Raise A Hallelujah

This last few months have taken a toll. It has been one of the most exhausting – mentally, emotionally, and physically – times of my life. I have never felt more ill-equipped or inadequate. I’ve never felt more discouraged or questioned everything I knew about myself, parenting, foster care, or hearing the voice of God than I have in the last few weeks. I’ve been so close to giving up. I’ve felt defeated. Beaten. The chaos has never screamed louder. And I have found myself floundering in over my head and completely out of control. It’s picked me up, chewed me to shreds and spit me back out a wilted, bloody mess. And as anger, frustration, a raised voice, and clipped answers became far too frequent, I wanted someone to blame too. And yet somehow, though the storm is still raging on different fronts and the winds whips hard, I am still standing. It is times like these I am made fully aware of my inability to do it all alone. Because I know that without the abundant Grace of God and the beautiful people He has placed in our lives who have lifted us up and carried us through these weeks, we might very well be in a different place right now.

People often tell us that we are doing something wonderful by fostering. That everything that we pour in to these little lives will be worth it. And I completely agree. But what people may not always realize is just how very lonely and isolating answering this call can be. Working with children who are not only processing change of circumstances and adjustment, alongside the typical challenges that come with growth and development, they have the added layer of trauma to work through. The constant need for belonging thrumming in the background of their hearts like a drumbeat that doesn’t stop. And that is not something that they manage on their own – it doesn’t stay in a neat little box that you can shove in the closet until it’s a “better” time to unpack it – it spills out unfettered over everything and everyone around them. Trauma presents in many ways and for us it came in the form of behaviour and feeding challenges, anxiety, major sleep disturbances, and routine disruption. 

Both of our fosters came to us as newborns. Yes, there was certainly already trauma – being separated from their mamas and whatever trauma they may have been exposed to in utero – but the effects of that are not always readily apparent. Everything is new and changing and they adapt more quickly because they are still learning what life “on the outside” is all about. When they come to you older, with more living experience, there is far more baggage that comes too. To say that I was intellectually prepared for this “new” placement would be true. I’d read books and blogs, attended workshops, listened to podcasts – I had knowledge. But was I prepared to implement it practically? Prepared mentally, physically and emotionally? Not so much. These first few weeks sucked the life and light out of me and left me staring bleakly at a long road ahead wondering how I was going to make it the next few steps, let alone the next mile. And if we do make it that far, then what? I want security.  I want resolution. I want order. I want answers and assurances. But it’s the uncertainty that remains the reliable constant.

It’s been a time of deep heart work, wild emotions, and caustic words whisper-shouted in the dark. Anger bore fruit. It left me feeling paralyzed. Stuck within a system that seems hell-bent on the repetition of brokenness. Powerless and voiceless. And yet, as I began to trace these feelings to their origin, I found grief. And digging further, they were embedded in the root – FEAR. Fear of loss. Fear of failure. Fear of the unknown. Fear of being out of control. Fear of being vulnerable and unprotected. Fear of not measuring up. Of not being enough. Fear of having my family ripped apart. And my heart along with it. Fear for my boys. Fear for their futures. Fear of not being there. Fear that I am not investing enough. Fear that it’s all not going to matter anyways. The fear rears its ugly head in frustration and anger. In unresolved grief and feelings of helplessness and numbness. In the erection of impenetrable walls to protect. And in chiseling through the walls that I had built, my own orphan heart was revealed. In all it’s triggered need for belonging and it’s cracked and varied stages of healing.

I have been feeling so alone. So thirsty. As though my prayers in the desert don’t even rise from the dust. But when you have walked away from the water source, you are the only one to blame when you become parched, hot and faint in the scorching sun. I had walked away from my Source. Too tired. Not enough time. Too much to do. Not in the mood. Too loud. The usual excuses arose. But the fact remains that without going to the Life Giver every day for new strength, the strength I have is spent long before the day is through. And so, I got on my face and I sought Living Water. I laid down my need to control what I cannot. I laid down my fear. My pride. My selfishness. My rage at the unfairness of it all. I called and He answered. He came near. He refreshed my soul and whispered words, a healing balm. Fear not. I have called you by your name. You are Mine. You are Loved. You are chosen. I know the plans I have for you. Trust Me.

Music has always been powerful to me. It speaks the language of the deep and at almost every major point in my life – high or low – I can usually identify a song that has special meaning for that time.  I stumbled across the song “Raise a Hallelujah” from Bethel Music. That is when my eyes were opened to my enemy. The despair and the anger with a flawed system were merely a distraction. An attempt to derail from the road laid out for me. Because when Jesus says “Take up your cross” it is a call to sacrifice and humility. A call to give up control and follow in the footsteps of the Master, “who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross”. And as Life has begun to bring feeling back into the numb places, this song has become my anthem:

I raise a hallelujah, in the presence of my enemies
I raise a hallelujah, louder than the unbelief
I raise a hallelujah, my weapon is a melody
I raise a hallelujah, heaven comes to fight for me

I'm gonna sing, in the middle of the storm
Louder and louder, you're gonna hear my praises roar
Up from the ashes, hope will arise
Death is defeated, the King is alive!

I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me
I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee
I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery
I raise a hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me!

I'm gonna sing, in the middle of the storm
Louder and louder, you're gonna hear my praises roar
Up from the ashes, hope will arise
Death is defeated, the King is alive!

Songwriters: Jonathan David Helser / Melissa Helser / Molly Skaggs / Jake Stevens
Raise a Hallelujah lyrics © Bethel Music Publishing

This last month has been heavy. With everything we are facing, the anniversaries of losses and the addition of two new ones within the space of a week, it has felt as though we were down and the blows just keep coming. But last night I sat in a room and listened to the shared stories of others walking similar roads, of others feeling the weight, and I felt the burdens lessened as another shouldered them too. Last night, I was buoyed on the shared faith in the One Who walks the road with us. Last night, strength returned to keep going. And I know I have said it so many times before, but for some reason I need constant reminding – it’s in the surrender to the Maker that beauty is made from the cracks. It’s in surrender that the victory comes.

So, I will raise a hallelujah and keep walking. One blind step at a time. With one hand in the Master’s and the other clasping the hands of those alongside on this journey too. Praising through the tears, I will sing a little louder. Heaven comes to fight for us. His will be done.