Never Easy - Always Good

💜🌙 Sometimes one small thread of love becomes the rope of connection that leads someone back home. 💛

💜😎 Sometimes one small thread of love becomes a rope of connection.

Years ago, I watched Angel realize he loved Jillian.

At the time, I thought I was seeing a tender moment.

And I was.

But now I wonder if I was also seeing God tie a knot in a thread.

A thread trauma could not completely cut.

A thread distance could not fully erase.

A thread that would one day become stronger than I understood.

Because years later, when Angel wanted to be far away from us, that love was still there.

Jillian still mattered.

Ben still mattered.

Down syndrome still held a tender place in his heart.

And sometimes that became the rope of connection that led him back home.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not without pain, confusion, or hard conversations.

But still.

A rope.

A connection.

A way back.

I think about Romans 8:28 again here.

God works all things together for good.

Not because all things are good.

Trauma is not good.

Separation is not good.

The ache of wondering whether someone will come back is not good.

But God is purposeful.

He knows how to preserve what looks fragile.

He knows how to strengthen what looks too thin to hold.

He knows how to take one small thread of love on a patio and weave it into a rope of connection through years of hard.

I could not see the rope then.

I could only see a little boy startled by love.

But God saw more.

He saw the connection.

He saw the way back.

He saw what He was weaving long before I did.

And today, I am grateful for every thread He refused to let go of. 💛

Sometimes one small thread of love becomes the rope of connection that leads someone back home.

💜☀️ On the drive home from work yesterday, Angel told me a story from the bowling alley.

A group had come in that included adults with Down syndrome.

While he was working, my 25-year-old son started talking with the woman supervising the group.

He told her about his two siblings with Down syndrome, Jillian and Ben.

Then he dropped my name.

She said, “Oh, you’re Cindy’s boy. I know you.”

He was impressed.

He also told me he should probably lead with my name more often.

That made me laugh.

Our town is still small.

But as he kept talking, I heard something underneath the funny part.

He was noticing.

He was connecting.

He was seeing a place where Jillian and Ben might belong.

And he was thinking about how they could be included.

Angel was advocating for them without making a big announcement about it.

And I sat there in the car realizing he had just taken a little bit of weight off my shoulders without even knowing it.

Then another memory came back.

Years ago, Angel was playing with Jillian on the patio.

She was probably three or four.

A strange, confused look came across his face.

I asked him what was going on.

He didn’t know.

But I did.

He loved her.

He was letting himself love her.

He was letting himself trust her.

For a child who had learned to guard himself from love because of trauma, that moment was not small.

I asked him, “You would do anything for her, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You cherish her.”

“Yes.”

“You love her.”

He gasped.

Like the truth had surprised him.

Like it had slipped past the guards.

“Yes!”

I have never forgotten that moment.

Not because everything got easy after that.

It didn’t.

Over the years, our relationship has been rocky.

Always there, but rocky.

There were seasons when he wanted to be far away from us.

There were times when I wondered what connection would remain.

But Down syndrome always held a tender place in his heart.

Jillian mattered to him.

Ben mattered to him.

And somehow, God used that love as one of the threads that kept us connected.

Romans 8:28 says God works all things together for good.

I used to read that as reassurance.

Now I have lived long enough to see that it is not always loud.

Sometimes it looks like a little boy on a patio, startled by love.

Sometimes it looks like a grown man in a bowling alley, making room for people like his siblings.

Sometimes it looks like a thread you did not know God was preserving until years later, when you finally see it still holding.

The hard parts were not erased.

But they were not wasted either. 💛

💜🌙💛 Fear is a terrible storyteller when it is allowed to define a life.

💜😎💛 Sometimes, courage does not start inside us.

Sometimes, it starts with someone standing beside us, saying,
“Don’t let fear tell this story.”

When I was pregnant with Jillian, I had cheerleaders.

People who told me to stay away from Google.

People who reminded me that statistics are not the same thing as a child.

People who helped me look beyond the diagnosis and see the baby.

People who reminded me she had far more chromosomes saying “Schulze” than she had saying “diagnosis.”

In fact, one could argue that because she has an extra chromosome, she is even more Schulze than the rest of us. 😉

Honestly, adoption had already taught us something similar.

More than half of our children came to us chromosomally different from Kevin and me, but never one ounce less ours.

Family was never built on matching chromosomes.

It was built on love, calling, commitment, and God’s unmistakable hand.

And I have thought about that a lot lately.

Because fear gets loud.

Especially when a diagnosis is involved.
Especially when the world starts listing probabilities, risks, delays, complications, and limitations.
Especially when people talk about a child’s life as though value has to be proven before birth.

But the right voices matter.

The voices around us can either feed fear or help us stand against it.

And I am so thankful for the voices that helped me stand.

Not because they pretended every hard thing would disappear.

They didn’t.

They simply reminded me that hard and good can live in the same story.

They reminded me that Down syndrome was not the end of joy.

They reminded me that my child was still my child.

And now, 18 years later, I can say with my whole heart:

They were right.

Jillian has filled our lives with purpose, growth, laughter, patience, beauty, stubbornness, celebration, and love.

She has stretched me.
She has taught me.
She has surprised me.
She has blessed people who did not even know they needed her.

And Ben has done the same in his own completely different, wonderfully Ben way.

So maybe this is my turn to be one of those voices.

To the mom staring at a diagnosis:

Please do not let fear be the loudest voice in the room.

Find the cheerleaders.

Find the people who can tell the truth about the challenges without erasing the beauty.

Find the ones who see your baby before they see the diagnosis.

And if you can not find those voices, let me be one.

Comment or message me.

I would love to pour into you and get to know your baby.

Because sometimes courage sounds like one person saying,
“There is more joy ahead than fear is letting you see right now.”

What voice helped you keep going when fear was loud?

I’ll put the link to my blog in the comments.

💜☀️💛 Fear is not always the enemy.

Sometimes fear is the thing that makes us pause before stepping into danger.

It helps us think through consequences.
It reminds us to be wise.
It has protected my physical, emotional, and spiritual life more than once.

Healthy fear can lay the groundwork for peace.

But like so many good things, the enemy knows how to twist it.

Fear of spiders can send someone I love into full panic. 🕷️
Fear of falling has kept me off a Disney ride Kevin and a few of my kids absolutely rave about.
Fear of the unknown has kept me from reaching out for support our family could have used.
And fear wrapped in doubt has slowed me down as a writer, creator, and follower of Jesus.

As confident as I may seem sometimes, fear has been present in more places than I would like to admit.

But there are a few places fear never got a vote.

Marrying Kevin was one of them.

I had no doubt about the union we were forming. Even now, in this unexpected season of early-onset Alzheimer’s, the purpose we have in each other’s lives and the love we share still outweigh the fear of what may come.

And honestly, I think part of the reason we are able to face Alzheimer’s with less fear is because of another facet of life where fear was not allowed to vote.

Down syndrome.

I knew Jillian before she was born.

I knew her diagnosis.

And I was excited.

Not cautiously excited.
Not “we’ll make the best of it” excited.
Truly excited.

Not once have I connected Down syndrome with the “what ifs” that circle my brain in seasons of doubt.

Not once.

Fear can be loud.

Fear can sound reasonable.

Fear can list every possible complication and call it wisdom.

But fear does not always tell the truth.

Recently, I watched a very public story unfold around a prenatal Down syndrome diagnosis, and my heart has been heavy ever since.

Not because I want to throw stones at grieving parents.

But because I know how loud fear can be when the world only talks about deficits, risks, and limitations.

I know what it feels like to sit in a medical office while possibilities are laid out in front of you.

I know what it feels like to hear the diagnosis.

And I also know what it feels like to look back 18 years later and realize fear would have been a terrible storyteller.

Because I watched Jillian walk across the stage to receive her diploma, independent and confident, and I would not wish away one single part of these past 18 years.

When I hear about another family possibly adding that extra chromosome to their lives, my heart does not sink.

It celebrates.

That does not mean Down syndrome is empty of challenges.

Every life has challenges.
Every season grows us.
Every child stretches us in strength, patience, wisdom, and love.

But my fear has never been rooted in Jillian’s diagnosis.

My fear has been rooted in the world around her.

A world that still doubts people like Jillian and Ben.
A world that sees delay before it sees purpose.
A world that sees diagnosis before it sees image-bearer.
A world that sees different as less.

But different is not less.

Because in our family, Down syndrome has helped people see their future careers.
It has encouraged people to step into their own possibilities.
It has taught people it is safe to love deeply.
It has opened doors, softened hearts, and changed stories.

Jillian and Ben could not be more different in personality, yet both of them carry influence everywhere they go.

Jillian is stepping toward her college dream.
Ben is stepping into these last high school years with his whole wonderful self.

And maybe part of my responsibility is to step forward too.

How can I tell Jillian to believe her voice matters if I keep letting fear silence mine?

How can I encourage her to write, dream, and try if I am unwilling to do the same?

So I am writing.
I am sharing.
I am letting their lives challenge my fear too.

Not because fear is gone.

But because fear does not get to lead.

The enemy would love for fear to slow me down, silence me, shrink me, and make me ineffective.

But fear has no power over the truth.

My children are not mistakes.
Their lives are not less.
Their futures are not defined by society’s doubt.
Their value was settled by God before anyone else had an opinion.

So today, I am standing firm.

Covered by His love.
Held by His peace.
Walking forward with confidence.

Not because the world always sees clearly.

But because God does.

And He has been right about them from the very beginning. 💛

What is one fear you are refusing to let lead today?

I’ll put the link to my blog in the comments.

💜🌙 Shame says, “Hide.”

Grace says, “Come into the light.”

Repentance says, “Take the next right step.”

💜😎 The hope usually shows up after the storm.

Not during the denial.

Not during the yelling.

Not while the anger is still big enough to try to outweigh the truth standing right in front of it.

During the storm, the goal is simpler.

Stay close.

Keep the boundary.

Keep everyone safe.

Wait for the heart to soften enough to hear reason.

Hopefully without anything being thrown.

Because when Ben is escalated, the best words in the world usually cannot get in.

His brain is too busy defending, reacting, and surviving the moment to receive correction.

So we wait.

We breathe.

We hold the line.

And eventually, when the storm passes, that is often when the beautiful part comes.

A humble heart.

A truthful confession.

An apology to Brooklynn.

And often, an apology to everyone else who had to live through the tirade.

But in our house, we try not to stop at “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry” can become a haphazard bandage slapped over a gaping wound.

So we practice different words:

“I did this.”

“It was wrong.”

“Do you forgive me?”

Not because the words are magic.

But because they slow the heart down long enough to own the harm instead of rushing past it.

Because repentance is more than feeling bad after the storm.

Repentance means turning.

So we practice the turn.

Sometimes that means a job.

Sometimes it means helping the person you hurt.

Sometimes it means cleaning up, repairing what was disrupted, or doing the thing that should have been done the first time.

Not to earn forgiveness.

Not to add shame.

Not to make a child pay for his mistake.

But to help repair the pathway.

Because a poor choice followed by more poor choices builds a road.

Defend.

Deny.

Blame.

Explode.

But a poor choice followed by a right choice starts building a better one.

Own it.

Apologize.

Repair.

Do the next right thing.

And that matters.

Especially for kids whose brains and bodies struggle with impulse control, big emotions, disability, trauma, or all the extra layers that make “just make a better choice” sound much easier than it actually is.

They need help finding the way back.

They need to practice doing the right thing right away, even if “right away” comes after the storm has passed.

That is not punishment.

It is practice.

It is discipleship.

It is teaching the body, the brain, and the heart that wrong does not get the last word.

There is a way back.

From denial to ownership.

From chaos to repair.

From sin to righteousness.

One small practiced step at a time.

And sometimes, that is where the hope shows up.

Not in perfect behavior.

But in the softened heart.

In the humble apology.

In the willingness to repair.

In the next right thing after the wrong one.

How do you help your kids practice repair after a hard moment?

💜☀️ “Brooklynn did it, not me!”

Ben said it immediately.

Which would have been more convincing if I had not just watched the whole thing happen.

Then came the anger.

The loud, desperate kind meant to outweigh the truth standing right in front of him.

As if getting bigger could change what happened.

As if blaming someone else could erase what I saw.

As if the storm could somehow protect him from the truth.

And as I watched him deny, defend, and eventually soften enough to repair what had been broken…

I saw myself.

Because the enemy does not always have to silence me.

Sometimes he just convinces me to silence myself.

He may get the ball of shame rolling…

but I am usually the one who keeps pushing it.

One mistake.

One wrong word.

One moment where my humanness shows up louder than I wanted it to.

And suddenly my mind starts building a case against me.

You should know better.

Who do you think you are?

Maybe you should not say anything at all.

Yesterday, I wrote about the basket inappropriately placed over the light.

Today, I see that basket a little more clearly.

Sometimes the basket is shame.

Sometimes it is unworthiness.

Sometimes it is the loud, defensive voice inside me that wants to deny, deflect, hide, or get angry enough to avoid the truth.

But my mistakes do not define who I am, other than this:

I am human.

I will get things wrong sometimes.

I will speak too quickly sometimes.

I will need grace sometimes.

But my humanness does not cancel the light Christ placed in me.

And shame is not the covering God gave me.

Instead, what He gave me is more like a beautiful glass dome.

Not to hide the light.

Not to dim the light.

Not to make it smaller or safer.

But to protect it.

To magnify it.

To let the world see what His righteousness can do through an imperfect person still willing to come into the light.

Yes, the enemy will use my mistakes if I hand them to him.

There is a difference between God gently showing me what needs to change and the enemy trying to bury me under what I got wrong.

He will take even a shred of truth and wrap it in condemnation.

He will make it sound almost holy.

Almost responsible.

Almost like I am being humble by beating myself up.

But conviction and condemnation are not the same thing.

Conviction says,

“Come into the light. Let’s deal with this.”

Condemnation says,

“Hide. Shrink. Stay quiet.”

So I am practicing disagreeing with the wrong voice.

I can grow from my mistakes without letting them name me.

I can bring my downfalls into the light without handing shame the final word.

Because the longer I try to conceal the truth, the bigger that ball of shame gets in my mind.

Until there is no room for anything else.

But when I bring it to Jesus?

The rolling stops.

The hiding loses power.

The light still shines.

Not because I got everything right.

Because He is still righteous.

And I am still His.

If shame has been trying to cover your light too, put LIGHT in the comments.

💜🌙 Shining is not about being seen.

It is about being faithful with the light.