother,” are you referring to the time before the placement, when you were wrestling with your decision? The reason i ask this is some birthmothers take issue with the use of the word “birthmother” to describe a woman before the placement occurs. In fact, two birthmothers I follow recently wrote that calling an expectant mother a “birthmother” is a form of coercion. So i’m curious to hear your thoughts on that.

I made my mind up to place my child for adoption very early into my second trimester. Even though I had not given birth, I considered myself a birthmother before he was born. So, I guess because I was referring to myself that way, it could in no way-just by definition-be coercion. However, I could see the concern. In Mercy Ministries it was never assumed I would do anything with Dylan until I did it. It was always my choice, up to the very end, and I imagine there are a lot of women who fluctuate from moment to moment up to the very end. It is a very hard decision and one that should be well informed.

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Silence is Golden

Michelle — Mon, 07 May 2012 14:41:09 +0000

This past weekend I spent time with some of the world’s most beautiful women—birthmothers. We gathered together at the BirthMom Buds Retreat in Charlotte, NC to have a weekend of sharing, laughter, tears, and encouragement. I was so honored to be among such lovely and selfless women, who like me did what parents do—the best for their child.

I had the privilege of speaking at the retreat and here is a bit of what I shared:

“For so long, I felt like I had failed at loving him. On the contrary, I have found that my love for him is so sure, that I can have times of silence, where I’m not thinking about him, and not feel bad.

It reminds me of being in a room with my husband. We can sit in a room together quietly for hours doing our own thing. My lack of communication in those moments are not equivalent to lack of love, but a security in our love. I know I love my husband, and he knows I love him. The silence between us does not negate that love.

It’s the same way for me with Dylan. He is always with me. He will always be mine. And I can continue on with confidence in my love for him and the choice I made for him.

With that revelation and my new heart, something remarkable happened to me. Joy. Grief moved over and made way for joy. You see, when I was in that grief cycle, all I could think of was my loss and how much I missed him. Do you hear it? My loss. How much I missed him. Now, don’t get me wrong—recognizing my grief, recognizing your grief, is essential. You have to do. You have to look it straight in the face and acknowledge it. But once you do that and time moves on, the grief will begin to wane and move over, making room for joy. It’s then, in those stretches of time between your moments of grief that you can celebrate—celebrate life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. You can own that joy, you can move forward knowing that you loved well, and you can be truly, deeply happy without feeling guilty.”

This is my heart for those wonderful women. That they would feel the freedom that comes with giving in to the joy and celebration of LIFE.

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Delivered on Kindle!

Michelle — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 12:35:30 +0000

Hey there! Just a quick post to let you all know that Delivered is now on Kindle. I am very excited about the possibilities of this, as it is now available in almost any language including Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, French, German, Cyrillic (such as Russian), Japanese, Chinese (Traditional and Simplified), and Korean! Please, pass this along!
This is the link.
Much love,
Michelle

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Jump In!

Michelle — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 04:52:38 +0000

Have you ever seen a little kid learning to jump into water for the first time? The fear that grips them is evident. They know they can trust their father, but they do so against every fiber of their being. They hesitate and question making sure that their father is indeed going to be there to catch them. They make certain he knows that they are about to jump and risk drowning if he does not do his job. A child will work very hard to ensure that their father will do what he has promised, catch them. As an adult, we know the child can trust his father. The father will catch the child. What loving father would do less?

I think that trust is an innate issue. Because I can only control myself, I am inclined to be hesitant with God when it comes to something that feels like it will harm me. Why does trusting God feel so laborious sometimes? Why do we begrudgingly hang our heads and shuffle along, as if it’s not what we wanted?

“Okay, God. I guess I have no choice but to trust You.”

I have actually said this out loud. Seriously.

How utterly disappointing it must be for God. What a let down. The reality that I don’t have confidence in Him to supply all my needs. There are times when I can’t see beyond the six inches in front of my face, and I wonder blindly if God can. Why? Why would I wonder such a thing?

Hebrews 4:14-16 says, “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are-yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”

Hold firmly. Approach with confidence. Receive mercy. Find grace. When should I do all those things? In my time of need.

I don’t know about you, but I have felt needy a lot in my life. Unfortunately most times, I have not held firmly to the faith I have professed, but felt chaotic and lost instead. I have replaced confidence with doubt, been too busy worrying to receive mercy, and too self-focused to find grace. I have hung my head and shuffled my feet and wondered, “Where is God?” I have thrown fits that would put toddlers to shame because to me trusting God sometimes feels like being thrown into the ocean during a storm. However, I suspect that to God its more like seeing a scared child wonder if his dad will catch him when he jumps into the pool and his father’s waiting arms.

So, I want to encourage those of you like me, who sometimes need to be reminded of the trustworthiness of God. Jump in! The water is fine.

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Chalk Up a Win!

Michelle — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 20:17:26 +0000

Everyone has been asking me how this weekend went in Oklahoma, so here it is!

GREAT!!!

Pure Compassion was an amazing conference with passionate people, diverse groups with a common goal, and touching stories. For me it was a first. It was my first time going to a conference full of people that I didn’t know and sharing my story. It was a huge learning experience for me. I am way better equipped for such conferences in the future. I learned practical things like having a sign telling people how much the book is and what forms of payment I take. I learned logistical things like how on earth do I transport 100 books to and from such a place. I also learned, perhaps the greatest lesson of all, that I am more in need of God than ever before.

I had the privilege of meeting three adopted persons Sunday night. They were different ages, sexes, and ethnicities, and they were all wondering about their birthmothers. I had an awesome responsibility and an unexpected ministry to speak into their lives with confidence and love that can only come from Christ.

They had questions—hard questions. Does my birthmother ever think about me? Why did my birthmother give me away? Have you told your family about the child you placed?

These questions had me on my heels. I hadn’t expected this. I never anticipated that adopted people would have such an interest in what I had to say. I had only hoped to share and heal with other birthmothers, but not this.

What did I have to offer? Such lofty questions, such deep longing could only be satiated by one thing—God. I answered as honestly as I could and hoped that they would feel the love of God through my answers.

If you look at the price tag of this trip, you might think that it’s a loss for me, but it’s not. I was reminded of God’s purpose and His plan and how I’m not always in the know on such matters. I am now sure of my need for prayer and fasting and pouring over God’s Word. I am in need of staying sensitive to the Spirit of God to guide me. I know now more than ever that I have to stay dependent on God. So, I am chalking this one up as a win!

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Going the Distance

Michelle — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 02:47:03 +0000

I love baseball. It’s the best sport—ever.

With Opening Day just a little over a month away, I started thinking about baseball today. I love the smell of freshly cut grass, the sound of the crowd, the loyalty of the fans. I love hot dogs and people watching. I love the math involved. I love the mechanics.

It occurred to me that these guys train their whole lives to be able to play the game at such an elite level. For example, consider the skill it takes to hit a baseball out of a major league ball park. There are all kinds of things that have to happen to connect to the ball. MLB players are trained. They have muscle memory. A ball player’s swing, stride, and eye contact with the ball are part of his instincts. They react to pitches in split seconds and can make that small leather ball go the distance of the park.

In my talk on Sunday, I talked a little bit about following the call of God. I was talking about Peter (Matthew 14) and how Jesus said, “Come.” Then, Peter hopped out of the boat and walked on water toward him. If you know what happens next, you know that Peter gets a bit overwhelmed in the moment, takes his eyes off of Jesus, and starts to sink.

Some people give him flack for that. Not me.

Peter didn’t use reason. He didn’t hesitate. This guy instinctively went to Jesus when he said, “Come.” Just one little word got Peter out of the boat and obeying the Lord in a split second.

I want to be like that guy. I don’t want to hear something from the Lord and think it over and calculate my risks. I want to instinctively obey. I want it to be a reflex. I want my muscles, actions, and words trained in such a way that my obedience to Christ goes the distance, changes the game, and makes me a fan for life.

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I Am a Horse

Michelle — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 01:19:12 +0000

The horse is prepared for the day of battle,
But victory belongs to the LORD. -Proverbs 21:31

Throughout my life I have been called a horse at various times on various occasions. The first time I remember being called a horse was by my best friend’s mom. We had been playing around and I sat on Kim. Her mom yelled, “Get off my daughter, you horse.” She didn’t mean it, and she was laughing along with the rest of us, but it always stuck with me that she called me a horse. It seemed odd.

When I told my dear friend “Dylan” that I was pregnant he called me a horse in a song he wrote. He said, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make her drink.” He did mean it. I had been bombarded with the truth of the Gospel, to no avail. I did not choose to drink.

“You are as big as a horse,” a lady said to me at a function I was attending while at Mercy Ministries. I don’t know if she meant to say house, like the old saying, but she said horse very clearly. I remember the other girls staring at me in horror. I just smiled coolly and agreed with her. She was, of course, correct. I delivered my baby boy within a week of that event.

I had always seen this label as negative until I chatted to my husband about it. He listened to my sob story and remarked, “A horse is a noble animal. Work horse, horse power, horse of a different color,” he said, sounding a bit like Bubba Gump. I got what he was saying though. I have a purpose, the strength and power to do it, and it’s not going to be like any other story.

“The horse is prepared for the day of battle,” says the Word, and I was. God’s constant pursuit of me in my shame and sin, and His gentle and passionate love prepared me to place Baby Dylan for adoption. “But victory belongs to the Lord,” and it does. My life and birthmother experience are now a testimony to the wisdom, love and faithfulness of the Godhead.

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The Independent Variable

Michelle — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 01:18:47 +0000

In my twelve years since giving a child up for adoption, I have been talking about the experience, and find it to be like allowing people to go through my secret drawer. I have met all kinds of people interested to hear what I have to say. Wanting to know what it was like to carry a child knowing I would not raise him. Curious about the pain I went through in those crucial moments, and relived at the redemption that came along with it. Wondering how I don’t live in shame. People seem to be genuinely interested in my personal experience, in who I am, and what I think.

If I’m brave enough, I would admit that this brings me great joy. I would tell you that at the core of who I am, I long to be interesting and inspiring. But today, I am just Michelle, and today I will tell you that the interest people have in my story reminds me of Jesus.

Too cheesy? I don’t think so.

I think that Jesus is relevant, just like pain is relevant. I think that Jesus and pain are both complex and necessary to bring the fullness of life, to bring freedom. To me, being a birthmother is my pain and Jesus is Jesus. He is the independent variable in our deepest question. He is the hinge from which the pendulum swings. He is the energy behind our attempt at an equal and opposite reaction to God. Each of us has our own specific, startling, tender pain. If its only the pain of loosing yourself, or your projected self, its still pain.

I choose to be vocal about my experience as a birthmother because I want to connect to the part of people that is painful and remind them, as I am, of the independent variable—Jesus. And you know the funny thing about an independent variable? It remains the same no matter what, who, how, why, or where the dependent variable is, was or will be.

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