transracial adoption and jesus in the chick fil A...

If you've been following our journey on this blog (where I share much more of my heart than on social media), it's no surprise that our family has endured one of our toughest semesters yet on so many fronts.  (Read back a few posts ago and perhaps you'll get a sense for the amount of stress we've endured.)

Some things are improving, and some things remain very raw, sore, and difficult.  We are trying to find our way.

Life looks so different now than it used to.  Through these trials, I've found myself reflecting often upon transracial adoption (adopting outside of your race/across racial lines).  It's changed our life so radically over the past five years. 

When we adopted Jameson, (and that was a whirlwind of a story- whew!) we took the adoption experts' advice very seriously when it came to incorporating our son's culture into our family.

I know lots of white families that have adopted black and biracial children.  Some of them choose to ignore the topics of race and our racial history with their children (as is custom in white culture).  Someone I know even touted, "My friend's children don't even know they're black!" 

Sigh.

To be fair, every adoptive couple, just like every parent, has the right to decide how they'll parent their children on various topics throughout a child's life.  I'd even guess it's probably more common for white couples adopting transracially to simply include their child into their own life and culture with very little changes to expose their child to his/her own culture and identity.  (That's tough work.)

But here's the problem. 

All those cute little black babies raised by sweet white families in the past few decades are now ADULTS.  And they're talking.  They're sharing their experiences of being raised in white families, in white churches, in white neighborhoods.  Research shows they're struggling through their own identity issues as they're now living as black men and women in life, and they're often finding themselves ill-prepared to handle life as a person of color in society once they're out from underneath their parents' white umbrella.

It's Marc and I's mission to raise our children in such a way to honor their birthfamilies and to honor their heritage.  Since Jameson's adoption is across ethnic lines, it's an added challenge but we want to do everything we possibly can to learn about, celebrate, and incorporate the richness of his culture into our own family.

Even when it puts us in a strange wilderness like now.

Because we're not black.  We're not white.  We're a black AND white family.  Collectively.

And so that makes us constant pilgrims longing for a place and a people to which we belong.
We're in process from "old life" to "new life," where there is alot more color and diversity.  That may sound nice and exciting, but in reality, painful isn't a strong enough word to describe that transition for us. 

Don't get me wrong, I love wherever I'm headed, for I know it's God that is doing the leading, and He will surely guide us. 

But I'll be walking with a limp to get there.

Last week, I was standing in the airport Chick Fil A line with Caroline and Jameson before our flight home departed.  (Marc was on baggage duty back at the gate while we got food.)  Jameson was in my arms, and he was being a total sweetie.  Our faces were close to one another, and we were just engaging in a typical 5-year-old mom and son conversation.  When Jameson laid his head down on my shoulder because he'd been up since the crack of dawn traveling, my eyes met those of another man.

I'd seen this man back at the gate.  He was kindof an odd duck, almost like a black Indiana Jones.  The adventure hat, the vest, the chiseled facial features and muscular build.  Intimidating at first glance, but at the back of the Chick Fil A line, he was staring straight into my eyes in a way that was incredibly profound, full of compassion.

Was he trying to tell me something?  Or is this just my imagination? I'm trying to figure out.  I really wish I was more intuitive...

But he continued looking at Jameson and me, and he nodded his head slowly. 

I see you, Mom, his expression and nod told me. 

And then, he nodded at me AGAIN!  Slowly, intentionally, deliberately.  TWO NODS!  He was telling me something.   He was non-verbally affirming my motherhood to my chocolate-skinned son in such a tender way that I was incredibly humbled. 

I fought back tears and smiled knowingly back at him.  Thank you for seeing me, I wanted my face to say.  Thank you for affirming me in such a difficult season in life.

I turned around and we continued through the line.  As we ordered, the girls at the cash register were striking up conversation with Caroline, even to the point of name introductions.  And just as it was time to insert my credit card into the machine......almost out of nowhere the man walked up with his credit card in hand and told the cashier, "It's on me."

Y'all.  I just about burst out crying!  (It's a moment I've been WAITING to type about because it won't leave my thoughts and memory.)

I don't know who that man was, and I've even questioned if he was an angel?! 

Because to me, that moment was as if it was the Lord himself affirming me....

Amy, I see you.  You're doing this.  Though it's painful, and people will reject you and think you're crazy, you're on the right track.  You're giving everything you have to love your children and I'm proud of you.

It was like God was saying:

Not only am I going to affirm where you're headed, do not fear.  I'm even going to PROVIDE for you along the journey.  You won't go hungry.  Trust in me.  I'll feed you along the way, and I'll send the most unlikely people to do it.  

I know it's a little weird to compare this guy in the Chick Fil A line to Christ himself, but out of love, this guy rushed to the front of the busy line to pay my debt.

And in that moment, my faith was increased.

maybe we need another reformation....

Today isn't your typical Sunday morning.

It's big. 

This Tuesday marks the 500th anniversary of the protestant Reformation when Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the church door in Wittenburg, Germany.  Maybe that's not a big deal to you, but without it, our lives and arguably our entire society wouldn't be the same without it.

So that means churches everywhere across the globe (especially those in my reformed Presbyterian tradition) will be celebrating it together today.

(So, of course- Murphy's law-- my son comes down sick in the middle of the night, which means I can't go to church.  But while pouring him a warm bath, I got to thinking, and started jotting down a few thoughts.)

It's easy as a Protestant to look back on history and see who was on the right side of it, you know?

Yeah! The Reformation.
Yeah!  Martin Luther.

The church had become terribly corrupt and self-serving.  Its doctrine was out of line with the Scripture.   It oppressed people monetarily by demanding payment for the promise of eternal life.

That all sounds crazy to our modern ears, right?  Of COURSE things needed to change.

The church itself needed to be challenged, held accountable, and cleansed of its corruption at the time.

And thanks to the courage of our buddy Martin Luther to get it started, it eventually was.

But today I'm thinking more deeply about the terribly difficult road it took for Martin Luther and the Reformers.  Change didn't come overnight, and it didn't come without a great deal of suffering for all of those involved in the movement of resistance.  After demonstrating his own form of peaceful, nonviolent protest, Martin Luther's life was characterized by constant pressure to defend this movement called the Reformation politically and theologically against the dominant, all powerful Catholic church.

 I'm sure that was one stressed-out guy, y'all.

It's important to note that Luther's intentions were never to split from, but to "reform" what already existed if that was possible. He certainly wasn't playing by the rules, but he wasn't abandoning the system, either.

But like most any dominant institution or company, a few revolutionaries weren't going to change anything.  It wasn't until some of the cries of the Reformation like Sola Gratia, Sola Fide, Sola deo Gloria, Sola Christus, and Sola Scriptura (Latin phrases meaning Grace Alone, Faith Alone, For God's Glory Alone, Christ Alone, and Scripture Alone) took hold of people's hearts and began to spread uncontrollably like wildfire that it was clear there would be no stopping this thing.

I wonder what it must have been like for Luther to stand alone in protest against a centuries-old establishment that he himself loved and belonged within.  To brave the wilderness, as Brene Brown would say.  Luther was risking his very life when he stood alone.

As people slowly caught on to Luther's seemingly "revolutionary" ideas of getting back to the heart of the Christian faith, I wonder how increasingly threatened those in power must have felt.  He was excommunicated from the church, called before emperors and asked to recant his beliefs.  But thanks be to GOD Luther remained defiant for the good and godly beliefs in which he was fighting.

And we're all better for it today, amen?

But here's what I'm thinking.  Just as the church had become misguided and corrupt by its own desire for power back then, we see it happening in our country today.  Maybe it isn't the doctrines of salvation that are being twisted as much as they were in the 1500's, but perhaps affirming and applying the doctrines of God's IMAGE and God's KINGDOM are being missed and more importantly dis-missed by a majority culture within our evangelical institutions.

The story of the Bible itself is a Savior who came as a poor, homeless man in order to 1) reconcile sinners to Himself AND 2) to reconcile two groups that hated one another (Jews and Gentiles) into the SAME FAMILY of God.  Though the racial and economic tension and reconciliation in the Gospel story is radically applicable to us today, our homogeneous churches are the fruits of generations who have focused on the first half of the Gospel without regard for the latter.

Maybe we need another reformation?

Maybe it's already happening.  Maybe that's what all this cultural mess we're feeling these days is about.

I sense the Spirit is in the business of waking some of His people up.

Do you sense the small wildfire burning within the hearts of those who yearn for true biblical, Gospel-centered justice?   Could it be that what's instinctively being labeled as a "liberal, political agenda" is really an attempt to dismiss the flames of reformation that are beginning to sweep our nation?

Do you sense division, even within the church?  It's okay.  The Reformation shows us that division and peaceful protest can ultimately be for the good of God's kingdom.  

Is the church engaging in healthy discussions on matters of race, poverty, and culture?  Understanding the doctrines of God's image and His kingdom demand that we pay attention to what's happening around us.   Is the church listening to the voices of the modern day Martin Luthers, or is it seeking to silence and excommunicate them?

Is the American evangelical church acknowledging, confessing, and repenting of it's own history that kept people of color from entering its doors just a few decades ago, creating the safe haven of the American black church, and does it humbly welcome them in today?   Does the church recognize its compliance of anti-Gospel practices and the long-term, continued lingering effects of hundreds of years of enslavement within our country?

Do churches have a genuine desire to ensure the diversity of God's image isn't just within the congregation, but also in leadership roles as well?   Or similar to the 1500's, is the long-standing institution of the church feeling politically and economically threatened and reacting in fear, desperate to maintain power?

What if (bear with me) the cries of this reformation are the words "Black Lives Matter?"  I'm sure the 5 Solas made those in the catholic church shudder back then, too.

In 500 more years, what will history show us about the American church's love for the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized?

And whose side will you be on?

"God doesn't need your good works, but your neighbor does."  -Martin Luther

white mama at the black barbershop: more than hair...

Okay, I'm super embarrassed to show y'all this first picture of my son's hair.

Life has obviously been a little crazy between selling our house and working on the River House, (more on that in a future post!) so as you can see, Jameson's hair has not been our first priority.

I was almost too mortified to take him in ANYwhere, and I really shouldn't have taken him in without washing his hair at home first to help loosen his incredibly tight curls for picking out.

So the barber,

loving his first shampoo at the barber shop

whom we love and have seen before, started working through Jameson's hair with the pick, and I could see Jameson doing everything in his power to hold back the tears.  (As I internally beat myself up...)

At that point, the barber took him for his first shampoo.  (I guess he realized it was a lost cause to get that pick through the boy's head.  Smart man.)

After the shampoo came the buzzers.  (or are they called the clippers? I don't even know...)  And at the back of Jameson's head are the tightest little curls that whatever-it's-called yanks and pulls when the hair gets long.

Jameson couldn't hold it in anymore.  He bowed his head and let the tears flow.  My poor guy.

The barber ran to the back room and rushed back with a chocolate bar for both of my kids.  #barberforthewin

Tear-stained Jameson devoured the bar, and the barber and I continued chit-chatting.  Occasionally he would direct a boisterous question to Jameson, and Jameson (being a shy version of himself) would usually just answer with a soft, enunciated "yes."

Then the barber turned to me each time and imitated Jameson's little voice saying "yes" and laughed to himself.  He said he couldn't believe how "polite" Jameson spoke.

I laughed.  Jameson didn't exactly know how to get his barbershop talk on.

And then that big ol' wave of white-mama-of-a-black-son insecurity hit me, for more than just hair.

My son is going to be teased for how he speaks.  He'll likely be teased for a myriad of things just because he lives with a white family.  He'll have to suffer the consequences for his deficiencies in black culture because of me.

I left that barbershop painfully aware of my whiteness, and of my son's lack of blackness, if that makes any sense.  

I can give my son so much-- food, clothing, a loving home, a family that's crazy about him, lightsabers galore, and even a good haircut-- but there's a big piece missing in every adoptee's life.  

(Especially in a transracial adoptee.)

I can't give Jameson the connection to his birth family.  And I can't give him his racial and ethnic heritage.  

That may not sound like a big deal to some, but Jameson comes from a very strong and beautiful cultural heritage.  Marc and I are always seeking for ways to bring more of it into our life, both for our sake and for his.

Since we have serious cultural limitations, we are praying that some of our dark-skinned brothers might take him under their wing.  I am praying for more racial representation for him in the church.   I want him to have real-life role models that can talk to him about what it means to be black in America.  That may not be something that he feels he needs now, but it's something he'll know he missed out on later. 

You guys, transracial adoption is about SO much more than learning to do hair.  

It's committing to a journey that will literally lead you places you never knew you'd go.  

It's coming to grips with your own insecurities and incapabilities and mourning losses your child doesn't even yet know he's facing.  

It's being willing to give up your comfort and even your people for the benefit of your child.  

It's a path that isn't for everyone.  

It's the most challenging (and simultaneously the most rewarding) thing I've ever done.  And I'm only 4 years in. 

May God give this little white mama the grace to know how to do it well.

white mama at the black barbershop: a busted chin and a lollipop...

Exhale.

It's been one of those days.

In the midst of alot of stress... ministry situations, fund raising (our main supporting church just had to cut their yearly giving to RUF from $10,000 to $0...that's not stressful...), confusion over schooling for our children next year, etc., I just needed one more thing on my plate.

So how about a fluke fall onto the floor which landed a gash and a busted chin?

It was one of those motherhood rite-of-passage moments.  Where I, with wet hair and half dressed, am simultaneously grabbing my purse and rushing out the door to the doctor, holding a tissue against Jameson's chin to stop the bleeding.

And thankfully, it only needed a little cleaning and some glue to put the skin back together.  (No stitches this time, thank you, Jesus.)

This white mama doesn't do well with blood, so I'm still trying to calm down.

So we got the chin all fixed up, just in time to head to a hair cut.

New barbershop.  New barber.

A glued up chin.

A mini Simon Says game in his hands.

He was so tired from all the morning's "excitement"

and I saw his eyes getting heavier and heavier...

 

...until they couldn't stay open any longer.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.

HOWEVER cute and peaceful that may be, Jameson's now at the age that if he naps EVEN FOR JUST A FEW MINUTES, he'll be up until 10pm at night.

(And though I love my kids, I don't want to be with them at 10pm.)

So Trell, the barber, had just the trick to entice him to wake back up:  a lollipop.

That did the trick.  For whatever reason, Jameson hasn't been as fussy with a male barber like he was with our female one.  (I guess it's a pride thing...)  He doesn't ask me to sit in the chair with him, either.

We're definitely moving up.

But he still doesn't want to talk, either.  Trell tried to ask him questions, and this white mama SO appreciated it.  My son needs all the opportunities he can get to interact with black men in his life.

"Come on, Jameson," I encouraged him.  "You've gotta talk. That's what you do in a barber shop."

"That's right!" Trell said.  "And then eventually one day when you're old enough for your mama to start dropping you off, then you and me can REALLY talk."   Hahahahahaha  

We made it to the end of the cut, and isn't my baby so handsome??  He is going to be a heart breaker, y'all.

As much as I like how trim and styled this hairstyle looks,

(and my goodness, it's SO much easier to style)

I've gotta admit, I'm missing his curls on top.

But after the busted chin incident,

it was so, so good just to see him SMILE again.

michael brown is living in my house...

Back from a much needed, life-giving conference in St. Louis.

Our denomination hosts a yearly "Justice and Reconciliation" conference at New City Fellowship in St. Louis, which is an amazing multi-ethnic congregation doing great things in their city.

Welcome to St. Louis!

Marc and I have been trying to get to this conference for the past two years, and this year we just HAD to make it happen.

Florissant Ave. in Ferguson, Missouri

Upon arriving town, the first place we headed was the small town next door, Ferguson.  Since the events of Michael Brown's shooting there and the subsequent over-militarization of the police against protesters, I've had this strong desire to go and see it for myself.

Because it was two and a half years ago when I watched a live stream night after night on my computer.  I struggled to understand the racial complexities of the situation from both sides.  My heart was breaking to see the lengths people were going in their desperation and pleas for justice.  The situation looked like a scene I had only seen in a movie from the 1960's.  And this was 2015.  

I watched many of my facebook friends respond hastily with condemnation and hateful words towards the situation.  They rushed to judgment, bypassing empathy altogether.  Was anyone asking questions?  Was anyone seeking to understand?  There's a ton of complexity when it comes to this stuff.  There's a ton of history that plays into it as well.  And all of that didn't seem to matter in the heat of the moment.

Ferguson impacted me deeply.  I felt the fear that black mothers all over the country feel for their boys.  They know the statistics, they know the realities all too well.  And yet, as I was drawing nearer in solidarity to my dark-skinned brothers and sisters, I was simultaneously feeling more rejected and alienated by those in my own culture.

I don't think my white friends and family intended to be hurtful.  I honestly think most are blissfully ignorant, and they're uncomfortable or unsure when it comes to speaking on matters of race.  (perhaps that's because in our culture, we've bought into the lie that race isn't something that should be discussed.) 

But the blank faces, the minimizing, the same predictable defenses are not only hurtful, they are tiring, too.  

Two years later, fresh roses were laying upon the scene of Michael Brown's death

When you love someone, you can't help but see the world through their eyes.  In a way, it's like God has woken me up.  He's ripped blinders off of my eyes and allowed me to see things for the first time. 

Take this quick example from our church's Sunday School children's curriculum.  (It's used in a gazillion churches in America each Sunday morning.)  

Look at it through my son's eyes.  

Look at it through a historical lens.  (Jarius' daughter wasn't blonde, I can tell you that.)  

What does this subtly teach our children?  

It's simultaneously a beautiful thing and a terrible thing to go through what my counselor calls "major identity shifts."  

"Major identity shifts" are not so easily done when you're in a community that doesn't share them with you.  Honestly, we've endured the stress of feeling alone in our situation.  There is not a single PCA black man in our city for my son to emulate.  Not one.  There are dynamics of raising a black son that most folks in our circles don't understand.  

So part of St. Louis was going to gain some support, even if it would be long-distance.  

When I got to the Justice and Reconciliation conference, I quickly met the African American woman that I've forever idolized on social media.  I'll never forget her words to me upon hearing that I'm an adoptive mama to a brown skinned boy who was forever changed by Ferguson:

"Michael Brown is living in your house.  The advancement of the disadvantaged is now your family crest."

Yes.  Wow.

(I literally stopped her from saying another word while I wrote that down.)

I spoke with another black woman who is a licensed counselor and dean at a seminary about raising a black son, and she, too, spoke truthfully to me about many things, like the need to teach Jameson about interacting with the police in order to save his life.

One by one, each person I met at the conference just "got it."  They gave me the encouragement I needed to hear.

I didn't feel so crazy anymore.

These people loved Jesus, and they longed to see the power of the Gospel reconcile Jew and Gentile, black and white, native american, hispanic, poor and rich.  They knew the power of Jesus' kingdom and how it can break through the Sunday morning segregation, and they were actually doing the multi-ethnic community of which we dream.

with our friend, PCA pastor Irwyn Ince

We came to St. Louis on empty and we left feeling so full and recharged.


We're eager to continue laboring unto the Lord in the area of justice and reconciliation where we are.  I'm starting a small discussion group here in Lynchburg on racial unity.  We're praying that God might bring a multi-ethnic PCA church plant to our city.

And though there will be times we'll feel discouragement and have to remind ourselves that reconciliation is a long, slow work of God, at least we now know we're not alone.  

white mama at the black barbershop...

 We were LONG overdue for a cut, y'all.

Like, I tend to push times in between cuts anyways, but this time we were WAAAY overdue.

That's partly because the woman who'd been cutting Jameson's hair suddenly and unexpectedly lost her husband (so, so sad- my heart goes out to her), so I've just been a little lost about getting into a new barber.

But it was time.  The hair was not getting any more manageable or detangling on its own...

 I expected the usual... he'd only comply if he sat in my lap to get the haircut.  He'd fuss and push the clippers away.

But no.

Not a whimper.

He sat in his chair and "took it like a man"- ha!

(Caroline and I were beaming with pride in the background, though alot more hair came off than I expected...eek!  That's okay, it's just hair.  Thankfully, his will grow back.)

I asked him later why he didn't fuss at the barbershop like he usually does.  "Mom, I like the boys there."

Well, okay.  A barbershop it is then.

Being a white mama in the black barbershop used to come with some discomfort.  I wasn't used to settings where I was the minority.  But now, this white mama doesn't feel so lily white, and I honestly cherish the moments when my son can be in the majority, as it gives me a small idea of what he experiences every day.

When your child is a different ethnicity from their family, you're (hopefully) looking for opportunities for them to connect with others that look like them.

Jameson knows he's got brown skin, and he notices when people or characters in books look like him. (which is sad how difficult that can be... )  I want him to know who he is and where he comes from.  I don't want my son to grow to be a white man in a black man's body.  I want him to know how to navigate both white and black culture when he's grown.  And since he's naturally going to have alot of white culture being in our family, I've got to be more intentional in bringing in the black culture.

I hear other parents touting themselves on the fact that their children "don't see color," and I wonder, what's so wrong with seeing color?

"Mom, I LOVE the barbershop."

Is there something inherently wrong or shameful about color that we wouldn't want our children to see it?

I want my kids to see color.  I want them to see and recognize and talk with me about the ways God created people in all different countries and cultures in His image.  It's good.  It's beautiful.

Every culture has negative aspects and false stereotypes.  Likewise, every culture displays beauty and God's glory as well.  How is my son's culture more often portrayed?

In my ignorance, I often wondered why there were black churches or black colleges or black barbershops or a black history month or black anything... and yet now, it's all so, so clear.

This mama's heart can only take so much, y'all.  There's so much I could say.  There's so much pain and so much that needs to change in regards to racial reconciliation.

Lord, change our hearts and bring reconciliation to our brokenness.  Help us to listen without getting defensive.  Help us to be patient with those who don't see what we see.  Help us to assess what is true, help us to admit our own fears and ignorance.  Help us to see our sin and our own contributions to racism, whether personally or systemically.  Help us to enter into real relationships with those who are different from us, not in order to rescue them, but in order to learn from them.  Give us a vision of your Kingdom... every tribe and every tongue praising their Creator together... and help us to love Your Kingdom more than our own culture or our own country.  Help us to care not only about what may benefit us, but what might bring shalom for those you loved... the poor, the needy, the broken, and the outcasts.  Amen. 

river house #11... port-a-potties and transracial parenting...

to the River House!

Hello, old friends.  It's been too long, my apologies.

Care to come see the River House?  Hop on your new scooter because it's only a block away from our house.

You remember we've done the basement,
and then we added on...

...well, now we've got a new permit to begin work on the main house!  Woohoo!  Let's rock and roll.

You know it is serious business when the port-a-potty arrives for the contractors.  Let's get this thing rolling!  (haha, which is really a joke, because this stuff goes soooooooo sloooooooooww)

 First up, FRAMING and WINDOWS...

New kitchen window on the left.  That's the stairway addition on the right.

Current view of the kitchen.  Isn't it dreamy?  :)

 I'd say we've gotten ourselves into quite a project...

 But at least we can now safely get up into the attic.  I mean, first things first.

It's crazy to see your design come into real life.  Like, it's one thing to enter it in on my computer software and configure where walls will go on a screen, but it's a whole different ballgame to see the actual WALLS!

Adding in closets... it's crazy to think old homes didn't have them...

Jameson watching Mr. Larry cut out a window in his future room.

One of the most nerve-wracking things for me has been windows.  Half of the house (3 stories) was an addition from the original house, but they quit construction before adding windows.

Adding windows has been both a blessing and a curse...

A) I get to choose where I want windows and what size they should be.
B)  I have to figure out where I want windows and what size they should be.

This is where I'm really afraid I'm gonna screw it up, y'all.  The Great Room WITH THE VIEW OF THE JAMES RIVER.  This is the selling point of the house.  See how there's no windows yet?  Yikes!

I've gone back and forth in my mind with a few different designs... do I put the fireplace centered on the wall with huge windows on either side?  Or put the fireplace on the side wall with built-ins and just go for it with a wall of windows?

computer sketch of Great Room design

And at least for now, I'm thinking we'll go with the latter option.  HELLO VIEW.  I cannot WAIT to see it for the first time in that room.   Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!

return air unit going in under the staircase

In addition to framing, we're almost complete with HVAC (heating and air conditioning)!  Which is super expensive and putting us ever more into debt, but once the electrician comes and hooks it all up, working on the house in the winter won't be quite so frigid.

Sweet and sassy girl.  As smart and independent as you'll ever find.

My cute boy.  He's 4 now.  (Can time just slow down, please.)

On the way home the other day, I heard Jameson mumbling something to himself in the backseat.  "I like me just the way I am," he said, causing my ears to perk up.

"What's that, baby?" I asked, and then he explained.

A little girl had teased him about the color on his hand and feet being much lighter on one side than the other.   He had been consoling himself in the backseat as he studied his hands.

I know the girl didn't mean harm.  

I know she was only pointing out something she saw as different.  Kids do that.

She didn't know a thing about racism or racial microaggressions and stereotypes, or how her innocent little comments could plant seeds of racial inferiority into my son's heart this young.  

She didn't know.   

(Though perhaps if this little girl had more diverse friendships and relationships in her life, my son and his skin coloring wouldn't likely seem so "other" to her.)  

It's one thing for Jameson to hear his lily white mama tell him "you're perfect just the way you are."  "Mama, do your hands have a light side and a dark side?" he asked.  

It kinda broke my heart to show him my hand, evenly peachy pale on both sides.  

This is where transracial adoption is hard.  Because my son doesn't share my culture, or my color, I can be empathetic all day long about his experiences as a minority, but ultimately, I can't understand fully because I've never had to do it. 

That's when I desperately need the help of my brown-skinned brothers and sisters.  I can't do this transracial parenting thing without them.  So I called "Aunt Tiffany," my long-time childhood friend and Jameson's godmother and asked her if she'd be willing to talk to him on the phone.  

I teared up listening to Aunt Tiffany asking my son to repeat back the word "melanin" to her, teaching him why we need it.  

We.

That's what my son needs to feel and know.  It's not just him.  He has a community of WE.

We made it back to the River House and told Mr. Larry, our contractor, about the little girl's comments.  Instantly, he pulled his sock off in solidarity to show Jameson that he, too, had a lighter colored foot on one side.

As a mom, it's humbling to know that I can't meet all of my kids' needs.  

But it's hands down amazing to watch my dear brothers and sisters step in to meet some of them for me.

the heart of a transracial mama...

Some days I have no idea how to be a white mama to a brown son.  

In many ways, it looks the same as how you'd raise any other child-- kissing boo boo's, preparing them for kindergarten, disciplining and redirecting all that ENERGY!, struggling to survive until bedtime, etc.  

But in other ways, it's vastly different (and I think it should be) trying to help your child develop their racial identity if they don't share it with either parent.

I wouldn't call transracial parenting the "ideal" scenario for a child.  I can understand and support people's hesitations with it.    

Adoption itself isn't the "ideal," either.  Babies are supposed to stay with their birth families.  Couples are supposed to have the ability to conceive.  

But life is broken.  It isn't how it's supposed to be.  Things don't go the way we hope they will go.

And it's out of that brokenness that adoption is born.   

Every adoption is different.  There's adoption following foster care, infant adoption, international adoption, transracial adoption, open adoption, mediated adoption, closed adoption, and even embryo adoption. 

But one thing is the same: every adoption is born out of loss.  

So it's probably no wonder that with adoptive parenting comes its own set of insecurities and challenges.

From an outside perspective, I think transracial adoption can be perplexing on many levels, including why someone would even "sign up" for it in the first place.  Some people see my family and think we have a "white messiah complex" for adopting a black child.  Others think it is unfair for Jameson to be raised in a white family, and honestly?  Some days, I have to say I agree.  

Because at the end of the day, maybe I can give Jameson all the love, all the food/shelter/clothing, all the education, and all the skills to be successful, but what does a white mama like me know about giving my son his racial and cultural identity?  

As hard as I try, I know I naturally have huge deficiencies in this area of parenting.  I can't do it alone.  I know I need help in a BIG way from my friends of color and from the african american community at large.  (And that will only increase as Jameson gets older.)  

Diversity isn't just some nice aspiration.  In my family, it's a necessity.

And I'm not the only one who sees it.  A few months ago, our family attended a multi-ethnic church downtown on a rare Sunday off from my position of worship director.  It was nice to be in a setting where I was the minority.  Immediately upon sitting down, my sweet Jameson pointed to the people on stage and excitedly said, "Brown!"  He's THREE YEARS OLD and now refers to our church as the "white church."   

Being a transracial parent in our house means always evaluating: Are we doing enough?  How can we learn and understand more about race?  What is age appropriate and how do we present it to him?  How can we reprogram our own past and current presuppositions about race?  How can we bring more diversity into our family?  What changes do we need to make in order for that to happen?  

The insecurities don't stop there.  

Does his hair look moisturized enough?  Does it look like a white mama did it?  Can he wear pajamas with a monkey on it?  Should he play with toy guns outside?  Will black people accept us?  Will white people accept us?  Will they still think he's that "cute" when he wants to date their white daughter?  Will Jameson be able to navigate black culture?   How do I prepare him for encounters with direct and subtle racism?

Really, sometimes it's enough to make me question what God was thinking in the first place.  I wonder if I can really do this.

I don't know what this journey looks like down the road, but my heart's desire is to be a great mama to Jameson.  I love my son to pieces.

I want him to grow up and laugh at his white mama, knowing how dang hard I at least tried.  

I want him to know I love him AND his culture.

I want more of his culture in ME, not simply just for him.

I want him to see my feeble attempts towards bridge building and reconciliation between races.  

I want him to be a man that sees the image of God stamped upon all races, despite an embarrassing history in our nation.  

I want him to learn to be gracious and forgiving for all the ignorant, unjust things he will encounter in his lifetime.  

I want him to be proud to be black, proud of his rich heritage.

Whenever I'm overwhelmed with the insecurities of being a transracial mama, it helps me to remember how I got this "job" to be Jameson's mom in the first place.  

It was Jameson's birthmother and birthfather who looked at our lily white complexions... AND STILL PICKED US. 

God could've brought me a son through conception.  He could've given us a child who shared our racial heritage.  But in His sovereign plan (though it may make little sense), He chose Jameson for us through Jameson's birthparents.

So who knows how God will use our little family in Jameson's life one day?

One thing is for sure.

How much He's already used little Jameson in this family's life.

the white mama at the race discussion...

Being a transracial family often feels culturally homeless.  

We don't quite fit here.  We don't quite fit there.  

But our hope is that more folks of every color will become passionate about the role of reconciliation and bridge building in our community.  

What was originally going to be a weekend out of town unexpectedly turned into a weekend of delving into black history and culture.  (due to a vertigo attack late Thursday night)

A local urban ministry hosted a panel discussion called "Why do Black Lives Matter?" featuring 5 distinguished African American leaders in our area.  Questions like "Do black lives matter or do all lives matter?" and "What can an everyday person do to affirm that black lives do, indeed, matter?" were addressed, and there was good (yet uncomfortable) discussion about the subjects of race and poverty in our community. 

Unfortunately, an event like this that is SO needed, was not well-attended.  I'd guess there were 30-40 people there, and only 8-10 were white.

(I'm much more comfortable now than I used to be in a setting where I'm the minority by far, but to think, that is almost always my Jameson's experience...)

As I sat and listened to the shared experiences and struggles of being black in America, even from PhD's, it was honestly very difficult and uncomfortable.  Honestly, this was a world I knew nothing about until just a few years ago.  And even though my eyes have been opened to see and my heart opened to caring, it all feels so heavy and overwhelming at times.

But I must continue learning,
must continue listening,
and must join up with others in the slow road towards reconciliation.

I have a son who needs me to understand.  A son who needs me to prepare him to live in today's world as a black man.

I do not pretend to know what I'm doing in the least.

But it's important that I'm doing everything in my power to try.

In addition to the panel discussion, we were able to visit a multi-ethnic church downtown, just blocks from our house.  As a worship director, it's rare for me to get a week "off," so we took the opportunity to visit.

Of course, as expected, the small congregation was amazingly welcoming.  Everyone spoke to us.  People we'd never met gave us hugs afterwards.

At one point during the music, Jameson pointed to someone up front and said, "Brown!!"

I whispered in his ear, "Do you mean brown skin?"

"Uh huh!" he said with a smile.

Finally.  A Sunday where my son was in the majority.

It was a beautiful picture of the Gospel to seeing all nations, all ethnicities, all ages, all socioeconomic levels worshipping Christ together.

Out of my two children, I guess I thought Jameson would stir up the most attention at the multi-ethnic church.  (And he did get lots of great attention, don't get me wrong!) But it was my daughter's bald head that drew several people to ask her how she was feeling, etc.  One older gentleman, whose intentions were nothing but kind, asked to pray with us, and IN FRONT OF CAROLINE said, "God, we pray that you would give her hair.  We know she is so pretty without it, but God, you'd make her prettier with it."   (!!!!)  

(You better believe I brought that one up later in conversation with Caroline... I think she's just used to all of it at this point...)

After church, the four of us headed to a diner downtown, and as Marc walked up to pay for lunch, the cashier told him, "This bill has been erased.  Someone else has already paid it for you."

Thank you, sweet stranger.

And thank you, God, for this simultaneously amazing and crazy life you have given to me.

really, really yours?...

When you've got a child who's not the same skin color as you, you've gotta be prepared.

For the stares, sure.  But most especially for the questions.  From total strangers.

Are you fostering?
Are you babysitting?
Where's his real mom?
How old was he when you got him?

I was shielded from alot of these interactions with Caroline, but not so much with a transracial adoption.

But just because I'm prepared for the questions doesn't mean they're any less awkward to deal with when they come.  It's even more complex now that my daughter is old enough to hear and comprehend the questions herself.

This morning, immediately after meeting my children, a woman turned to me and said (in front of them), "Is she (meaning Caroline) really yours?  Like, really, really yours?"

(implying Jameson was not "really, really mine"...)

"Oh, are you asking if she is adopted, too?  Yes she is and both of my kids are really, really mine," I quickly responded, trying to gently correct her obvious misperceptions about adoption (and not to mention, lack of tact.)

"You've had them since birth?" she pried even further.

"Yes," I answered her shortly.  My mind was already spinning about what conversations I'd be having with Caroline upon this woman's departure.

At least the woman had the sense to wait until Caroline left the room before she began asking me about her baldness, assuming she was in remission from chemo.

Wow.  Right?

I'm careful to give people the benefit of the doubt in these conversations.  I don't expect people to know what alopecia is.  I don't expect people to know if Jameson is my son or not.  Naturally, our family raises questions in people's minds.

I know that in giving me this family, and these children, God has forever made me a spokeswoman and representative for things like transracial adoption and for alopecia.  Right there in my job description next to "kiss boo-boo's" and "teach manners" is "answer people's ridiculous questions about why my daughter doesn't have hair and why my son's skin doesn't look the same as mine."

It's my job as a mom to shield my children from people's insensitive and curious questions, and my goal is always to demonstrate graciousness while providing correction and awareness where needed.   I know my kids are watching and listening, and I want to empower them with the words to handle themselves in these situations as they grow.

But I'd also like for people to use a small measure of thoughtfulness, too.  Is that too much to ask?  Can I just request one thing-- DO NOT ASK IF MY CHILDREN ARE REALLY MINE IN FRONT OF THEM.

My children are really mine.  Like, really really really mine.

Does it matter in an introduction how my daughter came into this world and into my family?  We don't seem to say, "This is my 10 year old son who was born cesarean after 15 hours of difficult labor."  Does it matter if my children came out of my tummy or someone else's when you introduce them?

When I say I'm the "real mom," I am not implying that my children's birthmothers aren't.  I am ALL for birth families, (especially my children's- we love you!) and they are just as real and apart of my children's stories as I am.

But whether a child came out of her tummy or mine doesn't make a mom real or fake.  (that's called "adoptism" by the way)

Birthparents/biological parents are real.  Adoptive parents are real.

To imply otherwise IN FRONT OF MY DAUGHTER, who is beginning to have those natural developmental questions in her adoption journey, is not helpful or appropriate.

And it makes Mama Bear pretty darn angry, too.

But you know, God even uses the inappropriate words of others for His glory and our good.  Over lunch today, I talked with the kids about what had happened this morning.  "Mom, she was weird," was Caroline's first reaction to the situation.

"But yeah, Mom, there was this girl today who was asking me if Jameson was my brother, and I was like 'yeah he is' and she said, 'But what color is your mom and Dad?' and I told her our colors and she didn't believe me."

"Oh, because she probably thinks families have to match," I said.  "But do families have to match in color?"

"NO!" both of my kids answered in unison.  (Ahhh, I have trained them well.)

We began listing out all of the families we know who "don't match," including our sweet neighbors across the street.

We rehearsed what to say when someone says, "That's not your mom!" or "Your family is different."  (the answer to the latter being, "Yep, we are different and we love being different.")

We talked about how beautiful all skin tones are.  I asked Jameson if he likes his brown skin.

"Yes!" he shouted.

"You should be very proud of it!  We all love your chocolate skin."

Those are important conversations that need to be had in our house.

And I'm prayerfully hopeful that those same conversations are happening in your home, too.

protest...

Martin Luther King Jr. Day is one of our family's favorite holidays of the year.

"MLKJ Day," as Caroline calls it, gives our family the opportunity to remember that we wouldn't even exist if it weren't for the courage of those who led the charge in the civil rights movement.

"MLKJ Day" also gives us the chance to celebrate the realization of his dream that "one day little black boys will join hands with little white girls as sisters and brothers."

Of course there's much more to MLK Jr's influence than just his "I Have a Dream" speech, though that is probably his most well-known. Dr. King's insistence upon using love to drive out hate through nonviolence is what changed the face of society as we know it.

(By the way, I'd encourage you to watch the movie "Selma" to gain perspective of the Civil Rights era if you haven't seen it.)

Even though Dr. King walked hundreds of miles in peaceful protests, I honestly never thought I'd be engaging in one.  But God is growing me and taking me out of comfortable places to teach me what it means to follow Him.  He's been showing Marc and I our own idols of fear and comfort, and how we have placed those above Him.

In his letter from a Birmingham jail, Dr. King wrote:

I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not . . . the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace, which is the absence of tension, to a positive peace, which is the presence of justice; who constantly says, “I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direction action.” . . . Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection. . . . We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people.

Marc and I see ourselves SO MUCH in Dr. King's words.  Who knows how many people have been hurt by our preference to have this "negative peace," as he puts it.  So in this particular instance, when an RUF student of ours began forming this peaceful protest, we decided we could not continue in our silence.

 The morning of the protest was FREEZING.  (Our kids would've never survived out there, thankfully a friend kept them for me.)

And we didn't have time to make a sign, so we literally took the artwork I made that hangs above our couch off the wall and used that as our sign.  (haha!)

As Marc and I drove onto campus, my heart was beating a hundred times a minute.  I'd never done anything like this before.  And I didn't know how it would go or be received.

We got out of our car and began walking towards the protestors' location, a place the police had designated which was ironically, not visible to anyone going to the Trump convocation.  At every point, we found ourselves blocked off by barricades and police officers.

How were we supposed to find our group?

We had to circle back through the university's largest building, and wouldn't you know, the long hallway we had to walk down was brimming with everyone standing in line to see Mr. Trump.

Just imagine it-- a hallway as long as an airport concourse filled to capacity with THOUSANDS of people, and Marc and I's only option of finding our small protest group was to walk that hallway AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC.

"Sorry, excuse us," we repeated over and over again as we squished through the masses of bodies with our large MLK sign.  (Can we say AWKWARD?!?)  It was quite a picture-- thousands of people waiting in conformity, and the two of us working so hard to swim upstream for what we believed in.

After walking for what felt like an eternity, we finally found our group!  It was small, as I expected, yet it was beautifully diverse, as I had hoped.  Tears came to my eyes as I beheld it all: black, white, young, old, student, community member, disabled, and walkers.  All joining together to honor the legacy of MLK in the face of the university's racial insensitivity on such a day.  We were instantly welcomed, and it was such a bonding experience to be around like-minded folks who were also not going to continue the silence.

But on a frigid day, there's only so long you can stand in the shade unnoticed in a silent protest.  So we decided to take a little walk around campus and find a small spot of public land near the entrance to the university.

I guess I expected something like this to feel very "extraordinary."  Radical.  Dangerous, even. (I think the images of violent protests on tv worked a number on my anxious mind!)

 But it didn't.  It felt really normal.  Ordinary.  Just standing on streets I've been on hundreds of times, this time holding up words of love and getting to know the people standing around me.

I know there was a consensus around Liberty that the protest was disrespectful and created problems.  I would humbly disagree.

MLK said, "Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with." 

Boy, did the hidden tension come out into the open.  I guess I expected the nasty looks.  The heads shaking in disgust.  The middle fingers.  The cell phones taking our picture only to mock our protest on the internet.

I didn't expect the "you're going to hell" comments, but hey, it's okay.  Just because something isn't received well doesn't mean it shouldn't be done.

Because even though our group was small and the protest was rather uneventful, there were hundreds and thousands across the country who chimed in to support our efforts and Marc's article.  Some folks came up and spoke to us, offering us their support.  Others honked in support as they drove by.  One black Liberty student commented on the article about the protest,

"I cried reading this because sometimes I know people don't get it and I know people don't care to get it. My friends, leaders, those leading me to Christ are completely unaware and it's terrifying.  So thank you. I cannot protest because of the organizations I'm apart of, but I support and encourage you to keep going."

Perhaps many would say the protest was a waste of time and that it didn't accomplish anything.  I'll admit, it was tempting to feel that way when I came home.  But it certainly gave everyone plenty to talk about around campus and the country, and the discussions it raised are the only way change can even begin.  (It's interesting to me that those who are Protestants have the word "protest" in our very name.  Our faith and our churches were born out of an important protest that changed society as we know it.)

Social activism certainly wasn't on my bucket list for 2016, but the more God is teaching me, the more I'm seeing it as Kingdom work.  Because all humans are made in the image of God, Christians work to end oppression and injustice and we desire that all people be treated with the dignity which they have already been given by their Creator.