Here we are at a new church. Surrounded, again, by people. No one really knows me. They might know my name. Or maybe my husband’s name. But they know nothing about me. Except maybe what they see on social media. Or what they’ve been told by their friends.
New places. New faces. New names to remember.
They don’t know me or my story. They look at me as complete and whole. A big family, happy and content.
They see rescuers because we adopted.
They see parents because we have children.
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They see a wife, a husband because we walk in together.
They see a team, our family, siblings, and children.
But they don’t see the whole.
They don’t see the mess. The suffering. The sorrow. The holes.
They don’t see the weeping or trauma-induced triggers. They see the outside. Put (somewhat) together. Chasing toddlers, holding babies, teasing teens. They see the mended, the healed, the new normal.
But I want them to know the lament. The ache. The longing. The struggle.
The yearning for holy and more holy and more holy. The longing for Heaven and Him and true love.
What I want them to see is the Lord making this beautiful life out of literal ashes.
Fires and floods, hunger and abandonment, loss and grief. He has and He is and He will continue bringing joy into the deep grief, providing peace in the chaos. Because honestly? Only He can.
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I am small and weak. Not enough, not ever enough. I burn dinner and lose patience. I get anxious in crowds and new places. I am not the rescuer. I am the rescued. I can love because I am beloved by Him. I am a complete and utter mess and failure, and Jesus somehow turns that into His glory and my good and my family’s good.
What you see isn’t always what you get. We are real, transparent, and vulnerable. We are a mess, chaotic, and almost always late to everything. But we love Jesus. We love people, especially our people. And we wouldn’t have it any other way.