Threads of a Tapestry: Living God's Art

By Laura J. Miller

Threads of a Tapestry is a memoir of Laura Miller’s life: living a seemingly idyllic childhood; raising her first-born son with
significant special needs, and how the Lord equipped her through this season until his death; and journeying through the triumphs and challenges of adopting five children out of foster care. Included are practical tips for raising children who suffer from depression, autism, Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD), and other issues adoptive children face.

Laura recounts “altar moments” of personal surrender, as when one of her daughters displayed signs of leukemia, and another
daughter was critically injured in an auto accident. She reveals how God was at work through each challenge.

Laura weaves in poignant vignettes from her family life and her career experiences as a pediatric nurse. This book is written for all and is especially meaningful for a parent of a special-needs child, one in the throes of raising children in foster care or through adoption. This story is raw and real, yet full of hope and encouragement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665563581

Laura J. Miller

Laura Miller’s life is all about relationships. Though she highly values her family relationships, especially loving on her children and grandchildren, she can regularly be found at Starbucks sharing coffee and deep conversation with a friend. It’s also been said that she hasn’t met a stranger. You’ll probably agree after reading her story. Now a confirmed Texan, Laura grew up in Aurora, Ohio. Laura is a wife, mother, and grandmother, and counts her nine grandchildren as special treasures. Married to Ken for 37 years, she is raising the last two of her nine children, after launching the others. She and Ken provide marriage coaching through their practice, Marriage Connection. Her life’s journey has taken her through a career in pediatric nursing, and she’s navigated God’s calling through the ups and downs of foster and adoptive parenting. Laura Miller is an emerging author, and blogs at mudpuddlemoments.com, where she shares how she’s learned to see God in life’s messes, both big and small.

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© 2022 Laura J. Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/11/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6359-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-6358-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911821

Cover Images by George Vasquez.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The NASB is the version used predominantly through the book. There are a couple of instances where I quote from the NIV. These are noted where they appear

Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Forward

Introduction

Tapestry

Seed Planting

The Fork

Three-Point Sermon

Rocked

A Chance

Princess

Mr. Wrong

Compromise

Vacation with a Purpose

A Bus and a Guy Named Ken

Just Time

Dreams

Legitimacy

Even If

Assurance

The Call

One-Story

Spaghetti

Multiple Personalities

Tuna Fish

Bonk

Piranha Hour

Lady at Brookshire’s

Unoffendable

Time Out

The Line

Different

Statistic

Losses and Gains

Mama Laura, Mr. Ken

A Stick

Mother’s Compassion

Altar Moment

Kids in Tow

Giving and Receiving

Make a Wish

Surprise

Hands and Feet

Pro-Choice

Mission Field

Vision

Nine Months

Retreat

Healed

Grieving

Park Prayers

Mud Puddle Moments

Abiding

A Raise and a Van

Back from Peru

Latte with a Letter

Panic

Mayhem Moments

Hawaiian Shirt

Blank Calendar

Do Something

Not One, But Two

Shopping with a Twist

Her Mother and I

Gluten-Free Noodles

Tardy

Yukon Failure

Last Dance

Seasons

Intervention

Texture

Informal Fosters

Anger Management

Good, Good Father

Deep and Wide

Not a Tattoo

Blindside

My Lane

Coaching

Mini Church

Benevolent Detachment

Landfill Legend

Rearview Mirror

Obscure Sacrifices

Hold Loosely

Appendices

Don’t Get Married Until…

Making Schooling Choices

Don’t Say to Someone in Crisis…

What Rules Look Like in Our Home

Choices

Parenting a Hurt Child

Top 20 Signs and symptoms of Reactive Attachment Disorder (from Todd Friel, host of Wretched Radio)

Recognizing Suicidal Thoughts

Potpourri

Synopsis

Acknowledgments

To Julie, who first inspired me to get the story out of my head and onto the page. You have upheld me through prayer and encouragement every step of the way.

Thank you:

To Annie, who tackled the initial and early stages of editing.

To my sweet Amy, who was my faithful reader and honest critic. And so much more.

To Matt and Heather, for your priceless input.

To Kristin, my daughter’s namesake, faithful friend, and editor.

To Ken and my children, all my love.

Forward

Amy Miller Sexton

In your hands is not a typical memoir, written by someone whose high achievements have marked history. In your hands is the outpouring of love and wisdom that was produced from a lifetime of learning how to cling to Jesus amid life’s greatest joys and deepest valleys.

From a young age, I was a first-hand witness to my parents’ faith. I was born into an already established family, whose beginnings were marked with the deep pain of a life-changing diagnosis of their firstborn son, my older brother, Joshua. Due to his complex medical needs, I assumed the role of first born, and eagerly adapted to this role as the eldest Miller kid as my younger siblings were added to the family.

Watching, up close, how my parents allowed the testimony of Joshua’s life (which you will soon be unbelievably blessed to read) to define the course of their life, was one of the most pivotal aspects of my life. What could have destroyed my parents’ joy and purpose in life became the directional force that set them apart to become tools of redemption in the lives of many children. Because of their choice to follow Jesus and to say YES to His calling for their lives, generations of families are forever changed, mine included.

Life as one of the Miller kids wasn’t always easy, and I did have my fair share of complaints (especially as an angsty teenager who complained, Mom! Why can’t we just be NORMAL? However, age and maturity have shown me that growing up in a home where humility, grace, authentic faith, and JOY were the pillars on which to handle all of life’s hurdles was one of the greatest gifts a parent could ever give a child. Being Joshua’s little sister and the big sister to my sisters and adopted siblings was a gift that has transformed my life. Helping care for Joshua nurtured a desire to care for others, which led to my becoming a pediatric nurse. Seeing the example of my parents saying yes to adopting babies, even as I was about to get married, was a lesson to me that God is never done with you if you are willing to be obedient to Him. I am forever grateful for the legacy of faith and obedience that my parents have established for me. I humbly pray that my husband and I can continue to live this legacy as we raise our young children.

Please read this book with an open heart to see and feel God’s presence, in a new way. Listen to the heart behind my mother’s words as she grapples with some of life’s fiercest battles, and yet overcomes with victory and passion to follow Him, and to make an impact in the lives of others for eternity.

Introduction

How do I begin to tell you about the origins of this book? The idea for this memoir began when my dear friend, Julie, challenged me to leave a legacy for the next generation by writing about my life. She encouraged me to proclaim the excellencies of Him who has called you out of darkness into His marvelous light (1 Peter 2:9b) by writing a book about how God has woven His love story through my life. At first, I struggled to do so, since I experienced a rather ordinary childhood. However, I soon saw and appreciated the influence of the Lord in the seemingly mundane parts of my life. My life took a dramatic turn though, as I heard the neurologist state: I would be very concerned, in reference to our firstborn son, who wasn’t developing the way a baby should. What followed was time after time when the Lord stepped into my world to express His care and love for me in the day in, day out, realities of my life. Thus, I am writing this legacy to recount the works of the Lord in my life.

In my interactions with those close to me, a question that kept surfacing was, What is one thing that you believe God is asking you right now? My gut response over the past few years was that I must finish my book. I need to articulate that which gives me my greatest joy. Gardening doesn’t measure up, although I love gardens. Exercise falls short, although I love to run. Cooking doesn’t, although it provides comfort to my family, and I love to eat. I find my greatest joy in pouring into the lives of others and seeing them overcome adversity and flourish.

I want my grandchildren to grasp the complex heritage they were born into and to know of their uncle Joshua, who fundamentally changed my life. Even more, I hope that they will see what an indescribably wonderful God we serve. My precious children (Amy, Kristin, Rebekah, Corissa, Zechariah, Nathan, Tesha, and Samaiya) and grandchildren (Evelyn, Hannah, Joel, Reid, Theia, McKenna, Savannah, Addilyn, and any others who come along!), I write this book for you. This is your legacy, your heritage, your lineage. I do have stories to tell. So, here I go.

May all who read the story of the tapestry God has woven in my life be encouraged. May you come to know the Lord God a little bit more as you see His work and His hand in my story. To God be the glory, great things He has done.

Tapestry

I AM NOT A TEXTILE ARTIST; however, I love to visualize a woven tapestry and the labor of love required to take those colored threads of fine silk, satin, or cotton and carefully hand-weave them through the structural warp threads to produce, with much planning, an intricate design. From the front, a beautiful piece of art captures eyes and hearts. However, if one was to turn over the tapestry, the reverse is a messy web of mismatched threads and knots. No one in their right mind would hang a tapestry on the wall with the posterior facing out! There were times when I felt more like the reverse side of the tapestry, a gnarly mess with tangled knots.

My life has been like a tapestry, on display even during its formation, both good and bad. When going through the mess and tangles of life’s circumstances, it was hard to imagine that God was shaping my life into the rich one it is today. God has chosen many threads to weave my tapestry. Some have been lovely: threads of a loving family, a solid religious faith at an early age, a committed and faithful husband, deep friendships, and an amazing nursing career. Other threads have been gut-wrenching, such as the death of a child, adopted children with special needs, a loved one with cancer, and an imprisoned son.

None of the darker threads would I have chosen for my own life tapestry, but God has used each of them to teach me to lean on Him. When we depend on God, He develops us. I am walking in joy. I choose to follow Him daily, and I have a passion for others to know Him. So, just as we read the Bible already knowing that the story ends in redemption and glory, I ask that as you read my story, you look for the hope within each event. Not all the stories in this book may resonate with you. However, I do know that every person who breathes life will inevitably undergo difficult days. My prayer is that reading about my experiences will inspire you to respond to yours in a manner that will strengthen and shape you, living out your hope in our Lord.

Seed Planting

M Y NINTH-GRADE ENGLISH TEACHER EMPHASIZED the importance of engaging your reader early in your story. While the tale of my childhood may not have the most riveting plot, in it were multiple defining moments that shaped me into who I am today, so this seems the most natural place to start my account.

I was born in the early 1960s in Cleveland, Ohio, to loving parents who wanted the best for me and my younger brother Paul. My father was an IBM salesman and, despite the constant pressure to make quotas, thrived in the business environment due to his extroverted personality. He suited up for work every day in the dark jacket and slacks, white shirt, and plain-colored tie that IBM required at the time. Despite working long hours, he purposefully carved out time to play and converse with us. Every evening, he arrived home, shed his jacket, and loosened his tie, so I could curl up on his lap to chat about our day.

My earliest childhood memories are sweet. Until I was about sixteen years old, I thought I had the ideal family and childhood. It was Dad who taught me to enjoy life, to play games like kick-the-can, and to run bases during games of baseball in the backyard. He also nurtured my competitive spirit by playing card games like pinochle, spades, King’s Corner, and even the psychological game of poker. My father was the greatest teacher of how to have fun, relish the moment, laugh at practical jokes, and make memories count. Dad’s most contagious characteristic was the art of living life to the fullest. He did everything with gusto, flair, and style.

My dad was my superman in a black suit and tie. Although he was far from being a handyman and could hardly hang a picture straight on the wall, he always seemed to know how to solve any dilemma involving a boy, friendship, or life decisions. He was my biggest cheerleader. He raised me with the hope and promise that I could be whatever I wanted, frequently offering suggestions: the next president of IBM, owner of my own corporation, or Miss America. He would often sing, There she is, Miss America, to me when I woke up in the morning. Reality hit hard when I realized I was far from having some of the qualities of Miss America! However, the foundation of being cherished by my father allowed me to understand how much more the Lord cares for me, and that inner beauty is most precious and desirable. This has affected my mindset and worldview my entire life.

My parents grew up in the Lutheran church, the Missouri Synod to be specific—it is important to note that this was the denomination with the red hymnal. To this day, my mom is a die-hard Lutheran. I think she still secretly prays that I will return to Lutheranism, as this, in her eyes, is the only true religion. My dad was an elder at their church for over twenty-five years, and he took this calling seriously, studying scripture to examine how to handle current issues that faced the church. I can recall sitting in his lap as he studied Evangelism Explosion and the Bethel Bible Series. I loved to look at the beautiful pictures of Bible characters and hear Dad tell the story of each one. He had a way of making every story he told come alive in your imagination. At an early age, I fell in love with the Bible through the eyes of my father.

Throughout my childhood and teen years, my dad lived his authentic faith before my eyes, not only sharing Christ with others but also authentically sharing his struggles and shortcomings. While Dad was in the army, he liberally smoked Tareyton cigarettes, long before the surgeon general warned of their harmfulness, and thus became predictably addicted. He tried to quit smoking several times throughout his life, but cigarettes, and the resulting lung cancer, eventually took his life. However, the scent of old tobacco was a comforting, familiar aroma to me and still conjures up feelings of nostalgia and precious memories of my dad.

Dad modeled the practice of generosity. I learned much later in life that he often supported seminary students anonymously. Not a Christmas went by without my dad opening our home to someone in need or someone who was missing the holiday with their loved ones: a beautiful Japanese woman, several families from India, foreign and local missionaries, and even someone Dad met at the bar over a beer and with whom he had shared Christ. What a rich example of a generous and open heart. This left a lasting impression on me, even after I left home, married, and had my own family.

One childhood memory stands out in my mind as a prime example of Dad’s spirit of generosity. Dad loved to find opportunities to spoil my mother with gifts; you might say it was a love language he spoke fluently. During a business trip to Toronto, he was invited to a professional modeling event. He was so impressed with the dresses worn by the models that he purchased several of them for my mom. The following Christmas, I watched as my mother opened box after box of French and Italian designer dresses. I will never forget my very conservative mother’s aghast expression as she humbly modeled her new vogue outfits that were a far cry from her normal velour sweat suit attire. Despite my mother’s less than enthusiastic reaction to those special Christmas presents, my father’s desire to shower my mother with the most extravagant gifts he could find left a lasting impression on me. To this day, as I seek perfection in the gifts I give others, I often say that I have my dad’s spirit of generosity without my dad’s checkbook!

Though Dad often showed love with tangible gifts, he didn’t shy away from giving his affection either. Dad used hugs liberally and made sure that his kids felt loved. I fondly remember trying to walk past him in our home—to get to the fridge or go to my room—when he made a bridge with his arms and said, That will cost you a hug and a kiss to enter. His willingness to demonstrate his affection for us made me feel cherished. He believed in me even when I doubted myself and regularly offered words of affirmation and encouragement. The power of a father’s words…bless my husband, who couldn’t quite figure out my excessive need for verbal praise.

When I was eight, we moved to Aurora, a small town in Ohio, which I consider my primary childhood home. We moved into a subdivision that, over time, became the Walden Country Club, with part of our backyard turning into the first hole of the golf course. The norm for our family became playing tennis, swimming, and golfing a few holes after dinner. I always had what I needed, and often got what I wanted, whether a new pair of shoes, a new Easter dress, or tennis lessons. Friday night dinners were typically at the club. On Saturday, my dad grilled steaks. My dad loved to lavish us with good food, and we were rarely served leftovers because my dad called these scraps. My mom even took some French and Italian cooking classes, so we were her brave taste-testers for pork florentine, chicken marsala, or chicken cordon bleu. I didn’t consider our family rich, but we did gratefully enjoy some luxuries. As generous as Dad was, he also taught my brother and me the value of money. We helped fund the purchase of our first dog, Dundee, a cairn terrier, by finding ninety-five golf balls to pay for the dog, who cost ninety-five dollars.

However, more valuable to me than any monetary extravagance were the conversations we had at dinner each night. Memories of gathering around the table to share the day’s events over meatloaf and mashed potatoes are just as prominent in my mind as the country club atmosphere and cuisine. Character-shaping conversations occurred at our dinner table. We discussed our experiences, preferences, opinions, and values. Topics of conversation ranged from the latest episode of the Brady Bunch, my celebrity crush on David Cassidy, to heavier topics like the Watergate scandal or the election of Jimmy Carter, which, ironically, is when I first learned of the term Born Again. At family dinners, I learned how much my dad hated gossip and heard his strong beliefs in the sanctity of marriage and the danger of not safeguarding one’s marriage. Dad’s nickname was Marty, and we called his upfront quips Marty-isms. One was often thrown out to me or my brother right before a date to remind us to guard our purity: A stiff dick has no conscience. He talked to us frankly about his business trip to Paris when he was mocked by coworkers because he would not entertain the prostitutes who populated the street corners: Come on, Marty, no one will know. Your wife is an ocean away. My dad wisely rebutted, Even if Carol never finds out, the Lord God would know.

A favorite story exemplifying my father’s love for his wife took place when I was an adult in 2011. That August, Dad asked me and several other family members to clear our schedules for a specific Sunday that upcoming November, which would be my parents’ fiftieth anniversary. The only detail he would provide was that we were to be available to attend their church with them. That day as we sat in the pew singing hymns and reciting liturgy, I struggled to keep my young girls quiet in the service. Then, during the offering, my father approached the front of the church and calmly took the microphone. It was a well-known fact that my father had never really been able to carry a tune; my mother was the official singer of the family. But then came an introductory measure from the accompanist, and Dad took a deep breath. Out of his mouth came a melodious This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad for it. I choked back tears as I realized that my dad, nearing his fiftieth wedding anniversary and diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, had been taking voice lessons to demonstrate his adoration to his wife in the way she would relate to most deeply—through her love of music.

My mother was a gentle, kind-hearted woman who served her family well. Having grown up in a stoic Polish/German family, showing emotions did not come easily to her. She grew up in a home that stressed, Children should be seen but not heard, and although my mother did not employ this teaching in her childrearing, her past did influence her interpersonal interactions. She was not quick to show physical affection. Yet, what my mother lacked in relational skills, she made up for with an enthusiasm for doing projects and tasks that substantially enriched my life. We would often work together on elaborate school assignments, and she supported me in pursuing excellence in whatever I did. As a child, I aspired to be an author. I wrote a children’s book in the fifth grade titled Heather the Hen, with my mom as the illustrator, and we won first place in a storybook contest. For my next book in the sixth grade, Troublemaker Mini, my mom decided I needed to try my hand at illustrating. This was disastrous enough to make me realize that it may be in my best interest to pursue other career options. Interestingly, in both books I wrote about animals wanting to be humans, thematically emphasizing the importance of finding contentment in who the Creator made you. It is no coincidence that many years later I am still passionate about instilling this idea into every person I mentor.

My mother embraced the role of a traditional wife in the 1960s and 1970s, caring for her family while my father brought home the bacon. Mom was happy to stay home to care for us, and Dad’s success as a salesman made this possible. I often came home from school to find Mom bent over her sewing machine making outfits for Paul and me. She was a gifted seamstress, and we always had clothes…although they weren’t necessarily aligned to the fashion of the day. The year our parents took us to Disney World for our first time, I wore a homemade gingham outfit that matched my brother’s. Years later, I realize we might have looked much more ridiculous than I felt at the time.

As a child of eight years old, I already had a love for children with special needs due to my close relationship with my cousin Bobby, who had Down Syndrome. My mind was set on becoming a pediatrician and having a family of twelve children. When family friends adopted a little girl from Korea, born in my heart was a deep desire to adopt children in the future. I often pretended that I had adopted my dolls from various countries. I was especially intrigued by India, so of course, that is the country I chose for a school project. My mother and I learned everything we could about the country. We tried various Indian foods and experimented with spices such as cardamom and cumin. We made a topographic salt map of India. We went to a doll store, where I gazed at all the beautiful dolls from around the world and found the doll from India to be most exquisite. I admired her nose piercing and the traditional jewel between her eyebrows, and I knew I had to bring her home. My love for the people