There is one day in the year that we have named “Consecutive Day” in our family. It is the day when our children’s ages run in order, seven in a row. When we first became a family of seven children we had a 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13 year old child for a day. Then, we start doubling up again.
The Muddle in the Middle
I have a confession to make. And, I apologize in advance to all my reading and writing friends who thought you knew me and will now be forced to rethink whether to admit that you’ve ever once asked me for editing advice.
When I read, I sometimes jump ahead to the end.
I know. I said I was sorry. I can’t help it. It’s a sickness.
I don’t read much. A page or two at most. Just enough to make sure that the characters I’ve grown to know and love survive to the end. If they all get killed off, why waste the emotional energy to keep reading through all the turmoil? I just want to know that the good guy wins and the bad guy gets his. Once I’ve got that sorted out, then I can settle in and enjoy the ride.
So, that may explain why just now, stuck as we are in the no-there-is-still-no-news-yes-I-know-it-has-been-a-long-time MIDDLE of this adoption process I have been contemplating taking something just a wee bit stronger than Tylenol PM to get me through the night. Can a sister get a hook up? Seriously.
I so desperately want to skip ahead to the end of the story. I want to know that we will survive this journey. I want to know that Pacman* will survive this journey. My heart is literally breaking for this little boy. Abandoned. Vulnerable. Desperately needing to belong, to be loved. How long must he wait? He needs a family. We need a little boy. Seems a relatively easy plot line, right?
In novel writing, middles are notoriously difficult. They must link the call to adventure in the beginning to the resolution at the end. Middles contain all those tests and trials that are meant to build character. I love reading a good middle – the more suspense the better. (So long as I know it all turns out okay at the end.) I’m always encouraging my writing students to add more difficulties, more problems, more tension. In story, conflict equals excitement. In real life, not so much fun.
Not only are we stuck in the middle, we are stuck in a SLOW middle. I’d be getting bored if it weren’t so desperately heartbreaking. Just when I think I can’t slog through another day of waiting, guess what? Another day of waiting. “Pace of story too slow.” “Needs some action.” I was hoping for a hi-lo adventure. Instead I fear we’ve landed in a Victorian epic. A long, drawn out treatise with lots of sighs and a fair amount of whining (mine).
The middle is hard. Hard, hard, tear-my-hair-out hard.
But I will believe – even when I’m crying and whining and asking “are we there YET?” and “how much longer?” – that God has this story well in hand. He’s the author. He knows this struggle through the middle, and he’s right here with us. He knows about the bureaucratic red tape and the unanswered emails and the months-long delays. And what’s more, He’s right there in the middle with Pacman. In the quiet loneliness of nighttime at the orphanage, He is there. When Pacman watches others meet their forever families while he is left behind, God is there. When Pacman wonders if he will ever again be loved or belong, God is there. “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Yes, God knows our middle, but even better, God knows how it resolves. He’s even given us a sneak peek at the end – “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4); “I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you” (John 14:18); “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Rev. 21:4).
The middle is hard. The end is joy-filled. The middle is slow. The end is perfectly timed. The middle is filled with turmoil. The end is redeemed.
* Not his real name. Although it is catchy.
Healing Beneath the Surface
18 months home. Check-up day.
This morning, I raced to get the kids off to their schools and then get on over to CHOP’s cardiologist for Lydia’s appointment. I wasn’t worried about the appointment. A check up every 6 months. Just gotta do it.
A VSD put her in the special needs program. We were prepared for heart surgery. We were relieved to learn the week we got home that surgery would likely never be needed. Our cardiologist explained that it would only be necessary if the valve started to pull into the little hole between the walls of the bottom two chambers of her heart.
“Show him your heart, Lydia.” She pointed to her chest and said, all drawn out as she does, “Right here.” He listened. He listened some more. She got the EKG with stickers that tickled. Then, we went into the little room fitted with a big ole bed for her echo.
The tech pulled up her echo from 18 months ago. I could watch it on the computer screen and hear it–her heart sounded like a little bird to me, racing.
“Was she really upset when we did this before?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just that her heart was a bit crazy there. Looks like she was really worked up.”
She wasn’t.
18 months ago, we were in that same room with the same technician even. It was just me and Lydia, newly home, still getting to know each other. I sat there with her and rubbed her legs during that echo all while she lay perfectly still, just looking at me, not making a peep. I remember at one point, I even got her to fall asleep.
But, she wasn’t at peace. For a year, she never left one building. One day, one of the nannies there dressed her up nicely in new clothes, put her in a car for perhaps the 2nd time in her life, drove 2 1/2 hours, brought her into an office building and handed her to a white lady with a big nose who was crying and laughing at the same time who then passed her back and forth to a big white guy with red hair. We took her to our hotel room, then an airplane, then another hotel room, all while going to restaurants and walking around crowded streets. Then, after a very long plane ride, we arrived somewhere entirely new–new sounds, new smells, new people, new children wanting to touch her and hug her.
As calm as she seemed during that echo 18 months ago, the poor baby was upset. And, we’ve got a video record of her heart to prove it.
But, today, was different. She happily laid on the bed and talked to me about Dora who they had playing on a screen for her to pass the time. I watched the screen and the images of her heart, amazed at the clarity of the picture and how we were able to painlessly look right into our little one’s chest. Amazing.
And, then, she said it. The tech smiled at me and said it.
“Have you been praying?”
Her heart is healed. The hole is gone. Her heart is whole. Totally whole.
The cardiologist, an adoptive dad of two himself, smiled and told us he doesn’t want to see us ever again.
Amazing.
All 23 lbs of her.
Love
Someone asked me the other day how I knew I loved/could love Ruby. It was a simple question and I understood them asking- but the answer is so plain and simple to me. I already adore Ruby and love her to the ends of the earth, because I love Jesus. I love the God that created her and knit her together – so I already love her.
I don’t think it will always be easy. I don’t think it will always make sense. But I know, as much as I know that the sun is going to rise tomorrow, that she is mine, and I am hers.
I recently read a quote from Kisses from Katie
We aren’t really called to save the world, not even to save one person; Jesus has already done that. We are called to love with abandon.
I already love her with wild abandon.
And I absolutely can’t wait to meet her.
“We love because He first loved us.” – 1 John 4:19
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Sara was blessed by marrying her best friend 15 years ago. Then, found The Greatest Love of All in Jesus Christ in 2004. Having already had the privilege to parent two football-loving sons, Sara and Bill had international adoption laid on their hearts. They were blessed beyond belief when they welcomed the cutest, spunkiest Chinese girl from Luoyang into their family in December 2008. Having left pieces of their hearts in China, Bill & Sara are praying for God’s will to retrieve them. Please stop by their family blog
Back to His Arms
Last week kicked my rear end was crazy hard. I admit it…I was drowning/sinking/floundering/stumbling/staggering; call it whatever you wish, but, basically, I was wallowing in self-pity. I wanted our referral and I wanted it NOW {or yesterday or the day before}.
I wanted to believe all my sadness was justified. I mean, really? 11 weeks with no referrals? (Not to mention multiple families in the final stage of bringing their children home reporting delay after delay.) Think of all those orphans who need homes and here I am, waiting so patiently for a call that just doesn’t seem to ever come!
So, there I was…whine, cry, frump…when, BAM…I got slapped in the face with the gospel! OK, maybe that’s a bit of an exagerration, but truly, I got me some CON.VIC.TION!
Because, the truth is, my lip service was NOT matching the state of my heart. Don’t get me wrong, I want desperately to believe that this journey is not in vain…that I am enduring this wait because this is exactly where God wants me, and I DO believe that, but my heart was just not feeling it and I was sinking into a dark place. And, the bottom line is I wasn’t as close to my Jesus as I need/want to be. Instead of drizzling my sorrow in Christ’s redemptive love and promise to stay by my side {even when days are dark}, I was relying on myself to get me through. Not. Pretty.
This seed of longing for more began early in the weekend, so when I went to church on Sunday morning, I just knew I was meeting Christ there and that I was ready to lay it at His feet, to start this wait over {in a sense}, to get back to the arms of My Savior. And, guess what?! He did it! He met me there and He held my hand and he spoke to me through the sermon. We began a study of Hebrews and dug into verses 1-4 of the first chapter, which our pastor summed up like this:
“It is impossible for you to have too high a view of Jesus.”
So true. My Jesus will carry me through this difficult wait. Wasn’t he faithful to Noah, Moses, Job, David, Abraham, and countless others? He shows me over and over again where a child-like faith leads and yet, I somehow lost sight of that. And so, I am done. I can’t do this wait alone or even based on the strength of my family and friends. I need HIM and He promises to carry me, hold my hands, and walk beside me. And so I’m reaching for Him…
I’m determined to hold tight to the following verse from Hebrews:
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.
Hebrews 10:23
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Trevor and Jennifer Chase live in Southwest Missouri where they reside with their two biological children. They have been married for 11 years and desire to serve Christ in all that they do. Their current journey to bring their next child home from Ethiopia has been filled with ups and downs as they manuver through the ever-changing process of international adoption. However, they are leaning on the Word and trusting in God’s perfect timing as they wait for the referral of their child (or children) from Africa.
{Advocating} Ready to Belong
In July, my husband and I traveled to China to serve with Bring Me Hope to provide a camp experience for orphans. As prepared as you think you are with packing lists and immunizations and reading all you can beforehand, I wasn’t at all prepared for what God had in store for me.
My heart was broken. My heart was broken over each one of those children He brought to that camp. Broken.
During my second week in Xi’an, I had the tremendous blessing of spending 5 days with a sweet little boy [David]. I’ll never forget seeing him for the first time. He immediately reached for my hand and held it with a tight grip. He didn’t want to let me go. I noticed right away that he had some difficulty walking. And, as we walked to the edge of the room together to play, I became more aware of the trouble he had walking. As I walked easily in stride, I could feel his body shift from left to right as we walked hand in hand. He has scoliosis. I imagine that the years of little to no treatment and no family to help him get what he needs has contributed to his rhythmic gait.
But, his spirit is so bright. He smiled up at me with an excited grin and told our translator he was excited to come to camp. Every few minutes, he would shift his entire body to turn and smile at my translator and me. I remember consciously noticing what a beautiful smile he had.
That first afternoon, we played badminton until we could play no more. And, he laughed and played with joy despite the differences in how God formed his shape.
When I think about [David], I think first of his sweet spirit–quick to listen, eager to try new things and soak every bit out of camp that he could. He had two close buddies at camp. They all lived in the orphanage together, and it was very easy to tell that they were best buds, three peas in a pod. It occurred to me that they were probably the closest thing he has to a family, the closest thing he has experienced of what it feels like to belong.
He was made paper ready, made available for international adoption when he was only 5 years old.
He just turned 8.
And, for nearly 3 years, he has waited, paper ready to be adopted.
[David] seemed most happy when he was beside his two best friends. I couldn’t help but picture him home with a family, HIS family, and how happy he would be, how much potential he has, how much he’d grow and thrive. And, how tightly he’d hold the hand of his mother and father.
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This little boy’s name has been changed for the purpose of advocating.
My Orphan Heart
God had blessed Brent and me with 4 beautiful children the
4 years, 10 months, 17 days…Done
Waiting under the stairs of the courthouse. It felt like time was crawling at a snail’s pace. My emotions were swirling. What was I supposed to be experiencing? Relief? Joy? Giddy excitement? Exhaustion? In my confusion, each sensation took a brief swirl through my body and brought eyes brimming with tears, cold sweats, yawns, giggles, and inevitably full blown sobs.
The kids made an honest attempt at patience, although the contentment brought by coloring books and snacks waned quickly. They sensed the weight of the morning’s events, yet as more friends and family surrounded us with their love and support, the children settled.
4 years and 10 months…we have waited this long to be here. This was it. The final step, the last event, the only thing seperating us from being fully united as a family. And, we were here. I started to sense the wave of relief rising behind me. Forcing steady, slow breaths and whispering praises, we clung to each other whenever a moment allowed.
Our name was at last called, and we filed into the court room, children racing to the jury box (to which the baliff said, “look, it’s a jury of his peers!”) as we gathered our little ones to the long table. Surreal.
The Scar
I was washing Li’l Empress’ face the other day after a particularly messy bout with a “peeder budder and jelly sammich.” I took an extra breath of a moment to study her face, lingering over her deep, bottomless black-brown eyes and her sweet little rosebud lips. And the scar just under her lower lip. The scar that halts my admiration of her beauty and her sweetness every time I notice it anew. The scar that reminds me just how different parenting this child of mine really is.
You see, this particular scar doesn’t fit with all the other little tiny scars that dot her face and torso. Those scars tell me the tale of a nasty case of chicken pox while she still lived in China. They remind me of my own experiences with pitiful little patches of drying and crusting skin. I have quite a few similar scars of my own. I can empathize with her misery. Those scars make me sad for her itchy, feverish days in someone else’s care but they don’t really evoke any other response. They feel common. Normal.
But this scar? This scar is very different to me.
In pure physical appearance, it looks different. Not much larger than the chicken pox marks, it is noticeable for the way it interrupts her lower lip just ever so slightly. It’s whiter. Longer. Jagged. I can easily assign it to a nasty fall. Or maybe a tumble down the stairs. After all, I do have five kids. We’ve had our fair share of bumps, bruises, and split lips. And my girl is really physical. It’s not a hard conclusion to reach, with very little “connecting the dots” necessary. On the surface.
But underneath that simple conclusion? There is nothing simple about it. Its physical appearance lends itself to contemplation of its origins. And that, my friend, is where it feels so very important. So markedly different for me.
What happened to split that pretty little lip?
Who held you when you cried?
Did you feel reassured and comforted?
Is that the first big boo-boo you ever experienced?
Did the blood from that cut make you freak out as you do now?
Is THAT where that comes from?
And so many more… so. many. more. questions. Questions on top of questions. Questions that lead me to more questions.
I stop that train of thought in its tracks. Screeching halt, throwing the brake till smoke billows. I can almost taste the acrid smoke as I swallow and change the course of that train that wants to barrel on ahead, down the tracks.
Because that train is going nowhere good. Nowhere because these are the questions to which I will never have any real answers. I will likely never know definitive conclusions to my mother’s-heart questions. That’s the hard part, isn’t it? The part that is so incredibly different about parenting this girl of mine. That’s one of the risks, the unknowns, that we take on when we sign up for this thing called adoption.
You see, each of my older kids have scars. I know that the little orzo-shaped scar under Shaggy’s eye is from the headboard that fell on his head. I remember praising the Lord for His protection that night, that the rails of the headboard missed his nose, grazing his cheekbone instead.
I can see the scars on Baby BlueEyes’ lower lip and instantly remember the pain and fear we all struggled through that awful summer day. I know the heart-scars that that experience left behind.
Because no matter how old they are or how tall they tower over me, I was there from.the.very.beginning. There for each of those little life experiences that scarred my precious ones. I remember it all, in my momma’s heart, in many ways as if it were yesterday. A momma doesn’t forget, does she?
So I stop that train. And change the tracks. Change my thoughts. I go down a different railroad all together. I turn my train of thought to gratitude.
Thanking the Lord for the care she did receive.
Praising Him for protecting her, from the worst outcomes
of things like chicken pox and falls.
Honoring the Maker who created those pretty little rosebud lips.
Glorifying The Father that knew her and held her
before I even knew her, preparing her heart for mine.
And I take that extra breath of a moment to go back to her deep and bottomless black-brown eyes. I kiss those lips, taking care to plant my kiss on the scar. And I tell her again that I love her. In my heart, I whisper that I love the scar, too.
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Tracy Whitney blogs over at
My Older Child Adoption Thoughts
When we look back 3 months, we can really see how far our little girl has come.
But, there are times that the sadness and the heartache of China overwhelms her, and she is overcome with homesickness and grief.
Nothing that I can point to initiates these “sad days.” But, there is an obvious change in her face and it is so often, instantaneous.
She reaches for daddy or I to hold her while she cries in our arms. The moments are fewer and farther between, and they last for less than an hour, but they do come.
And, they come when I least expect it.
I don’t ever expect for her to stop being sad or stop missing China. Maybe I am a bit pessimitic or a bit realistic, whatever you want to call it. I don’t believe I can ever replace the hole that was left when she was abandoned or the grief that she wasn’t adopted by her foster family and sent back to the orphanage. I do believe the Lord will meet her where she is and begin to heal her heart and the feelings of rejection and abandonment she carries around, but I do think there will always be a longing or even a sadness for what was home, for what was familiar. Talking to many adult adoptees, there always seems to be a longing for what was or should have been.
I can’t imagine why anyone would believe that an adopted child should be thankful for their new home and not be sad. They have been taken away from everything familiar, even if it wasn’t always good.
Familiar is good.
Just look at the women who go back to their husbands who abuse them or the children who cry out for mom and dad even though they are abused.
Familiar is home. Familiar is what we crave. We don’t want new all of the time; we want the same. The same smells, the same language, the same food, the same people.
If there are any adoptive parents in the process out there reading this, here is a reality check.
New isn’t always better. It’s another change for our kiddos. Another “something” or “someone” to get use to and the thankfulness will not be there for quite sometime until its familiar.
And that takes lots of time.
Be patient.
Give more of yourself than you ever thought possible.
Let them see and feel your love.
Someday they will understand what adoption is about and what life would have been like for them where they came from.
Someday they will reach for you when they are scared or sad.
Someday you will be the first one they run to to show off their latest critter they’ve caught or their newest accomplishment.
Someday you will be mama or daddy.
Someday they will say “I love you” all on their own.
Don’t expect them to feel “lucky” that you adopted them. Expect them to be sad or angry or depressed because you took them away from familiar things.
And wait for the smiles to come. Because they will come. When you least expect it.
See. Look at our little monkey smiling all goofy for us.
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I am a mother to four children–the newest of which is our 8 year old Man Yu, 6 chickens, 3 gerbils, 2 cats, 1 dog and a multitude of birds. I am married to my sweet & amazing hunk of a hubby, Michael, for the past 12 years. In addition to being a stay-at-home mom, I am honored to be a part of An Orphan’s Wish as their Human Resources Director and serve the children still waiting for families. We welcome your visit into our world at Days Made of Now.