In God's Hands

In my constant quest for knowledge, trying to understand that which I see happening around me, please know that I crave your comments and your thoughtful emails, your take on thorny situations, and your experiences as well. Just because I'm lax, or late, in answering does not mean I haven't absolutely dwelled on your words.

Claudia's book told of her adoption of Mike and Kyle, and Kyle's diagnosis of Conduct Disorder, a term that I'd not encountered in any of my adoptions, one that I now see springing up constantly in kid's write-ups. Yolie'd wondered aloud if any traumatized child wouldn't qualify on some level. Claudia informed her readers that this is on the extreme edge of the ODD spectrum. I'd even venture there's a massively high percentage of older children claimed within that spectrum and, for me, it's one of the hugest blood pressure raising aspects of adoption from the foster care system.

Back in Big Joe's day it was merely labeled as 'ornery as Hell.'

I made Claudia's book about me, of course, aren't I doing that a great deal now, picking through and pondering on the Ah-ha! moments I was reading. The disassembling of items she'd described has been written here in my experiences, she used such a polite term, whereas I rudely call it destruction.

We have three double beds that are now on the floor, as the bed frames have been destroyed. I used to constantly replace them, shopping at yard sales, and I eventually discovered I was paying more to haul off the broken pieces at $15 a truck load to the dump, than I may have originally paid for the furniture item. What's wrong with this picture?

As I could not sleep last night, blessed thunder storms, stress levels, my own fretting over events, my age, and my thoughts on Claudia's book, I also pondered yet another aspect she'd written so eloquently about - that of poverty.

Our children came from such depths, but it isn't just financial, it's emotional and spiritual, generational and so entrenched. I've watched my children arrive in our once lovely home, trash it beyond imagination, and move on, but sadly return to similar origins of their birth; marginal trailer parks, seedy apartments, and live with shady characters, seeking out a frighteningly lower quality of life.

I cannot explain why other than to muse maybe it is because it's their comfort zone? The familiar chaos and dysfunction?

I know I've seemed terribly down lately. If I could share the details, you'd wonder how I'm even functioning on any level, obviously I'm relying and drawing upon my very deep level of faith, thinking I'll hopefully once again enjoy the mountains more after moving through this desolate valley of darkness.

Another bathroom explosion, wading through the poop of others, mopping, doing laundry late into the night...all my college educations for this?

Yes, I chose it. I'll pull through, I'll be blessed again, stronger than ever for having survived yet another devastating blow...I'm very grateful again to my friends I've met here via this adoption journey, y'all my internet support group, imaginary friends, moms in the trenches together, and the dads I've also come to know.

It seems pointless at times, all these sacrifices...for what?

It's in God's hands, not mine.