Monday, February 6, 2012

Whew, I'm exhausted...

Very Special Agent
Michael J. Farhart
Last week Michael and I had to write our autobiographies. Yeah, well, it's not that easy. It's not like we could write what we wanted, the Home Study agency had their own guideline as to what they wanted us to include in the penning of our illustrious lives.

grave site
Rebekah Joy Farhart
Michael wrote about his upbringing, all the places he's lived, all the people in his family and the explanations of why he is who he is. He wrote about his career in Federal Law Enforcement and how all of those things shaped his life. But that's not enough. You see, they want to know about happy times and sad times. Things you regret and things you'd change. And... UGH, seriously? You know there are just certain things that you purpose to leave hidden in those little compartments locked up and with the plan to never unlock them again. Alas, it is not to be so. He had to write about Rebekah's death 16 long years ago and the journey to healing and normalcy. There was nothing easy in that for him and it was kinda a shame that he had to pull it all back up.

My awesome brother and I

I too had to share my thoughts. My problem was that my definitions of "happy" and "fun" are very specialized and hard to define and honestly it wasn't until I was in the midst of writing that I could  remember any happy moments in my childhood. Most of those revolved around my brother and cousins and lots of time playing in neighborhoods that were safe and welcoming until the street lights went on and all the parents, aunts, and uncles called our names to come in and bathe for bed. I had forgotten about all those nights in elementary school and actually laughed out loud at the memories they brought back. But I too, had to discuss my "issues" with family history and memories that may have shaped who I have become and what "they" perceive as acceptable to parent a precious, forgotten, abandoned little girl from China. Some of those memories were fighting to stay in their compartments and so many of my words weren't adequate to rightly explain how I came to be me. In the end all I could conclude with was that it was all hard, growing up, being married, parenting, being a Child of the King, all very, very hard and yet hard is good. "Bring on hard" I said. 

That wasn't the end of it though. On Saturday we had our 2nd and 3rd Social Worker visit at the same time and it was a long day. A lot of intimate questions, soul searching, and rehashing of what MJF and I unleashed in our autobiographies only to quickly lock it all back up hoping to throw away the keys. Verbalizing it is a lot more tiring than writing it down. By Saturday night I was needing a bubble bath and a good cry. Neither turned out to be an option. 

I am shocked at how exhausted I felt by Saturday night. What was more shocking was that I really didn't want to go to church the next morning. You see I find myself sifting through my "walk" every Sunday morning as I listen to Pastor exhort us to obedience. It's not one iota of "touchy-feely" and although I'm thankful for the opportunity to examine myself and prove myself to be holy and true (as if that is really possible of today's American Christian) I felt I had examined and poked and prodded myself sore and that I wasn't enthusiastic about doing it some more.

What I had to remind myself of was that there was Abundant Life that comes from obedience and examination is actually a good thing. I was also reminded that one day Elli will have memories she will want to or have to put on paper or share with someone. I have a huge role in helping to shape those memories. I want her to be very unlike me. I don't want her to have such a small definition of happy and fun that she struggles to list anything. I want her to have so many excellent memories that she can't think of just one outstanding event but many. 

It was a good lesson this weekend. One that exhausted me but one that was important. I'm glad for it, just as I am glad for most of my hardest and most difficult lessons.

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