…just how wounded she is.

That deep down, there is a lot of hurt.

A lot of anger.

A lot of confusion.

And I’m just not sure how to be the mom she needs me to be.

Because there are moments where it seems so completely overwhelming. And I feel so completely inadequate.

Like this morning, when a simple request is followed by a refusal from her. And thus, a consequence ensues.

Which is followed by a tantrum. But not just any tantrum.

A tantrum that reaches a whole ‘nother level. Different than any tantrum I’ve ever experienced with other kids.

There is no calming her down. There is no reasoning.

There is only escalation, and screams from the depth of her soul. Followed by more escalation. And thrashing, and contortion, and eyes rolling back in her head.

It’s as if for a little while, she’s not even there. She’s somewhere else.

And then exhaustion comes. And she curls herself up into a fetal position.

So vulnerable.

So wounded.

And then, the chanting returns. The chants that consistently rang out when we first brought her home. The self-soothing primal chants that make my heart hurt for the life she led. And the scars that bear witness to that time.

And it’s then, that I realize how much I love her. And how much I want to fix it, and make it all better. How I desperately wish she did not have to endure what she has in her short life. Where she was provided for…but not loved. Fed…but not nourished. Touched…but without affection. Abandoned. Without a soul in the world to call her own.

So I scoop her up, and love on her. And pray.

Which is really all I can do.

Because she needs a lot more than I, alone, can offer.

She’s come so far in the past year and a half. And 99% of the time she looks like a happy, spirited, well-adjusted kid who has learned how to love and play and be silly. And I am thankful.

But that 1% of the time….well, I think that road will be a long one to walk.

Sometimes I forget.

Just because she has a family, doesn’t mean she’s fine. Just because she’s been home for a while, doesn’t mean the issues are all gone.

It’s not magic. It’s not quick in this case.

BUT….adoption is healing. And redemption. And a second chance.

And while some would have me believe that she will never be restored from those hurts from her past, I will choose to believe otherwise.

Because she is CHOSEN. And LOVED.

And SHE. IS. MINE.

And really, that’s all that matters.

And that, I can remember.

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Jennifer and Rush Middleton have been married for 11 years and have 4 kids, Jonah (8), Reagan (5), Rylie (3) and Jude (2). Rylie came home from China in 2010 and Jude just arrived earlier this year. The Middletons have been through the easy and the hard of bringing a child into their family, yet the awesome gift of adoption has rocked their worlds in more ways than they can count. You can check out their blog about family, life, adoption, cleft lip/palate and other randomness at Apple Pie and Egg Rolls.

The Lord continues to bless me with encouragement when he knows I need it the most. A few months ago I went searching online to see if I could find our little man’s orphanage. I want to know where it is, to look it up on google maps, to see pictures, to imagine him there. But between having little idea about where to start and having to translate all those sites from Russian to English on google translate, I didn’t get very far. I looked through hundreds of orphanage pictures, hoping I recognize something in the background from the photos we have of out little guy… hoping I’d maybe even have some sort of motherly sense to just know which “baby house,” as they say in Russia, was his. But I did not.

Until today.

Through the miracle of the internet and what I’d say is God’s gracious guiding, I found it. A woman I connected with on a private adoption-related forum (hi M!) found my etsy shop. She bought a t-shirt and sent me a link to the website of her son’s orphanage, asking if perhaps our son was there too. I clicked on to the site and saw that it was one I had visited before. I wasn’t sure it would lead to anything, but still- I cut and paste every piece of wording into google translate and kept clicking around, hoping and hoping until…

Until I suddenly saw his sweet face and soft smile looking back at me. I inhaled sharply and tears prickled at my eyes. It was one of the pictures we already have of him, but just to know…. to know where he is… to see the faces of his peers, his playmates, his friends… this is a gift I treasure deeply tonight.

There is only one picture of his orphanage on the website and I’ve memorized it already. The white walls, the gray floor, the pine table and chairs, the colorful toys, the old fashioned play-pen like my parents would have played in. The room it sterile, but bright- filled with sunlight from large windows- and clean. It gives my mother’s heart some peace. A treasure, that picture. A gift for my soul.

On the site, the children in the baby house are “listed” with a picture and short description. The words used to describe our sweet son echo the descriptions his nannies have given us through our agency: quiet, gentle, tender, sweet. Our precious, precious, baby boy. Oh God how I long to cup his face in my hands, to stroke his head and push back his hair, to whisper, “My love. My baby. My son.” Do that for him today, I pray. Warm his heart until it glows with my love, from miles and miles away.

Today, for this gift, I am thankful. For a peek into his world. For a gaze into the eyes of the children with whom he spends every day. For a connection with another mama whose son waits with mine.

Until I carry him in my arms, I treasure these gifts in my heart. I carry him in my heart, today.

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Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their first child by way of a Russian adoption. While her belly might not be expanding, her heart and her faith sure are growing! You can read about this soul stretching journey to parenthood on her blog.

I grew up in a family where perfection was expected. What others thought of us was THE most important agenda. I have to even say way back when my oldest was little I still had that thought process. I was so caught up in what others thought of my parenting based on how my kids acted, what my kids looked like, what car we drove, etc. I found myself yelling a lot more, stressing way more and plain not happy – with anything.

Then almost 6 years ago our little Brahm was born to our perfect little family. You know the one with the 2 kids, boy and a girl,

We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
– C.S. Lewis

I came across this quote in a rather timely read of Mary Beth Chapman’s book Choosing to See. The book is about Mary Beth’s life, her marriage to musician Steven Curtis Chapman, the birth of her children, the adoptions of her three youngest daughters, and the tragic death of her 5-year-old in 2008. Reading through this painful story has helped me work through a lot of the pain and sadness I’ve run into this past week as John and I wait endlessly for our adoption to move forward. Sort of an “if-she-can-make-it-through-that-then-I-can-make-it-through-this” kind of a read.

While our adoption process had been moving along fairly well- albeit slower than we had hoped for- we’ve come to a standstill. The home study is long done. Fundraising complete. Agency fees paid and sent. Our preliminary dossier carried to Russia; it should even be translated by now. All our immigration paperwork has been sent in to the US government. And now? We wait, endlessly- waiting for Moscow to lift the adoption suspension and start registering dossiers again.

I wake up every morning, hit the snooze button, and begin to pray for our little guy. I walk around our neighborhood, whispering prayers to God- asking him to AWAKE and act on our behalf. Pointing out that if he can make spring happen, raise every blade of grass to life, and command the trees to burst with blossoms- if he can create new life where only weeks ago it looked like there was none- then surely he can move a government to lift this adoption suspension. I lie down at night wondering what our little guy is doing, if he’s just getting up for the day, and hoping he’s well cared for. I imagine what it’s going to be like to finally hold him in my arms and then I force myself to think about something else, otherwise I’d never sleep.

I cry a lot because even though I know God’s putting all things back together in Christ, the effects of the fall are still too powerful. I cry out because I hate that the world is still so broken and I lament that God seems so slow to move sometimes. I cry because I don’t know whether my faith is weak or whether I’m right to be so upset in the face of brokenness.

I’m not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
I’m wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.

I’ve received a lot of assurances through our adoption journey. “It will all work out.” “All in God’s timing.” “He has a plan!”

Yes. True.

But “a plan” that “works out” in “God’s timing” still leaves room for lament. Think of the martyrs whose testimony far surpasses my own; their deaths were part of a plan that worked out in God’s timing… but still, they died.

The only thing I know is that somehow it all works out for God’s glory. In that, my faith is unwavering.

But in the rest of it, I cry out with the Psalmist:

How long O Lord?

Will you forget me forever?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?

And day after day have sorrow in my heart?

I trust that this endless waiting and wondering and worrying is God’s best. I trust it works out for his glory. I’m just wondering how much more painful it’s going to be.

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Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their