The Seven Longest Yards

by Chris Norton

  The next few days were an intense rush of finding clothes that fit everyone and getting the girls settled in their rooms. The girls’ grandpa had died on Christmas Eve. A few days later, I drove the girls nearly four hours so they could be there for his funeral. I had to bring the girls to the funeral to let them grieve and be with family. I thought back to losing my Grandma Max, and my heart ached even more for these girls.

  All of this was just the beginning. There was no getting around it—having five kids was crazy, but I loved it. There were so many moments when I threw up my hands and prayed, God, I need you right now because I absolutely cannot do this alone. But even in the midst of the insanity, I felt this overwhelming sense of peace. I knew God brought us these girls for a reason, and I was determined to give them all the love and help they needed.

  CHRIS

  Before we brought foster children into our home, I thought parenting younger kids from a wheelchair would be next to impossible. I couldn’t pick them up to comfort them or even yank them out of harm’s way. But in time I realized there are also major advantages. They’re too young to give my wheelchair a second thought, beyond getting excited about riding in it with me.

  When the girls moved in, it was a different story. I don’t know if they had ever met someone in a wheelchair. They looked at me with an attitude of “You’re weird. You’re in a wheelchair.” They made blunt, offhand comments as if they were nothing. “Why are you marrying him?” they’d ask Emily, even though I was right there. “He can’t even walk.”

  The first few years after my injury, while I was searching for self-worth, I certainly would have been offended, but I have learned walking isn’t the most important thing in life and wasn’t important to a woman like Emily. I brushed it off because I knew they didn’t know any better. I also knew we could use this conversation to show how your adversity or circumstances don’t define you or dictate your worth, which these girls needed to know, given what they had been through.

  Once, in the middle of a conversation about Halloween, I mentioned how much I loved trick-or-treating. The oldest girl put her hand on her hip and scowled at me. “How can you have fun?” she asked scornfully. “You can’t walk.”

  I told her, “The best part of trick or treating has nothing to do with walking. It’s about dressing up, spending time with family and friends, and getting candy. How you get there is irrelevant. I focus on what I can do instead of what I can’t. You don’t have to walk to have fun.” I think it clicked for her.

  Once we got past their shock of having a new foster dad who couldn’t walk, my being in a wheelchair gave me something in common with the kids. I understood what it was like for life to be unfair and to experience a terrible situation I didn’t deserve. I was living proof that adversity doesn’t have to define you and that, with God, you can overcome anything life throws at you. The kids’ reactions to my wheelchair also gave me a healthy dose of perspective. I looked at their situations and felt they had it worse than me. They looked at me and thought I was way worse off than they were, hands down.

  Because of my limitations, I was forced to get creative. I became an expert at describing how to dress yourself, or how to adjust a toy or open a jar. I learned that if I built strong relationships with them, they would listen and obey, even though I couldn’t physically force them to do anything.

  I came to see myself as the family cheerleader who tried to stay upbeat as much as possible, which is actually what I felt I had to be, since my injury, with Emily, family, and friends. Sometimes, though, I found myself wishing I could play with the kids in the pool, or wrestle in the living room, or toss a football in the backyard. It was easy for me to fall into a victim mind-set, even after years of life in a wheelchair. Once again, I forced myself to remember that lesson I’d learned in the helicopter, struggling to breathe. Don’t focus on what you can’t do. Focus on what you can do.

  EMILY

  Becoming a foster parent was the best thing I have ever done. I finally found my purpose and reason for being alive. After so many years of pretending I had it all together and relying on myself for everything, I now didn’t have a choice but to put everything in God’s hands. Taking in kids who needed help removed any charade of knowing what the future held or controlling my own destiny. We had five children with challenging behaviors and no clue when or if they would be reunited with their families. I had to let God take control, because there was no way I could navigate these waters on my own.

  Not so long ago, that kind of surrender would have been impossible. If I had attempted to foster while I was in the throes of my depression or before I gave my life to God, I would still be grasping for any shred of control I could get. I could not have continued to be a foster parent if I carried the weight on my shoulders like I used to. I knew God had me wait for exactly this moment. As crazy as it might sound, I was actually grateful for my experience with depression because it prepared me to let God take the reins.

  Parenting school-age children also revealed that God allowed me to go through my depression for a specific purpose. I remembered what it was like to bury my feelings and refuse to talk about my struggles. I had pushed away everyone who cared about me. When our oldest foster daughter did the same thing, I saw right through it.

  One night I was hanging out with Marisa in our living room and listening to music when it turned into a dance party, as music often does when you have kids. Out of nowhere, the two oldest girls broke into dance moves they must have seen on TV or from an older girl, because they were inappropriate for girls their age. All I said was, “You can’t dance like that. That’s not appropriate,” but I might as well have told them to get out of my house, because the oldest completely freaked out. She became so upset, I could not reason with her. I could tell from the look on her face that she had shut down and entered full-on fight mode.

  I took her in the other room as she screamed at me, “I hate you! This is the worst place I’ve ever been.” There was a time those words would have stabbed me in the heart, but I didn’t flinch. I knew exactly what she was trying to do. “I bet if I hit you, you wouldn’t love me anymore,” she said, her eyes flashing.

  How many times had I put Chris through crazy ultimatums? I knew better than to take her seriously. She was trying with all her might to push me away, but I wasn’t having it. I kept my voice completely calm. “It doesn’t matter what you do. I will always love you. I’m always going to be here.”

  My foster daughter didn’t know what to do. She was used to her words cutting right through and getting the response she wanted. She’d never seen anyone refuse to react, so she took it up a notch.

  “I bet if I cut off your head and buried you, you wouldn’t love me,” she sputtered, the pitch of her voice rising. Her eyes locked with mine as if to say, What are you going to say now, huh?

  “I would still love you,” I said calmly. I knew she wasn’t a violent person and didn’t mean a word she said. Everything she said was meant to push me away. “You can’t say or do anything to make me leave this room,” I said, gripping her shoulders in my hands and looking into her eyes. “I will not leave you in this place. I know what it’s like to push people who love me away. I know what you’re trying to do. But I am telling you here and now, I’m not going anywhere.”

  She didn’t say a word, but I saw tears welling in her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, willing the tears not to fall.

  “You’ve been fighting this for too long,” I said gently. “But you don’t have to fight this by yourself anymore.”

  “No,” she insisted. “This has always worked. I’ve always been able to push people away.” She was trying to protect herself from being let down again. Why would she trust me and let me in? She had built a wall around her heart because she had been hurt too many times.

  “Honey.” By now I was sobbing, but she still held back her tears. “You are not alone anymore, and no matter how hard you try, I will never let you push me away!”

  Th
en, somehow, the two of us had our first heart-to-heart conversation. We opened the Bible, and I read her verses that had spoken to me when I came out of my depression that I hoped would be powerful for her. The Holy Spirit was in the room that night. God spoke to both of us so clearly as she finally dropped her defenses and opened up to me.

  That night alone didn’t solve her problems. More often than not, she told us she was fine when she clearly wasn’t. But because of my experience, I knew not to take those answers at face value. I learned to keep asking the questions and to help her dig deep.

  As horrific as my depression was while going through it, I would go through it again in a heartbeat if it meant I could help more kids like my foster daughter, Cali. My experience allowed me to understand her in an intimate way that has transformed my life. Chris always says of his injury that given the way life has turned out, he would not change a thing. After my conversation with Cali, I realized for the first time that I could love these kids where they were—with walls arounds their hearts—because I had been there too.

  20

  Planning a Wedding

  When the Wedding Is the Least Important Thing You Have to Do

  CHRIS

  When I proposed to Emily, I imagined her diving into choosing a color scheme, tasting cake samples, and scouting out venues. I couldn’t wait to see what she came up with—she had such great style and had decorated our apartment like a pro. I knew she’d dreamed of the perfect wedding growing up, and planning was in her blood. She practically told me how she wanted me to propose to her, for crying out loud. So shortly after we got engaged, I was caught off guard when suddenly selecting invitations and mapping out seating charts became as appealing to her as a root canal. Even the mention of our wedding visibly overwhelmed her. She told me she just couldn’t think about it right then.

  I understood why, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t hurt. Part of me wondered if I should plan the wedding myself. It didn’t help that my family constantly pestered me to set a date. I couldn’t tell them that Emily wasn’t herself and that our relationship was in shreds. My mom was ready to take over the planning simply to see us make it down the aisle.

  Then the clouds parted, and Emily emerged from her depression. Even after she seemed like herself again, I didn’t bring up the wedding. I didn’t want to push it. I knew how much it took for her to break free and seek help. The last thing I wanted was to overwhelm her with wedding planning and send her spiraling back into the fog. I was enjoying our relationship again, and a wedding wasn’t on my radar.

  That’s why I could barely contain my excitement as I watched Emily slowly begin to Google venues and ask me about possible dates. I had never lost faith that one day we would get married, and now it was becoming a reality. Emily’s finally going to have the engagement experience she always wanted, I thought. I can’t wait to see her throw herself into planning mode.

  But then life threw us another curveball. Not only were we foster parents, but we were parents to five children who had experienced the most unimaginable abuse, neglect, trauma, and loss. Our life was a series of shuttling kids to school; juggling appointments; helping them through difficult moments, of which there were many; and fielding incredulous looks when we dared to take them all out in public together. Everywhere we went someone invariably commented, “You sure have your hands full!” or “Are those your kids?”

  Emily fully embraced her new role as their foster mother. And, not surprisingly, the kids were crazy about her. When she wasn’t kissing a scraped knee or helping someone with math homework, she was busy sweeping up crumbs, wiping off counters, or shopping for groceries. There wasn’t exactly a lot of extra time for her to plan a wedding. All we had was a date—April 21, 2018—and a golf course we’d reserved as our venue.

  I wasn’t much help around the house, and while I shared as many parenting duties as I could, Emily had to shoulder most of it. I could, however, pick up the phone and make wedding calls. I could handle online venue searches and signing caterer contracts. All of this meant that when I wasn’t training for our wedding walk or speaking in front of crowds, I was busy taking on a role I had never expected—wedding planner.

  I had figured that even if Emily wasn’t the one planning the wedding, she would still be stressed about making sure I didn’t accidentally pick carnations instead of roses or order white tablecloths instead of ivory. I still had the infamous banana-versus-plantain incident in the back of my mind. But Emily was surprisingly relaxed and chill. She didn’t seem worried that I was in charge of everything. I, on the other hand, was terrified.

  “Em, this is a little scary, having me decide everything,” I said to her multiple times.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured me. “At the end of the day, all that matters is that we’re married. Everything else is just a bonus.”

  EMILY

  I knew Chris struggled to understand how I could possibly be so nonchalant about the details of our wedding. Believe me, that’s not normally my personality. When I had imagined planning my wedding in the past, I thought I would freak out and not be able to sleep, worrying that the flowers wouldn’t look right or the decorations wouldn’t be perfect.

  Becoming a foster mom put everything in perspective. As much as I had always struggled with perfectionism, I realized that those tiny details didn’t matter when I had five kids who needed my attention. Chris worried that I didn’t care about the wedding, but that wasn’t the case at all. I was unbelievably excited about marrying him, and I was looking forward to our big day. But I also knew that the flowers and decorations didn’t matter as long as we became husband and wife.

  Chris isn’t the planner in our relationship, so I knew he was nervous about possibly letting something fall through the cracks. I wasn’t worried. I knew God had this, and over and over he kept showing up for us. The documentary company Fotolanthropy had contacted us after they saw Chris’s graduation walk to tell us they would take care of our wedding photography and videography. We reached out to them to see if they were still interested in capturing our story since so much time had passed. Not only was it perfect timing for them, but their producer and founder, Katie, told us she wanted to do even more. “I feel like God has placed it on my heart to do a full-length documentary titled 7 Yards on your story and to find someone to help you with wedding planning and decorations,” she said.

  Katie found a world-class wedding designer and planner, GRO Designs, who planned and designed everything, including the floral arrangements and bouquets. I got chills every time I thought about it. To me, it was another sign that God was right there watching out for us, and that we were doing exactly what he wanted us to do. Like most engaged couples, we were hit with sticker shock when we first began researching venues and vendors. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to afford flowers beyond a couple of minimal arrangements. GRO Designs showed us their plan to heap tables with the most beautiful all-white roses and hydrangeas I’d ever seen, at no cost to us. The planner freed Chris up to focus more on his growing speaking business while also putting in the hours he needed at the gym.

  With the wedding plans in motion, I could focus on helping our foster children work through the trauma and loss they carried. On top of the long list of other reasons they were in foster care, the four girls had lost their mother as well as their grandpa, who had cared for them for a year before he passed away.

  Many nights I woke up to the sound of our five-year-old, Sam, crying for her mommy. My heart broke as I picked her up and let her sob in my arms. I wished I could take away the pain she felt, but all I could do was hold her and love her.

  A therapist told us it takes around six months for a child in foster care to fully open up and act like themselves. We took in the group of four sisters less than five months before our wedding. With each month that went by, another layer of their shells fell away. As they became more comfortable, they told me more of their tragic story, filled with abuse, neglect, and more loss than most adu
lts face in their lifetimes. As a foster parent, I could not do what I do if I didn’t put the weight on God.

  With time, we saw changes in the girls that I can only chalk up to being the work of God. We were tested one night when Cali was told that she wasn’t going to be able to live with a family member as she had hoped. Since bad news always goes down better with ice cream, we went to Culver’s. While there, the two of us talked about how to handle this news and how to move forward.

  I told her, “You have two choices. You can feel sorry for yourself and think why me? You can be angry and let it bring you down. Or you can choose to be happy, trust that your life is in God’s hands, and be thankful for what you have.”

  Cali sat there a moment, then said, “I’m going to choose to be happy.”

  A few minutes later, a firefighter walked in and ordered ice cream. Cali walked up and boldly said, “You don’t need to use your money. Use mine because you risk your life for all of us.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” the firefighter said, a little taken aback.