Monthly Archives: May 2025

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Pivot.

Our homeschool co-op shared a bittersweet final day of the year yesterday. It was our first year at Kindred Homeschool Collective. We joined Kindred because it is inclusive and focuses on seeing the image of God in all people, valuing everyone’s story, and loving like Jesus. We have witnessed all of these things and more over the course of the year and while a summer break will be nice, we look forward to returning in August.

Despite the joy we have all experienced participating at Kindred, it was a challenging year for me. Inclusive doesn’t always mean accessible, and the co-op meets in a beautiful but historic church that posed a lot of challenges for Tess and those of us caring for her. 

The morning before our last day, I received an unexpected message from our friend Rosean, the youth pastor at our co-op’s host church, who also serves as our co-op security person (and so much more). From the very first day of classes, he recognized our challenges and went out of his way to help Tess navigate the stairs, going so far as to meet us at the car most weeks. He always had an encouraging word and a smile to share and never once made us feel like a burden. It was a gift. But when he sent me photos of a new ramp he had installed over the steps that Tess needed to navigate the most each school day, I was so overcome with emotion that I had to sit down. 

I had just had a conversation the previous week with one of our co-op board members about my concerns for managing the next school year, knowing I will likely have less resources and assistance to help Tess and Lydia during the times I will be teaching and serving in the co-op. Any parent in a truly collaborative co-op (as opposed to a drop-off program) faces challenges juggling their own family’s needs with their responsibilities to teach and serve, but when your child is fully dependent on assistance to navigate her environment and meet basic care needs, there are extra struggles. This ramp was an act of seeing and empowering Tess while letting me know that I am not alone in my struggle to manage a positive but often challenging day.

Vision is often enhanced through contrast and this experience helped solidify a decision with which I have been wrestling for the past few months. I shared in a previous post that I was excited to be starting a Princeton Theological Seminary (PTS) graduate program in Theology that focuses that focuses on Justice and Public Life. In that post, I also shared that there were portions of the program I was not sure how I would fulfill but that I was trusting God to make a way. Soon after sharing my decision to commit to the program, I learned that Tess needed her sixth cerebral shunt revision. This one was planned, while the others have been emergent; however, each one has reminded me of the unpredictability of my life as a single mom to kids with medical challenges. While I do believe in trusting God to make a way, I also believe in exploring options and planning ahead. That process led me to realize that the PTS program was not accessible to me.

I have thought a lot about accessibility and inclusion for my kids but have recently come to realize that parents of kids with disabilities need inclusion and accessibility too. We live in a constant state of alert, balancing the needs of a typical child or young adult with the often complex needs that come with our kids’ unique challenges. The basic things like an unexpected trip to the store can be complicated, and we live on the precipice of emergency. Very few, if any, people can step into our life, even on an extremely temporary basis, which limits our mobility, reliability, and especially, our control. Our “no” is often an “I wish” or “If only…,” and our “yes” is always a “hopefully.” It’s a beautiful but complex life that both expands and restricts us. We wouldn’t want a different life and most definitely not a different child, but the world rarely sees or understands our internal or external struggles. Our focus is on securing accessibility and inclusion for our kids but truthfully, we need both as well.

One of my favorite things “hobbies” for most of my life has been following North Carolina Tar Heel basketball. In basketball, players often use their pivot foot to create space against a defender. If I am trying to make a play on the basket and I lift the ball over my head, the defender can fill the void and hinder my movement. If I hold the ball directly in front of me, it is likely to be knocked away. My best option is to use my pivot foot, step forward, and sweep through to back my defender up, creating space for myself to move in a new direction and make a play on the basket.

I could have remained in the PTS program and hoped for the “act of God” that would be necessary for me to fulfill the program component that is just not conducive with my primary responsibilities, but if that act never came, I would not complete the degree. Instead, I decided to pivot and survey the court for other options. And the vision I gained from that pivot showed me more options than I had known of last summer when I first discovered PTS’s program. One of them quickly emerged as ideal.

Next week I will begin classes toward my Master of Ministry (MMin) degree in Theology and Culture (with an emphasis on Justice) at St. Stephen’s University. I am beyond excited! It would take another post to share all the many ways St. Stephen’s is perfect for me. In short, their mission perfectly aligns with my own:  

“The Mission of St. Stephen’s University is to prepare people, through academic, personal, and spiritual development, for a life of justice, beauty, and compassion, enabling a humble, creative engagement with their world.”

And equally valuable—even essential—to me, SSU is inclusive and made itself accessible to me as a single parent of kids with exceptional needs. From my first inquiry to the creation of an outlined course of study that provides me with options for a variety of scenarios that may occur in this beautiful but often out-of-my-control life, they sought to understand my situation on more than a surface level and responded to it, not just with sympathy or even empathy but with action. I cannot describe the peace that accompanied that for me. Now instead of beginning a program with a cloud of uncertainty hovering above me, I begin from a firm, supportive foundation that frees me to be focused and enthusiastic!

Looking back, I see God directing me toward SSU all along in small, subtle ways that I could not have seen if I continued to cling to the ball of PTS’s program or raise it up high to keep someone from taking it from me. I would have either lost the ball or had obstructed vision and movement. Instead, I was able to pivot and open space for myself to do something better than what I originally planned. In the process, I learned that inclusion and accessibility matter for me, too, and that just as I do for my kids, I need to advocate for that and surround myself with the people and communities who see and empower me to do so.

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“Let them not be in vain.”

On Mother’s Day 2015, I sat in my car sobbing and wrote these words:

“For Mother’s Day 2015, I received truth. The facades are gone and underneath is the very ugly reality that no one in our home likes me, values, me, or even remotely wants to celebrate me. There is a lot of anger, resentment, bickering, annoyance, frustration, and disappointment. There is no love, kindness, peace, patience, joy, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness, or self-control. No fruit of the Spirit, therefore no Spirit. Christian, homeschooling, adoptive, special needs mother with a house full of poison. What does that mean? Failure. Plain and simple. I am a failure. As a wife. As a mother. As a person. Everyone in our house is self-centered, self-absorbed, selfish—not God-centered, self-controlled, Christlike. And I am the mom, so it all comes back to me. 

How did this happen, God? I thought I was pursuing You, making selfless decisions, and dedicating my entire life to your call. Did I hear You wrong, or is it just that I failed? I know the answer to that. I failed. I failed because I relied on my own strength and wisdom. I sought You but not really. I prayed weakly. I strove mightily in my own flesh rather than relying on You. But what now, God? Is it over? Is it too late? Is there any way my life and the lives of my children and our family can be salvaged? Show me, God.

‘I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so I will look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered in a day of clouds and darkness.’ (Ezekial 34:11-12)

May 10, 2015—Mother’s Day—a day of clouds and darkness—both literal and figurative. Come, Holy Spirit, come. Send angels to minister to my broken heart and to bind the wounds. Fill me anew and let me focus my eyes upon you, oh God. Guide my steps and my words and soften my heart toward those who have hurt me. Redeem my days, oh God. Let them not be in vain.” 

At the end of the piece of notebook paper, I wrote these Scripture references:

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life.  I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.’”

So I prophesied as I was commanded. And as I was prophesying, there was a noise, a rattling sound, and the bones came together, bone to bone.  I looked, and tendons and flesh appeared on them and skin covered them, but there was no breath in them.

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to the breath; prophesy, son of man, and say to it, ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Come, breath, from the four winds and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’” So I prophesied as he commanded me, and breath entered them; they came to life and stood up on their feet—a vast army.

Then he said to me: “Son of man, these bones are the people of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up and our hope is gone; we are cut off.’ Therefore prophesy and say to them: ‘This is what the Sovereign Lord says: My people, I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them; I will bring you back to the land of Israel. Then you, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the Lord have spoken, and I have done it, declares the Lord.’” (Ezekial 37:4-14)

‘ I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.’ (Ezekial 36:26-27)

A decade has passed since that day—the day my kids and I refer to as “The Olive Garden Mother’s Day” (punctuated by the sigh of a very, very bad shared memory). God did open my grave, settle me in my own land, give me a new heart, and redeem my days. I still fail (an awful lot), but I know that does not make me a failure. The thin, worn sheet of notebook paper on which I wrote the words above is folded in quarters and tucked into my Bible between Ezekial 36 and 37. In 2019, I wrote in the margins of that Bible beside the Ezekial 36 verse: “Praise you, Lord, for the new heart you have given me.” And beside the Ezekial 37 verses, I wrote: “I am alive!!”

I have now celebrated thirty Mother’s Days. They cover the spectrum from the horrible 2015 experience to feeling incredibly valued and special—awakening to kid-made (but VERY high quality) breakfasts cooking or crafts made of fingerprints—to sitting in a hospital rocker with no clue that the next time I held my son, he would draw his last breath. Most are ordinary —the kids at home these days don’t cook breakfasts or make special crafts on their own (yet), and they need all of their usual care on Mother’s Day just like every other day. But the range of Mother’s Day experiences are a snapshot of what it has been like to be a mom—extraordinary days and extra ordinary days, tremendous love and tremendous grief, my greatest effort and my greatest failure. They are also a picture of God’s grace and redemption—needed over and over and over again. 

What I value most now is time with whichever adult kids are around and available, words they take the time to write or speak to me, and little gestures that let me know they see me and they care. I value watching the younger kids sing and dance or just be kind to each other. I value seeing love poured into my grandtwins by their parents and their aunties and uncles and thinking how that love will only grow and spread long after I am here to see it. Simple things that mean the world—that let me know that all the years before were not in vain.