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.
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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Jennifer Campbell
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.
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.
I’m going to tell you something; a little confession, if you will. Some of you will pull your hair out and smear your faces with ashes and put all my books on eBay and quit believing in God, but I’m willing to take that risk:
I’m really, really glad all my kids are back in school.
There. I said it. The three children that I birthed and nursed and raised from scratch, and the two children we begged and cried and screeched for and fetched from Africa…all five of these kids are in school. And I am happy, so happy, happy, happy, happy, hip-hip-hooray Mary Poppins happy.
For my friends and readers who homeschool, I tip my hat and say to you, “Well done, good and faithful servants.” And believe me, I have a couple of besties who paddle in that stream, and paddle it well. For some kids in some cities in some families in some districts, this is the very right thing. The end. Why people feel the need to make a fuss about how other parents decide to educate their children is beyond me. Let’s live and let live, yall. For the love of Pete.
But I cannot educate my own children, people, unless I am OK with us all becoming homicidal.
Plus, we’re in a nice little Bermuda triangle where our kids feed into fabulous schools with vested teachers that make me want to weep with gratitude. The language resources for my Amharic speakers is over the top, and I have a free pass to attend school each and every day, which I have exercised with zero restraint.
But this is not a post about homeschooling or public schooling. The reason I am happy my kids are in school is not because I lack the organization to educate five kids (which I do), it’s not because I’ve chosen a career with a moderate workload (which I have), and it’s not because I’m a little sloppy on details and my kids would likely graduate with a sixth-grade education (which they would).
It’s because parenting right now is EXHAUSTING and the mental break is keeping me afloat.
On July 22nd, we came down the escalator at the Austin airport with Remy. On August 21st, we came down the same escalator with Ben. These were two of the happiest days of my life.
I am crying with joy. Remy is ready to sprint like FloJo from the screaming white people.
Insert audio of yelling and cheering. GAH, why was she so clingy?
One month later: Here comes my man and my boy. This pic makes me verclempt.
The 7 Hatmakers on the same continent. You’ve been warned, America.
After an arduous adoption journey, our kids were safe in our arms, tucked into their bunk beds their dad built with his own two hands, surrounded by the dearest, most sincere community we have ever known. God delivered them from poverty and abandonment back into a family, no longer alone in this big world; now wanted and loved and welcomed with great fervor.
The end.
Not.
Remy gave us about 12 hours of honeymooning until her terror burst onto the scene. Sometimes her fear is so palpable, it literally takes my breath away. New places: terror. New faces: total insecurity. Transitions: help us, Jesus. She has asked us every single day since July 22nd if she is going back to Ethiopia. Every. Single. Day. When I discovered cashews to be a winning legume for her impossible palate, I told her:
“Yay! Good job! Cashews are good for you and will help you grow big and strong!”
“Big? Ah-Rrrremy? Big? Cashews?”
“Yes!”
She pushes them away and starts crying.
Once again, I am bewildered and befuddled.
“No! No Ah-Rrremy grow big! Me big, then go back to Ethiopia! No! Dis is no!”
When a child fears that cashews will once again leave her abandoned on this earth because she will grow out of the age we might still want to parent her, you are dealing with heartbreaking fragility.
Her fear comes out as 1.) defiance, 2.) terror, and 3.) catatonic disassociation, in that order. We’ve been spit on, kicked, disobeyed, refused, clung to, begged for, adored, ignored, and rejected. Triggers are unpredictable. Yesterday, we entered an hour-long Armageddon because she wouldn’t put her bike up. This turned into defiance and disrespect, deal breakers as we establish safe boundaries. When at long last her angry, dark face relented, and she finally uttered in the smallest voice: “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, Daddy,” the dam broke and she cried for thirty minutes, telling us over and over that we don’t love her and she is going back to Africa.
Meanwhile, Ben sidled up quietly next to me as Brandon held Remy’s flailing legs, and asked in a whisper: “Mom? Forever?”
Is this family forever, even with this hysterical girl? Are you forever, even though she is draining the lifeblood out of you and Dad? Am I forever, once my junk starts coming out that I’m holding in? Are you forever for her? For me? Should I be worried that you’ll only put up with this level of chaos for so long?
God love them.
We are parenting damaged, traumatized children; don’t let the pictures fool you. We’re in the weeds. Every minute is on; there is no off. We’ve arrived late, cancelled altogether, hunkered down in therapy mode, missed appointments, failed to answer hundreds of emails in a timely manner, left voicemails unlistened to, texts unread, we’ve restructured, regrouped, replanned, reorganized, we’ve punted and called audibles, we’ve left the bigs on their own, hoping they are functioning well on auto-pilot after a lifetime of healthy stability, and sometimes, we put “Tangled” on for the eleventh time and cry in the bathroom.
We are exhausted beyond measure.
I know what you’re thinking: You asked for this. Yes we did. And we’d ask for it again, with full disclosure and foreknowledge. We would. We would say yes to adoption, to Ben, to Remy. We would do it all over again. We might do it all over again in the future.
That does not mean we are not exhausted.
I know what else you might be thinking: Are you trying to scare people away from adoption? Because this is pretty good propaganda for turning a blind eye to this mess. No I’m not. While adoption is clearly not the answer for the 170 million orphans on earth, it is one answer, and I’ll go to the grave begging more people to open their homes and minds and hearts to abandoned children who are praying for a Mom and Dad and a God who might still see them.
But Brandon and I decided some time ago to go at this honestly, with truthful words and actual experiences that might encourage the weary heart or battle some of the fluffy, damaging semi-truths about adopting. Because let me tell you something: If you are intrigued by the idea of adoption, with the crescendoing storyine and happy airport pictures and the sigh-inducing family portrait with the different skin colors and the feely-feel good parts of the narrative, please find another way to see God’s kingdom come.
You cannot just be into adoption to adopt; you have to be into parenting.
And it is hard, hard, intentional, laborious work. Children who have been abused, abandoned, neglected, given away, given up, and left alone are shaken so deeply, so intrinsically, they absolutely require parents who are willing to wholly invest in their healing; through the screaming, the fits, the anger, the shame, the entitlement, the bed-wetting, the spitting, the rejection, the bone-chilling fear. Parents who are willing to become the safe place, the Forever these children hope for but are too terrified to believe in just yet.
But “yet” is a powerful word in the context of faith, if we are indeed to believe in the unseen and hope for what has not materialized.
I followed a God into this story who heals and redeems, who restores wasted years and mends broken places. This God specializes in the Destroyed. I’ve seen it. I’ve been a part of it. I have His ancient Word that tells of it. I love a Jesus who made reconciliation his whole mission. My children will not remain broken. They are loved by too good a Savior. I will not remain exhausted and spent. I am loved by too merciful a Father.
So today, I’m writing for you who are somewhere “after the airport.” The big moment is over, and you are living in the aftermath when the collective grief or euphoria has passed. You lost a parent, a sibling, a friend, a child. The experience mobilized every single human being who loves you, and they rallied, gathered, carried you. And now, it’s three months later on a random Tuesday, and the sting has worn off for everyone else, and you are left in your sorrow.
I’m writing for those of you who had the oh-so-wanted baby after the cheers and showers and Facebook fervor, and now you’re struggling with a depression so dark and deep, you are afraid to say it out loud. To you who moved across the country in obedience – you left your family, church, community, your jobs – and now the headline has passed and you are lonely and unanchored. For my friends who’ve brought their adopted children home and the media frenzy has died down, and you are holding a screaming toddler, a fragile kindergartener, an angry teen, trying to catch your breath and make it through the day without bawling while everyone else has gone back to their regularly scheduled programs…I’m with you today.
More importantly, God is with you today. He remains in the chaos long after it has lost its shine. When the delivered meals have stopped and the attention has waned, Jesus remains. He sticks with us long after it is convenient or interesting. If you feel alone today in your new normal, would you please receive this bit of beauty: this simple Scripture recited billions of times throughout the ages, perhaps without the poetry of David or precision of Paul, but with enough truth to sustain the weariest traveler:
“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deut. 31:6).
He will never leave.
Never forsake.
Never.
For my readers who love someone living “after the airport,” the big moment – be it a blessed high or a devastating low – is never the completion. The grief and struggle, the work and effort, the healing and restoring comes later. Will you call your friend who lost her mom to cancer five months ago? Will you check in on your friends who adopted this spring? Email your neighbor who took a big risk and moved or changed jobs or quit to stay home. For the love of Moses, do you have a friend who stepped out and started a church last year? Bring him a lasagna and do not be alarmed if he sobs into his french bread.
Trust me when I tell you that although we are all having hilarious moments like this:
And precious moments like this:
…we are still in the thick of hard, exhausting work, so if you ask me if these are the happiest days of my life (which a ton of you have), and my eyes kind of glaze over and I say through a tight-lipped smile like a robot, “Yes. Sure. Of course. This is my dream life”…I am lying. I am lying so you won’t feel uncomfortable when I tell you, “Actually, I haven’t had a shower in three days, I lost my temper with my uncontrollable daughter this morning and had to walk outside, I’m constantly cleaning up pee because uncircumcised tee-tee goes sideways onto walls, and sometimes when my two littles are asleep and we’re downstairs with the original three kids who are so stable and healthy and easy, it creates a nostalgia so intense, I think I might perish. But enough about me. How are you?”
But that would be weird. So I say, “Yes. I am so happy.”
If you are living “after the airport,” how I wish I could transplant my community into your life; friends who have loved us so completely and exhaustively, I could weep just thinking about it. Maybe one of the most brilliant ways God “never leaves us” and “never forsakes us” is through the love of each other. Maybe He knew that receiving love from people with skin on is the most excellent way, so He gave us an entire set of Scriptures founded upon community and sacrificial love for one another. I guess He realized that if we obeyed, if we became more like His Son, then no one would ever want for mercy when their chips were down. No one. Good plan.
Oh let us be a community who loves each other well. Because someone is always struggling through the “after the airport” phase, when the chords of human kindness become a lifeline of salvation. Let us watch for the struggling members of our tribe, faking it through sarcasm or self-deprecation or a cheerfully false report. May we refuse to let someone get swallowed up in isolation, drowning in grief or difficulties that seem too heavy to let anyone else carry. Let’s live this big, beautiful Life together, rescuing each other from the brink and exposing the unending compassion of our Jesus who called us to this high level of community; past the romantic beginnings, through the messy and mundane middles, and all the way to the depths.
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Jennifer Hatmaker
Jen Hatmaker has partnered with her husband Brandon in full-time ministry for 15 years, and they pastor Austin New Church in Texas. After a nauseating stint as an entitled, bored Christian, Jen and her family joined the battle for those on the margins. They pioneered Restore Austin, connecting churches to local and global non-profits for the individual, collective, and social renewal of Austin. Jen is a popular speaker at retreats, conferences, and seminars all around the country. She is the author of nine books and Bible studies, including Interrupted: An Adventure in Relearning the Essentials of Faith
In case heavy blog posts and fear or even the realities of adoption may lead you to question if adoption is worth it…
Consider these pictures as food for thought:
These are the first pictures we received, and a recent picture of each of our precious little ones
The other night, I showed Silas this first picture we received of him and said, “Hey, Silas, do you know who that is?”
“That’s Nicholas” (the name given to him by the orphanage), he replied. “Daddy, is he sad?”
“Not anymore son…not anymore.”
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Jen VanderStoep
The VanderStoep Family lives in Northern, CA in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains. Craig and Jen have been married for 7 years and have four Children: Noah (6), Silas (3), Maela (2), and Naomi (19 mo). The VanderStoeps love Jesus and serve him with their whole heart (though surly it is imperfect). They enjoy, whenever the bigness of family allows, getting out into the outdoors and enjoying the beauty of the Sierras. They are a rag tag bunch but by God’s grace there is love to cover it all.
I love that old hymn that says, “Oh, for grace to trust Him more.” The chorus says, “Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him. How I’ve proved Him o’er and o’er. I’m so glad I learned to trust Him. Oh, for grace to trust Him more.” And, I am living that desire right now.
JT left today for Guatemala for another 2 weeks (he had been home for 6 days after a 2 week stint in New Mexico). He left very early so he kissed us all goodbye while it was still dark. I woke up but sadly, the kids did not. That makes this even harder for Z and E.
So, today was the day when Z decided he would push me to my limits. We spent 3 hours this morning in a boxing match of sorts. He wanted to do anything and everything to push me away. The mentality seems to be that he wants to see how much it will take to make me stop loving him. I don’t give up that easily. He pushed, and I hugged. He hit, and I administered discipline in a loving way. He screamed and I prayed. He screamed louder, and I ran the vacuum cleaner (and prayed too). He threw himself on the floor and I sat him right back up. Over and over again, this boxing match continued.
All I could see over the course of those hours was a spiritual battle for his soul. I would not give up. I knew God was greater. My other kiddos can tell you that I was talking and praying aloud to the Father. “God, you know how much I can take, and I feel like I’m on the cliff and he is kicking me over….” I know that I cannot do this without the grace of our Father. He sustains. And, He won that battle.
Then, the war began to rage this evening. It lasted for at least 18 hours…it felt like 3 days…I think it was 2 hours total. Z started a new technique…laughing at everyone else, taunting me with discipline, and repeating every word that is said (but in a blah-blah-blah way). Nothing was working. Nothing. I was beat down to the core and showing the scars of the battle.
I sat him in my lap and had him face me. As clear as I could see, I recall a picture of my friend Keri holding her little girl Eden when she picked her up in China. What I remember from that picture is that Eden was screaming bloody murder, and Keri was crying for Eden. It broke my heart yet gave me a glimpse into the very heart of our Heavenly Father.
I told Z that my heart was sad for him today. I know that he missed Poppa and that he didn’t like it when Poppa was gone. I told him that I know he doesn’t have the words to explain or share his sadness. I told him that I loved him. And, then my eyes filled up with tears as I just said that I was so sad for him today. I saw a look in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. Tears rolled down my face, and he began to wail. We just cried together. We must have looked like a snotty mess (thank you God that all of the other children were merrily making up beds and cleaning upstairs)….. I held him and we continued to cry.
Then, we prayed that God would heal his heart and be His Heavenly Father. I begged God to show grace and patience to me so that I could give it to Zeke. Oh, Father, I beg you for grace to trust You more!
It’s not always easy…sometimes it is painful….sometimes it is ugly…sometimes it hurts like I cannot explain. But, our Father is good, and He has a plan. I don’t understand it, but I know and trust that He is holy and He is just and He is Sovereign. Oh, for grace to trust Him more.
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Sheryl Turner
We are a family living by faith for the sake of Christ alone. We have 5 children; some are biological, and some are adopted. We forget which ones are which. Our children are 14, 12, 7, 5 and 3. We are living to make His name known among the nations–follow along on our personal blog.
