I said I was going to post more, and I've had this post running around my brain for awhile.  In the vein, that this blog offers me a place to put my thoughts down, and I'm not an expert.  At least not on parenting.  Or adoption.  Or really anything.  Except how to do laundry really fast to keep up.  I may be an expert on that.  So please don't take my words as if I somehow have this all figured out.  I'm just thinking through my life, and putting it down here.

In light of Mother's day, I'm going to write about grief.  Yep, that uplifting and encouraging topic.  Of wait, it's not.  Neither uplifting or encouraging.  So maybe come back to this next week.  I won't be hurt that you don't want to go there on this beautiful weekend.  So you've been warned.  Hard, heavy and yucky topic ahead.

Grief.  Mother's Day is a huge trigger of grief for me.  My own Mom died 11 years ago.  I talked to her in the morning, made plans, and hung up the phone without a second thought.  And less than 12 hours later, I was racing to the hospital, saying over and over again, "Please, no.  Please, no.  Your will, not mine.  But Please, no.  This can't be.  It simply can't be HAPPENING."  But it did happen.  Brain dead.  Organ donation.  Eating breakfast at an IHOP, while life goes on around you.  Then good-byes.  And then the final blow.  She is gone. Death.  Loss. Shock. Numb.  And the aftermath.

I had attended a funeral a month before all of this flooded my life.  There were parents standing over a small coffin.  And a Mother who somehow stood and shared, and I was in awe of her strength.  Which is a good indicator of how LITTLE I understood of grief.   The uncle shared his understanding of how grief feels.

"We are all walking along on this journey of life.  Walking along, checking out the scenery.  Beautiful, Life, Joy, Peace.  And we come to the part of our path that lead to grief, the ocean.  Some times it's a slow meander down to stand and watch the tide come in.  Sometimes, the path gives way underneath you and suddenly your drowning.   But there you are, standing in the ocean of grief.  Regardless of how one arrives, there you stand.  Well, standing might be a bit generous, more like flailing your arms, trying to get one good breath of air and feel your feet underneath you.

But you don't get to just walk out of the water and be done.  You make it to shore, you get your feet underneath you, and the only path leads along the water.  Well, actually through the water.   And so you take a few steps, and another wave comes.  And it washes over you.  And you lose your footing again.  You get mouthfuls of water, and your chest hurts to breath.  And when you get your feet under you, your so tired.  A few more steps ahead, and another wave comes.  And you repeat.  repeat.  repeat. repeat.  It seems endless.  It is endless, the path is long, and the waves make it hard to move forward.  And then one day, a wave comes, and you notice your feet don't move.  You're still out of breath, your chest hurts, you are wet, but your feet are planted firmly.  Sometimes the tide is out, and the waves just lap at your ankles, reminding you that you are still next to grief.   Good days, you stay dry and feel like you've came to terms.  Then a really big wave comes.   Your path now always has an ocean at one side.  Some days you forget it is there.  Then a significant date comes, and your standing in the waves again.  Or a song, or a smell, or a memory and  once again the path is headed back to the ocean.   You learn to feel when the path twist that way.  You learn  how to choose to visit the ocean when you need to.  You learn to let the path wander that way, get wet, and then move away from it. "

But I'm not the only one in our little family who lives this way.  My children live with this too.  They too have an ocean of grief that regularly pulls them in.  Their grief is bigger and greater than I could ever imagine.  So how does one parent a child in grief?  I'm not really sure.  Most days I feel like we're just trying to keep their heads above water, so they don't get lost in it.   But I think we've learned a few things.  From my grief.  From walking with them through theirs.

-Grief doesn't end.  You aren't going to love them enough to make up for the loss of their birth family.  Read that again.  I know as an adoptive parent we really want to believe our love will somehow save them from the pain of loss.  That in choosing them we will somehow compensate for abandonment.  That with all our therapy, attachment parenting, and good intentions we can somehow fix what is broken.  *I believe in therapy, attachment parenting and good intentions, it just doesn't fix all the brokenness that comes packaged up in their story.*  They are not going to have a day when magically they are done grieving.  When you've filled the hole completely.   You aren't going to be enough.  Yeah, I know - it sucks.  It really, really sucks.  It sucks more after two years, then it did after two months.  I'm willing to bet it sucks more after 20 years then it does now.  I don't have to be 20 years down the road to guess that.   There will be days they will long for their birth family.  Maybe not to live with forever.  But to know them.  To understand their own story through the key people.  To be held by them.  To know their voice.  To know who they look like.  Who has their laugh.  They will push you away, simply because you are not them.  You aren't what they want or need.  Because they are grieving.  Not because you are lacking.  Not because you don't love them.  Not because they don't love you.  But because you aren't what is missing.

-Grief is messy.  At our house, grief is loud.  It's defiant, and quite honestly exhausting.  It involves wailing.  It involves pushing away.  It is attachment rejection.  It's actually a pretty crappy guest.  It doesn't let you know  it's planning a stay.  It messes up the schedule.  It tears up bedrooms.  It thrives on chaos, on a busy schedule, on tired parents.  It's not easily appeased.  It requires attention.  It demands it.

-Grief matters.  How you allow your children to grieve matters.  How you react to your children's grief matters.  I don't have a lot of advice.  Other than as someone who grieves.  Don't tell them they are ok.  Don't give them platitudes.  Don't tell them they should be grateful.   Don't tell them you understand.  Unless you've lost your family, your culture, your language, your country, and everything you know.  In that case, relate all you want to.  But most adoptive parents have no ability to understand what their children have lost. Acknowledge that.  Be sorry, but leave pity alone.  Don't leave your children alone in their grief.  Be present in it with them.  Be strong enough to stay.  Don't turn away.  Don't take it personal.  Cry.  With them and for them.  Tell them their story is sad, and breaks your heart too. And mostly, pray.  Pray with them.  Pray God's word (Psalm 116) over them as they fall apart.  Hold them when they will let you, and sometimes even when they won't.  And pray some more.

-Grief heals.  This is the hardest to accept.  When grief happens, and it is walked through, there is healing.  When you stay put, and let the grief come, wash over, and the tide to go out, there will be healing.  It is hard.   It's hard to choose grief.  It's hard to go walking into the water, fearing you might drown.  But you won't.  You don't.  You come out having one less wave to get to healing.  And while healing is a life long process, it does get better.  Teach your children to grieve.  Speak to them about it.  Name the process.  Name the jumbled up emotions.  Give them permission to miss and long for their losses.  Have compassion for their story, long after they've come home and transition is over.   Accept that your child comes with grief.  Long term, not just in transition.  It may leave for awhile, but you can bet on seeing that shore line again. and again. and again.

Here is the amazing thing.  Grief is a great teacher about life.  And God will slowly begin to bind up the broken places.  He has recently brought me woman to start to fill some of those spaces left void without my Mom.  11 years of grief came first.  In part, my own stubborn desire to hold onto grief in lieu of my mom, kept me from being open to those relationships. In part, I just had to go through the grief process to this place of healing.    And that is my prayer for my children.  And my job.  To walk through the grief.  To allow the pain of grief to lead to healing.