My Life as a French Knot.

Have you ever looked closely at a beautiful embroidered masterpiece? Let’s assume this is an image of a meadow full of blue bells, with mountains in the background and a stream and waterfall in the foreground.  It is a lovely image. It congers up feelings of relaxations and peace. Just thinking about it makes me take a deep breath and relax.

But look closer at those blue bells. No, CLOSER, MUCH CLOSER. If you get right up to it, each flower is a tightly wound knot. These knots, by themselves, are not particularly attractive.

This is where I saw myself during those difficult days. I was living the life of a French Knot: I was tightly wound, turning blue, and suffocating. There were times when I could barely breath. I was surrounded by others who were equally stressed. I did not feel that there was anywhere that I could release my stress. So I kept it pent up. I lived in my little French Knot.

I think one of the things that kept me sane, or as close to it as possible, during those traumatic times, was the constant awareness that this was just a very small part of a beautiful scene. Granted I could not see past the knots, but I knew there was beauty and meaning. I may not understand in this lifetime, but at some point, I would see clearly.

I total honesty, even 14 years later, I can scarcely see the beauty of those days.

I still ask why. Not a poor me type of why, but wondering what is my role. What am I supposed to take from this? What am I to give to others? What did I provide that others could not? I still don’t have those answers and I have to be okay with that.

At some point during the darkest days, (I am truly not sure if it was just after Miranda vanished or after her body was found), I was given a book to read. The opening said something like “No matter what you are going through right now, you are EXACTLY where God WANTS you to be.” That was as far into that book as I got. I was angry. There is no way that God WANTED me to be in this much pain. GOD didn’t do this. He did not want this.  I refused to even think beyond the immediate circumstances.

I do not believe that God gives us pain, causes bad things to happen, or wants us to be in those circumstances.

Miranda used to ask me frequently, "Why does God let bad things happen to good people?" It is a good question, that doesn't have an easy answer. Theologians argue it. I tried to explain God's love and free will, but it didn't stop the questions.

Then my sister told us about something that happened to her. She found an envelope full of money and a deposit slip. She sat down with her children to discuss the options. They could keep the money or give it back to the rightful owner. The children did not hesitate. Giving back the money was the ONLY option.

My sister called the man. He was distraught. My sister told him that she had found the money and as a Christian, she knew that God wanted her to return the money. He cried as he explained that he had been ready to kill himself over the loss of this money, but cried out to God, if He really exists, to show him a way. My sister's phone call was clearly an answer to that prayer. She met him in a very public place, returned his money, and told him how much God loved him. She asked him if he would like to accept Christ as his Savior, but the man said he was not ready. She left him with materials to read and prayed for him. Not long after, she learned that he had killed himself.

I relayed the story to Miranda. I told her that this man was clearly on the wrong path. God put my sister in his path to warn him and to try to get him to change his ways. But he, as well as everyone of us, was given free will. God will not make us turn around, but will put people and things in our lives to prompt us toward the right choices. I told her that I was sure that my sister was not the only one that God used to try to redirect this young man. Interestingly, Miranda never asked again why God let's bad things happen.

Did God WANT me to suffer the trauma of a missing/murdered child. No. But He may have placed me there for a purpose. Not because He wanted it, but because He could use me.

Someday I will see the full picture and understand.

#MirandaGaddis

Vanished: the quick overview

For those of you who do not know the story: Miranda Gaddis was my first foster daughter. She arrived at my home not too long after her 10th birthday. She was with me for 18 months, then back home with her family for the next 18 months before going missing at 13 years old. She simply vanished on her way to school one day. She was the second girl to vanish from the same apartment complex. The first, Ashley Pond was a school-mate, member of the same dance team, and friend who seemed to drop off the face of the earth two months previously. A massive police and FBI investigation ensued.

The story was so big, in fact, that it was the lead story on every news station, every day, for nearly 6 months. It seemed there were posters and flyers everywhere. There were roadblocks looking for leads. Their faces were on billboards, magazine covers, and national talk shows. There were fundraisers, vigils, and near the end, nearly 24 hour a day news coverage live at the property where their bodies were finally found. The fence that the FBI erected around the crime scene became the sight of a massive memorial wall. There was no escaping the story unless one lived under the proverbial rock.


The general public knew about the family, and some knew that Miranda had been in foster care. No one knew about me or my family. I could not tell anyone that I was one of her moms, that she was totally a member of our family, or that our lives were shattered - seemingly beyond repair. The pain was nearly unbearable and was exacerbated by the isolation from any first-hand information. Our only information was weeding through the jumble of fact and fiction that flooded the media and the even more unreliable chatter on the internet.

Thorugh the Cloud of Tears

At Miranda's memorial, I read the lyrics to Steven Curtis Chapman's "With Hope." As I began to cry, I glanced over to my sister for help. She and my eldest daughter were sobbing. I went on until finally the tears were too much. I stopped and apologized, saying "I'm sorry, I can't see my paper anymore." I dried my eyes and went on. The next line, said it all. "But through the cloud of tears I see the father's smile and say "Well done."

#MirandaGaddis
#StevenCurtisChapman #throughthecloudoftears

Why this blog?

Okay, I have never been a blogger, but sometimes even old dogs can learn new tricks.

I have wanted to write about my experience as a foster mom to Miranda Gaddis and the lessons I learned through the indescribable agony of her death. I had started to write years ago, then let one person's upset stop me from writing. Each time I would try to write, I hit a wall.

That wall was, in part, not wanting to face the pain of her death. Yes, it has been 14 years, but the wound is still raw: Some days it is too raw. But in reality, the pain should not stop me from writing. I know that I write better when emotions are raw. Writing helps me heal. So is this really the reason I am not able to get started?

The other factor is that I keep trying to develop a cohesive format and an outline for my story. Okay organization has never been my forte. Maybe I have been focusing on developing and not on feeling and writing.

Thus a blog........  I can write about what I am thinking of on any given day. There will be days when I will be emotional, days that I will be analytical, and  days that I will have not a thought in my head. But that is all okay. It is a part of the process. It is a part of my healing.

I would also like this to be a place where people can share memories of Miranda. Please write your stories and send them to me. I hope to be able to publish them here so that we can all remember what a remarkable human being she was. She brought such joy to so many. I know there are MANY stories to be told.


This is my story. It is NOT about how Miranda arrived at my home. It is not about the DHS foster care case. It is not about the murder case. In these pages you will find the story of a family that fell in love with a 10 year old girl who became an indisputable member of our family. Her presence in our lives changed us forever. Her disappearance left a hole that can never be filled. Fourteen years later, as I write these words, the wound is still raw. We remember her daily and on anniversary dates (the date she disappeared, the date they put up the fence or the date they announced they had identified her body, and her birthday....) At times, we have gone to her grave, but we know that she is not there. She is dancing in heaven and I, for one, would like to remember the good times and not keep re-traumatizing myself by visiting a place that marks her death. I want to remember her life.

You are welcome to follow along or not. Share it with others or not. I do ask that any comments be free from discussion of the foster care case and contain no disparaging remarks about anyone. This is meant to be a place of remembering and healing.



Just some random thought on future posts (This is RANDOM and in no particular order)

Christmas 2001. It was a wonderful time with all three of my girls together for the first (and last) time. There are so many happy memories as well as deep thought provoking discussions which would set a tone for the lessons I would learn in the following months.

• One such conversation was "Would you still die for me?" Which led to a much deeper understanding of God's unfathomable love for us.

The last call. We never know when the last conversation will be. I am so glad I returned her call and had the chance to say everything that needed to be said.

The drive through a thunder storm. SUCH FUN!!!!!!!!!

The last vacation. Wallowa Lake

Holding on to grief.

Disenfranchised grief

I feel so alone

No escape from the news yet drawn to it for ANY information I could get.

Amazing Grace

"I'll never know how much it cost to see my sin upon that cross"

#MirandaGaddis