The Flood

"Every flood of trouble remakes the topography of our souls, making us better or bitter.  Every trouble is a flood -- and we can either rise up or sink down."  -Ann Voskamp, The Greatest Gift

I haven't written since August.  That's four months of silence.  I have been trying to decide how to write without compromising our privacy.  I am usually an open book, but my children are older now and they have their own stories, stories that they may choose to tell, or not.  If you ask me in person, and a have a few minutes hours, I would share, but this is not the place for details.  So I have been trying to figure out how to keep sharing my heart without giving away too much.

I also never wanted to be one of those people who started a blog and then gave up on it. I hate giving up on things. So I'm declaring right now I'm not giving up on this space.  I am going to keep reworking it.

How to even describe the past few months?  I think "flood" might be a good word.  Adoption came into our hearts like a flood, and we have been living in the aftermath of that ever since.  The title of this blog comes from a song about water.  "Let me walk upon the waters...wherever you would call me..."  That was our prayer in the very beginning - tell us what to do, where to go, and we'll go.  No matter what it is or where it is.  He answered, and we did, and the water was not a peaceful lake but a roaring ocean, a tumultuous sea that threatened to overwhelm everything.  And the waters kept rising and there were days we thought we might drown.  It felt like we were in a flood; everything was different and nothing looked familiar anymore.

Adoption creates floods.  Adoption is very messy.  I have become well acquainted with the adoption community and we all share one thing in common - we are living in the aftermath of a flood. And we're all treading these unknown waters together and trying to figure out where the solid ground went.

Adoption is born out of grief and loss. Every child who has been adopted has lost someone.  One parent, two parents, siblings, friends, their home, their culture -- they leave it all behind to enter into someone else's world.  One that is scary and unfamiliar and established long before they came on the scene.  And the family is in the flood together -- all trying to survive, but not knowing how to help each other when everything is all so different from what they knew before, back before the flood.

And then the waters do recede enough, and you land on the ground, but it's mud.  It's sticky and thick and and you feel stuck.  You feel helpless.  You can see others in the distance -- happy and shiny and innocent and clean.  And you can start to feel bitter.  You survived the flood and ended up in the mud.  And you look down and just feel so different.  The flood has changed you but you're still stuck. The topography of your soul has been remade.  You've all seen and felt and endured things that cannot be undone.

And just like in the flood, you feel yourself sinking down into the mud.  The weight of grief is too much.  You just want to give up, lay down, be done.  "I can't do this," you argue with God. "I'm not strong enough."

But you don't give up.  You see people who need you to rise up each day and keep slogging through that mud.  Keep going, keep learning, keep trying to understand.  And you keep asking for grace upon grace.

The flood and the mud are not the end though.  Yes, the topography has changed. But here is a sun, the Son, unchanging,Who was there all the time, even when the clouds and the rain overtook the sky.  Strong and steadfast, the sun comes in bursts, warm and inviting.  And slowly, over time, the mud does dry and the solid ground returns.  And you see hints of grass, of growth, of life returning.  And you realize He was there in the flood, and He was there in the mud, and He promises to be there every hour of every day from now until everlasting.   Even if when the mud comes back again.

"The greatest gift God graces a soul with is His own presence." -Ann Voskamp

I'm not going to lie -- this is harder than anything I've ever done before.  But "anything worth having is worth fighting for."  (Sarah Elizabeth Phillips) And even though I feel like I'm still in the mud, I can say this is worth it.  Our kids are incredible.  All five of them.  They're all survivors and every day they amaze me with their resilience.  We are family, slogging through the mud together.  We'll make it. We will.  And instead of bitter -- we'll be better. 

Survivor Mom in Opposite World

Disoriented. That''s how I've felt the past few months. I feel like I'm a character in one of those reality-survival-TV shows - the one where the guy gets dropped off in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on his back and is expected to fight his way back to civilization. That's me. Except I'm here in my own house.  With piles of laundry and crumb covered floors.  Is there still a world out there?

Maybe I'm being a little overdramatic, but the emotions are there.  It's been isolating and draining and overwhelming. I've felt lost and oh-so-confused.  I've felt left behind as others have moved on and resumed their normal lives while I'm left wondering where normal went.  I've woken up with dread on some days (okay, most days).  I've cried buckets and scribbled pages and pages in my journal.  I've lost hope.

But just like my fictitious survivor-man, there have also been moments of forging the way.  Of conquering a fear.  Of emerging into beauty after a long road of disappointment and exhaustion.  There are days where I find my way back to hope again.

How I long to be more specific but to do so would betray the trust we are trying so hard to build right now.  When our children are little, it's easy to share the funny and frustrating stories, but as they grow up (and join us on social media), it becomes important to guard their stories and let them tell them.  I'm in the middle of discovering how to still write with authenticity (because I l-o-v-e to write and I l-o-v-e to be authentic), but stay faithful to my family.

For now I'll share that in this new upside-down-life (which another adoptive mama affectionately named "opposite world"), I'm surviving. It's not ideal right now, to be honest.  This summer has been one big reality show in which mama is just trying to make it through another day.  Before summer began, I created a Summer Fun List (which I've done every year since the kids were little) and this summer it is buried under some pile on our office desk.  I can't even remember one thing on there except "Make frozen lemonade" - which we did in fact accomplish last week. That's the only thing we've done so far. And I'm learning to let it go.  I'm learning to give myself grace and accept that I'm just not the fun summer mom I want to be this time around. I'm learning to stop comparing myself to who I was last summer and celebrate that at least I've figured out how to cook for 7 people (even if it means going to the grocery store four times in one week to pick up forgotten ingredients).  I'm learning that there's always next summer.  I'm learning to savor the little things, like playing a raucous game of Spoons after dinner one night. Or stealing fifteen minutes to read a book while five kids splash and laugh in the pool.  And eventually joining them to play keep-away with water balloons.  And gathering  as a family before bed to pray for loved ones who are sick or hurting or facing trials.  I'm learning life isn't necessarily about the big things, but about searching for joy in the everything.  Even when you'd rather complain and feel sorry for yourself.

I may not be the most fun mom right now, but I'm showing up every day.  I'm here.  I'm doing the laundry and cooking the meals and kissing the boo-boos and tucking everyone in every night.

I was reflecting the other day on my word for the year.  For some reason, this one was hard for me to choose.  I had originally picked "HOPE" but then I landed on "PRESENT."  My thinking was that I wanted to learn to be less distracted and more "present" in each moment.  As I've been reflecting on how this has played out over the past few months, I have to laugh, because I have no choice right now but to be present. We're stuck here, in the house most days, just doing the mundane.  It may be monotonous, but we're together.  Sometimes a little too together, if you know what I mean.  I know soon we'll all be off in our own directions -- with school and sports and homework and music lessons and meetings -- so it's good for now to try to savor this time.  Even when I feel like I'm going to die.  Again, overdramatic I know, but the feeelings are real.  :)

But God's been faithful.  Just when I'm about ready to throw in the towel, He showers His love in little cloudbursts of creativity.  Like last week when we were on vacation.  We kept seeing this family out on the beach near us, playing with their two kids.  And one day the mom was walking by me and said "hi" and asked if we were an adoptive family.  I told her yes, and she shared that she was a social worker for an adoption agency.  Her specialty is counseling families before and after their adoption process.  WHOA.  It had been a particularly hard week for us as a family.  I was feeling particularly overwhelmed and sad that particular day.  I followed her down to the sand's edge and as we stood watching our kids splash and jump the waves, she shared, and I shared, and she encouraged and affirmed and counseled me.  Not only was this her profession, but she also happened to be a believer.  WHOA.  She shared scripture and spoke Jesus' truth right into a weary mama's heart.  And when the week was up she gave me her phone number and told me to contact her anytime.  Oh God, He's so fun.  He loves to surprise us and show up in the most unexpected ways.

Opposite world is so hard, but I wouldn't trade it.  Never.  This is where God has us and I accept it because I trust Him. He's been my constant, my true north every single time.  When I get disoriented, I look to Him. I read His Words.  I sing His songs.  I remember His Truth.  He has never failed me, and He won't stop now.   

This is what the Village Looks Like

I never expected we would have an adoption story, and yet I've always been fascinated by the stories of others who have adopted.  I'm always drawn into the drama of a good story period, whether it be a book or a TV show or just a great storyteller.  And adoption stories - they are full of drama - every single one of them.  From the time you make that first call of inquiry, you embark on an adventure in which you surrender your right to control anything.  It's like willingly getting onto a roller coaster knowing you won't be strapped in, you'll be in the dark most of the time, and you don't know when it will end. It's a crazy ride, and the only other ones who truly understand are the ones who are on it with you.

And yet in every adoption story, there are also spectators, those in the crowd watching and cheering you on and waiting for you when you get off the ride (whenever that is - haha!).  These are the friends and family who aren't on the ride with you, but were there with you before you got on, and will be there when you get off.  They can't totally relate to your stories; they can't understand all the twists and turns you've encountered, but they want to.  They try to.  And they are awesome.

One of the many incredible blessings from this whole experience has been inviting so many others into this story, and watching as God used each one in unique ways to encourage our family on our ride.  I keep thinking about the quote, "It takes a village to raise a child."  I googled it the other day because I was curious about where it came from. No one actually knows where the saying originated, but it is believed to be an old African proverb. 

We have a village.  We have people who have reached out and said, "We are here for you in this.  You're not alone."  I remember a post written by Jen Hatmaker shortly after she came home with her two children from Ethiopia.  It was entitled, "How to be the Village," and I recall thinking, "Wow, she is so lucky to have that many people cheering her on, helping her, loving her family through this time."  And now it's our time, and God has shown me, "Look how lucky you are to have that many people cheering for you, helping you, and loving your family through this time."  So I want to take a little time to share what our village looks like.

The village looks like a friend who texts me every day for 5 days straight and doesn't expect a reply, because she knows how crazy busy my life is.  She just wants to let me know she's praying for me.

It looks like the friend who called me in May of 2014 and told me she wanted to start praying with me once a week, and then called me every Monday morning this whole past year to pray together.

It looks like other adoptive mamas who have reached out and said, "Been there, done that, how can I be there for you?"

The village looks like the friend who told me she has never had a friend go through an adoption before, so she has no idea how to support me.  But she really wants to, so please tell her how to do that.

The village looks like the friend who went shopping all day with me to find clothes for my kids, who searched for sizes for me and helped me figure out if they would fit. And then bought me lunch.

It looks like the friends who started this journey with us, same agency, same paperwork, and then moved across the country, but who check in with us a couple times a week to tell us they're still in our village.

The village looks like any person who has been on the other end of the phone when I've been sobbing and sad and there's really no words to comfort.  But she listened and encouraged and prayed.

The village looks like my mom who dropped everything for two weeks out of the year to come down and live at my house to take care of the kids while we flew to Ethiopia.  She lived in our house when we had no kitchen and the ceiling was being torn out. And she cooked and cleaned and made sure the kids made it to all their kid stuff.


It looks like the friend who wrote a letter to S&A explaining what it would be like to be in our family, and his friendship with their dad and how it has impacted his life.

It looks like neighbors who bring over cakes and other little goodies.


The village looks like adoptive families I've only met online but feel like close friends, because adoption forms such incredibly close bonds.

The village looks like a group of friends I met online 11 years ago (when I was pregnant with Sophia) who pooled their money to purchase a gift card for our family of an extravagant amount.  Overwhelmed.

It looks like friends who show up at the airport when you come home, wildly waving signs and cheering, and you feel like a rock star even after 17 hours of being cooped up on a plane.

 It looks like the friends in Ethiopia who took time off work to spend time with your kids before they have to leave their country forever, and who continue to call them now to encourage them during these hard days of transition.

It looks like the MANY friends who have invited our younger kids over for playdates.

The village looks like a busy adoptive mom who invited our family into her home during a crazy time in her life and sat on the couch with us for hours to share her experiences and wisdom.

It looks like the friend who I just met, and days later I ask her to drive two hours to the airport to take pictures of our homecoming, and she does, and she gifts us with the most amazing photos of one of the most special events in our lives.

It looks like friends who cook meals for seven people and understand when we ask for them not to bring it to our house, because the constant visitors are so overwhelming right now.

The village looks like thousands of prayers offered on your behalf, some by people you barely know.

The village looks like the sweet, young mama of four littles who texted me the other day and said, "We are all sick but I signed up to bring you a meal.  Can I just have pizza delivered to your house instead?" And it's absolutely perfect because it's Mother's Day that day and we wanted to stay home and watch a movie that night. 

It looks like little gifts brought over by people who have heard your story and thought about your family in a tangible way - a clock, a homemade picture frame, a wall hanging with a meaningful Bible verse, a bracelet, a Carry 117 bag, and many others.

 It looks like real cards in our real mailbox.

The village looks like two adoptive mamas I've never met in real life (one in NC and one in MD) but who spent over two hours on the phone with me to share stories and answer my millions of questions about adopting teenagers.

The village looks like the friend who is running to the grocery store and asks if you need anything, and you really need potatoes and peanut butter, and she buys them and drops them off at your house.

It looks like extended family who supported our journey from the first conversation, where we were afraid they would all think we were crazy, but who have opened their hearts to accept S&A as their own.

The village looks like our friend who offered to pick up injera on his way home from work, and his wife who delivered it the next day so that we could eat it fresh.

It looks like my friend who has walked this adoption road and is just a few months ahead of me, and she picks up the phone when I call her crying, and knows just what to say.

We don't deserve this village, we really don't.  But every day I praise God for my village.  I'm overwhelmed by the generosity and the selflessness of this village.  And I pray that I can be the village to someone else when the opportunity comes along.

We all have that opportunity, every day, to be the village to someone.  Who are your people?  What are they going through?  How can you reach out and love on them today?

He Knows

In four days, we'll be on a plane to Ethiopia again.  That is CRAZY!  All the everything of the past year has been leading up to this moment - bringing our kids home.  I guess it is kind-of like having a baby.  You read books, you go to classes, you buy stuff, you plan, you decorate bedrooms. You think you know what it will be like.  But you really have no idea.  You think you know how to care for a newborn (or at least you have  the book knowledge), but then again, you have no idea what sort of baby you're going to get. 

You could get a baby like Sophia, who had such severe reflux that she wouldn't eat or sleep without screaming.  Who cried constantly.  Who fought sleep.  And you could have such an awful injury while giving birth that you can't walk for three weeks.  Screaming baby + sleep deprivation + inability to walk = one sad mama.  Yeah, those first few months with a newborn didn't line up with the textbooks.  I was frustrated that I couldn't enjoy my baby.  I was frustrated that I was stuck inside.  I was overwhelmed with the responsibility.  I missed my old life.  Those were some tough days.

Screaming Sophia

But you know what?  I survived.  It was hard, but I did it.  Every day I kept getting up and doing it again.  And now that fussy baby is a gorgeous, well-adjusted, calm eleven year old.  Who sleeps through the night.  :)

I don't know what our immediate future holds.  We've read lots of books, taken classes, bought stuff, made plans, and started decorating bedrooms.  We think we know what it will be like.  But we really have no idea.  It's kind-of like having a baby, except it's nothing like having a baby.  Our babies are teenagers. They're real people with big emotions and strong opinions.  We're going to have to get to know each other.  We have to build trust.  We all need to be flexible, to allow our familiar family dynamic to bend and shift and make room for two more.  Hopefully we'll all sleep through the night.  But maybe not.  It might be really hard.  I'm anticipating there may be some tough days for some of us. 

But you know what?  We'll survive.  It'll be hard, but we'll do it. Every day we'll get up and keep doing it again.  And I have a feeling that just as with a newborn, there will be a lot of hard and also a lot of good.  It's going to be so much fun to experience things through their eyes.  To do all the new things together.  To teach them and learn from them.  To watch all five of our kids interact as siblings. To be a family of seven.  I cannot wait.

We actually found both their names while we were there last time!

Please pray for us, friends!  This is all so unknown.  But we have a God who knows.  He knows us.  He knows them.  Inside and out.  Every hair on every head.  Every personality quirk.  Every emotion.  He knows what our future holds, and He knows how to help.  I know to go straight to Him when I am overwhelmed, at a loss, frustrated, scared, or sad.  His promises are true.  I've seen promises fulfilled and bold prayers answered.  He who was faithful before will be faithful now.  He started this whole thing (not us).  And if He starts something, He will finish it. 


He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it.  Philippians 1:6

All Your promises are Yes! And Amen!  2 Corinthians 1:20

Indeed, the very hairs on your head are all numbered.  Luke 1:27

He reveals deep and hidden things, He knows what lies in darkness, and light dwells with Him.  Daniel 2:22

The Dark Road

This is a hard one to write, and even harder to share.  It's raw and vulnerable, and I'm not always comfortable putting myself out there like this.  But I also feel like the words are burning my fingertips and I have to write.  My heart is pounding, which is always a sign that it's time to speak up.  It's not easy.  Truth-telling never is.  It's much easier to hide and pretend and slap on a smile.  But I'm learning that's just not me.  So, here goes.

I feel like I am emerging from the darkness of Monday and Tuesday.  It was bad.  I was in a bad place - emotionally, spiritually.  I felt heavy and sad, like I couldn't catch my breath.  Hopeless.  The devil toyed with my mind -- all the what-ifs and what-thens -- sending me spiraling down into a pit of doubt and fear.  My mind settled into all the worst case scenarios, bringing up every negative conversation, article, and book I've read, twisting all the words into a web of pure terror.  And I got tangled up.  I believed the words.  "You're not cut out for this."  "You'll never make it."  "This will ruin you and your family."  It consumed me. I could think of nothing else.  And nothing could console me.

Nothing, except Jesus.

I've been down this road before.  It's a familiar road, this dark place.  My first memory of it was in college, and I almost succumbed to it.  I was ready to give up and give in to the hopelessness, the unworthiness.  I was weary of fighting it, and I was done.  I took a walk by myself and spent hours roaming the woods, thinking, debating.  I didn't feel strong enough to fight anymore.  And yet I also didn't feel strong enough to give up.  I had to do something.   I needed help.  And I believe, for the first time, that I asked Jesus to be the One.  Not to save me -- I did that as a child.  No, it wasn't my salvation on the line.  It was my sanctification.

That's a big word that just means to be made holy.  I had to decide who I was going to make holy in my life - me or Jesus.  If it was me, then I had to fix everything.  I had to be in control.  I had to call the shots.  I had to make everything work.  Except that wasn't working so well for me.

I knew I was desperate and lost.  I knew I wasn't strong enough.  I knew I couldn't fix myself.  I had nowhere else to go.  And so I fell into the arms of Jesus.

He became my Friend.  I would literally roll out of bed and onto my knees every single morning before I started my day.  I prayed a simple prayer: "This day is Yours.  I can't do this by myself, but I can do it with You.  Help me, Jesus."  I devoured my Bible and the familiar words became personal to me, for probably the first time.  I wrote verse after verse in my journal, claiming promises as my own.  I spent hours with Jesus, and He spent hours pouring His healing love into me.  He taught me that I can trust Him, that He's enough, that He's always there.  He showed me that He is jealous for me, that He wants to be my first love.  At the risk of sounding like a lunatic, it felt like I was falling in love.  I couldn't get enough of Him.  I wanted to know more, wanted to understand His love.  And He showed me.  I belong to Him.  I am cherished.  I am adored.  I am accepted for who I am, not what I do.  He pursues me.  He will stop at nothing for me.  I am His daughter.

The knowledge of the depths of this love changed the fabric of my being.  I no longer had to be the strong one.  I didn't have to be in control and have all the answers.  I had Someone who would step in and be that when I couldn't.  Me and Jesus?  We got this.  His love made me strong.

So yes, I have been down this road before -- back then and many times since.  Some times are shorter than others.  It's always awful and I always feel like I'm drowning.  And yet in some twisted way I wouldn't trade any of it for the easy road.  Because it's always on the hard road of suffering that I meet my Jesus.  It's the only place where I'm so desperate for Him that He has to show up.  It's where I feel Him the most and where I've learned to let Him carry me.  It's where I've learned the most about Him.  They are terrible times but looking back they are also sweet times, because every time my faith grows deeper and my knowledge of Him grows wider.  To truly know someone is to truly love them. 

The dark road is not easy.  But I have learned what to do when I'm there.  I know I need to counteract the darkness with light.  I need to fill my mind with truth.  There is tremendous power in the words of God.  I don't fully understand that power, but I know it is real.  I search the Bible and find verses to write in my journal.  I post them on index cards.  I try to read them over and over throughout the day.

The Lord is my light and my salvation -- so why should I be afraid?  The Lord is my fortress, protecting me from danger, so why should I tremble?  Though a mighty army surrounds me, my heart will not be afraid.  Even if I am attacked, I will remain confident.  Psalm 27:1-3

I also listen to worship music.  I was sharing some of my fears with a friend on Monday and instead of trying to fix me, she played two worship songs for me, over and over.  If you haven't heard them, or even if you have, look them up: "Great Things" and "Your Promises" by Elevation worship.  There is something so healing about music.

Thank You for the wilderness
Where I learned to thirst for Your Presence.
If I'd never known that place
How could I have known You are better?
Thank you for the lonely times
When I learned to live in the silence.
As the other voices fade
I can hear You calling me, Jesus.
And it's worth it all just to know You more.
"Great Things (Worth it All)" by Elevation Worship

I also find someone to talk to, who won't give out advice or judge me.  Someone who will listen, and pray.  On Tuesday I sat in a grocery store parking lot, crying, while a friend prayed for me over the phone.  It was powerful, and it was healing.  Later that evening, my husband and I sat on the couch and prayed together.  Again, I don't fully understand the power of prayer, but I know it is real.

Friend, if you are struggling today, run to Jesus.  He's the Only One who will truly understand you, truly accept You, truly love you.  His love is limitless and pure.  He is enough.

You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.  Matthew 5:4,5

Presence

In case you were wondering, the wait between court and embassy is excruciating.  We spent five straight days with the kids and then we had to leave them, with no definite date of when we'd be back. Twenty days ago we said goodbye.  Twenty days they have been getting up without us, going to school without us, eating meals without us, going to bed without us.  I can only imagine the doubt and fear that begins to creep in.  While we were with them, both kids told us stories of friends from the orphanage whose adoptions fell through for one reason or another.  One girl had met a family who promised to come back and adopt her.  They never did, and she doesn't know why.   I know these stories haunted them during the almost-year-long wait for us to come.  They found out they were being adopted last March, and we were not able to even come meet them until the next February.  We sent letters when we could and we Skyped once.  But it wasn't enough.  They needed to see us, spend time with us, hear our reassurances that we are a family.  I know they got tired of waiting.  I know they asked anyone that knew the situation what was taking so long.  We tried to explain in our letters that there's so much paperwork, so many hoops to jump through.  But that doesn't make sense to a child who is longing for a family.  They just want to be with us. 

We had so much fun with Samri and Abel that week.  We went into this trip with no expectations -- number one because we didn't want to place unfair expectations on them and number two because there is no category for that kind of experience.  We got on a plane to travel halfway around the world to meet our Ethiopian teenage children for the first time.  That in and of itself is a bizarre sentence.  So we tried to stay completely open, hearts ready for anything.  And over the course of five days, our hearts became smitten by these two precious children.

We had a lot of incredible experiences in Ethiopia.  We walked the grounds of the Sheraton, one of the most opulent hotels I've even seen.  We ate at a five star restaurant which was hosting a UN meeting at the same time we were there.  But my favorite memories were when we were just hanging out, talking, laughing, being a family.  There is this amazing coffee shop in Ethiopia named Kaldi's - very similar to our Starbucks.  The macchiato there is to die for.  We had spent a long day out at a resort, outside all day playing ball and enjoying the sunshine.  As we were driving back it got dark and the kids missed their dinnertime at the orphanage, so we decided to grab a bite to eat at Kaldi's along with Sammy and Yilli.  As we were waiting for our food, we began drawing on napkins, asking them to write our names in Amharic (their national language).

The Sheraton

Fancy restaurant

Kaldi's

Amharic is similar to Arabic in that it uses characters.  Each letter of the alphabet has several sounds, and therefore several characters.  There are about 250 characters in all.  My name "Katie has two sounds - Kay and Tee - so there are two characters for my name.  We would ask them to draw our names, and then we would attempt to draw them, and then we would all laugh.  Andy calls the characters "little dancing people" and made up a little story for each one, which made everyone laugh.  We played cards and teased each other and laughed some more.  And then we had one of the most delicious meals - sambusa and fries.  Sambusa are little fried dough triangles filled with lentils or meat.  It was such a normal thing to do - hang out, laugh, play cards, eat.  And that is what I am looking forward to most -- being together as a normal family.

My name in Amharic

Sambusa

I knew going into the week that we would have to say goodbye and wait.  But I wasn't prepared for how heart-wrenching it would be.  I wasn't prepared to come home and feel like half my heart was missing.  I wasn't prepared for the grief I would feel every day.  I wasn't prepared for the knots in my stomach knowing that they were missing us too.  I don't know what else to do except pray for them every time I think about them.  I pray that God will be present, will take care of them, will keep them safe, will be their family in our absence.  I can't shake the feeling sometimes that I should be the one there comforting them, hugging them, drying their tears.  But I know God has been with them up to this point and promises to be with them now.  And I have to trust Him to take care of them.

This whole journey has been about trust, from Day 1.  This whole blog is about trust.  My faith has been stretched in so many different directions in all of this.  I think I'm learning there are many facets to faith, because there are so many different fears inside of us.  In the very beginning, I was afraid of going to Ethiopia.  And God taught me to trust Him, that He was wherever I was, and that He would be there with me.  I've been afraid of so many things, some never even spoken.  And each time God whispered, "I understand, and I'm here." The answer to our doubt and fear is always His Presence.  Even if we can't feel Him, He's there.

I remember when I first had Sophia and knew there was a little person sleeping nearby.  For twenty-seven years I slept when I wanted, how I wanted.  And then overnight I became trained to hear that little cry and respond immediately, walking over to her, picking her up, soothing her, letting her know she was safe now.  That's how I picture God responding to us.  He is trained to hear our voice, to know our needs, and to respond immediately with His gentle and loving presence.

And that's why I need to lean even harder into Him, because He's the One who will always be there for all five of my children.  I'm not always going to be able to meet all their needs, even though I desperately want to.  My heart is aching because I cannot physically be there right now for Samri and Abel. And yet I know that there will be a day when I let them down.  I know that because I fail the other kids all the time.  I want my children to know the One who never fails.  The One who never leaves.  The One who always responds.  I cannot always be there.  But He promises to be.

And so in these excruciating days, that's my prayer.  That my five children will know that kind of love.  That Jesus will be there with them in the joy and the disappointments.  That they will learn to hear His voice and be comforted by His love.  As much as my heart is bursting with love for these precious ones, He gave His heart away for them.  He gave it all up for them.  And I can trust Him to parent them both in my absence and soon my presence too.  He's my Dadddy, and He's their Daddy.  And I do trust Him. 

But God

Faith is the confidence that what we hope for will actually happen; it gives us assurance about things we cannot see.  Hebrews 11:1

It's official!  We are a family of SEVEN - Andy, Katie, Abel, Samri, Sophia, Eva, and Jonas Thompson!  Last week we were in Ethiopia to finalize the court decision. We had to appear before a very serious judge, answer about twenty questions, and then we received the approval to become Samri and Abel's parents.  It was a joyous day and we left from there to celebrate with them over cheeseburgers and glass bottles of soda.

This story - it's an incredible one - but it's just the middle of the story.  There's so much more to tell from before, and so much more to be written.  It's also not our story.  The more this unfolds, the more aware we become that this is God's story and we are privileged to be part of it.  Seriously, there are days it takes my breath away -- this honor of partnering with God in His incredible story.  I'm not sure if I can ever do it justice with mere words.

There's one part of the story that I'd like to write now though, one that began years ago, and involves a bold girl and a faith-filled boy.  I'll start with the boy, whose name is Abel, who is now our son.  He told me this part of the story last week as we were driving in a van to spend the day at a beautiful resort.  We had about an hour and a half in the car and it was dusty and loud and I was peppering him with questions, trying to get a feel for who he was and what he was like.  The day before, the court declared him my son, this grown boy-almost-a-man, and I knew I had a lifetime of experiences to catch up on.  Somehow throughout the course of our conversation a story emerged from his past,  I'm guessing from a few years ago.

 He said there were five boys, including him, who all lived at the orphanage together and all prayed for a family.  These five friends all wished for and prayed for this together.  Over time, two of the boys were adopted and moved to America.  The other two boys left the orphanage to go back and live with their parents -- one was a bad situation, and one was an okay situation.  And that left Abel, alone, getting older, getting closer and closer to aging out.  He said he felt lonely every night and cried because he was the only one left of those five praying friends.  He figured that God had given up on him and that God must not be real, because he had prayed, and God didn't answer.  And so he stopped praying, and he stopped believing.  But God didn't stop believing for him.

Time went by, and Abel found himself listening to a message at church, one which explained that sometimes bad things happen in life and life can be very difficult and hard to understand.  But that we must never give up hope, and we must always keep praying, because God has good things planned for us.  And that day Abel decided to start praying again for a family.  Time went by, and he was told he only had four months left before he would need to leave the orphanage (children age out around 16 years old).  He and his sister would be separated and he would have to go find his way on his own.  But God had a plan for this boy, this precious one who refused to give up hope.

Not long after this crisis of faith he found out that he and his sister were going to be adopted.  A family had started the process to adopt them.  And that was us, probably right around March of last year, 2014.

This boy had wrestled with faith, as we all do at some point in our journeys.  Because life IS hard.  Things happen which throw us off course,  that create fear and panic and doubt.  We wonder, "Where are you God? I've prayed and asked and you didn't answer me."  And we are tempted to give up, throw in the towel, and walk away forever.  But God -- He never, ever, not for ONE second gives up on us. The journey took longer than expected, and things have happened along the way that were confusing and difficult.  But God was there all along the way, just waiting for the right time to begin the rest of the story.

But let's not leave out the bold girl, who you know is Samri, and is now our daughter.  Two summers ago, a team from our church went to Ethiopia for a missions trip.  They visited many different places, one of which was the orphanage.  When they go to this orphanage, their sole purpose is to spend time with and love on the kids -- children who don't receive one-on-one attention on a regular basis.  It's more of a being than a doing.  They don't paint walls, they don't organize closets -- they just sit on the ground and play and laugh and talk and hug.  It's vital and necessary and such a beautiful way to serve.  My dear friend Ashley was the leader of this trip.  As of today, she has been to Ethiopia eight times.  She loves this country and this people and she had been to this orphanage before.  But on this particular visit, she spent some one-one-one time with a young girl, and over the course of their conversation, this girl made a bold request:  "Can you find me a family?"  Ashley was taken aback; how do you answer that question?  She said, "I will take your picture, and I will show it to everyone I know, and I will pray that there is a family out there that will adopt you."  But Samri said, "Wait, I have a brother!"  She ran to get Abel, and Ashley snapped their picture along with the promise to tell their story to everyone she knew.

Ashley returned to America, and we invited her over.  We wanted to see her pictures and hear about her trip.  It was a gorgeous summer evening and we had finished dinner and we were sitting on our back deck.  She told us many stories, including the one of Samri.  She cried, we cried.  It moved us, and stirred something within us.  After she left, Andy turned to me and said, "Are we the ones that are supposed to adopt them?"  And I remember responding with an emphatic, "NO!"  Are you crazy?  Our lives are chaotic enough!  There's no way I could handle 5 kids!  And they are older kids!"  (We thought they were 11 and 12 years old at the time).  When people adopt, don't they adopt babies?  But we agreed we would pray for them, along with anyone else that was also praying for them.  But God had a plan that He was slowly revealing to all of us.

The first picture we saw of Samri and Abel

Samri and Ashley

In November of that year we had the incredible opportunity to go to Ethiopia ourselves, through a series of events that is a different story altogether.  I chronicled that journey in the beginning part of this blog, which you can read here and here.  We ended up meeting Samri along with many other children when we visited the orphanage.  But our hearts were not in ANY way thinking about adoption at this time.  I snapped a few pictures and that was it.  But God was writing a story.  When I returned from that trip, my heart was different.  I had fallen in love with God's work there, with the people we met, with the ministries where we served.  I asked a friend to fast and pray with me every Monday morning and we both committed to pray for Ethiopia and all the people we loved there.

And you know what happened, if you know us, because we have told our part of the story so many times, where God merged all of our stories into one.  As I prayed for many people in Ethiopia, there was one name and one face that was always present in my heart: Samri.  I couldn't stop thinking about her and her story, my heart breaking that it was going on another year with no hope for a family.  And then there was that infamous Valentine's Day of 2014, when I found out she was older than eleven -- she was 14 and her brother was 15 and at 16 he would have to leave.  And I cried and cried all day long, knowing what that meant for her and her brother, the only family she had.  And I ruined our romantic Valentine's Day dinner that evening, as I cried again and spilled these thoughts to Andy, who was shocked, but responded with openness to what God was moving in me.  We barely finished eating that night, but we prayed.  God, these two kids are on our hearts.  We don't have any idea what that means for us, but we feel the need to do something for them.  We begged Him to tell us what our family could do, and didn't have any idea what that might be.  But God did.

Five days later, Andy fell and broke his ankle in three places, and this part of the story has so many twists and turns and amazing connections I cannot possibly capture it in this blog post. I can sum it up by saying: When God opens a door and beckons you in, and you walk through trembling in obedience and fear, He takes the lead from there.  In the midst of a huge trial, He was faithful, He followed through, He did things beyond our imagination.  And as I have gotten to know other parents in the adoptive community, I'm learning that this is not unique to us.  Everyone has an incredible adoption story, full of miracles and events that only God could engineer.  I'm learning that God's heart beats for the orphan and He will go to incredible lengths to love them and bring them into families.

With adoption, it is not the parents who are rescuers.  We are the rescued, all of us.  We all have been adopted from a life of loneliness and isolation, invited into a family, given a new name, and made heirs to all the benefits and promises of God's family.  I'm realizing we were all orphans before we knew Him, and adoption is a just a small illustration of His plan to redeem and restore all of humanity into His family. He went to great lengths to rescue every single one of us.

But this unfolding of this particular story -- it takes my breath away and brings me to my knees.

It's not going to be all sunshine and roses, as many adoptive parents have written before me.  But then again, neither is life.  God didn't promise a good and perfect life; He promised a good and perfect God who would never leave us as we navigate this uncertain world.  He promises to love us, He promises to be there for us, He promises to never give up on us.  So as we look at the road ahead with hope and some fear, that is what we know we are promising to our five children.  Not that the story of our lives will be always be good and perfect, but that we will be together, this family of seven figuring it out together -- never losing hope, never giving up on each other, always there for each other -- just as God has promised for each and every one of us who joins His family.

Finding words

I haven't had any words.  I want to write but I'm not sure how to capture my tornado of thoughts and emotions.  My mind can't seem to land on one idea for long before jumping to another.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that our lives are in upheaval right now.  It sort of feels like I am standing the middle of that tornado watching bits of my life swirl around me, and not knowing which one to focus on, which one to grab hold of.  There's so much to think about, so much to do; it's all I can do to just stand up straight.

In ten days we leave for Ethiopia!  All the prayers, all the plans, and all the hopes converged last Friday during a phone call from our agency: "Great news!  You have received your court date of February 24th!"  This is the second most anticipated phone call in the adoption world - the first being the referral call where you are matched with a child or find out your child is available for adoption.  For us, it was the latter and occurred on July 2nd, 2014 (Andy's birthday).  Seven months of praying, planning, and hoping later, we finally got our court date!  We will fly on a Friday and arrive on a Saturday and go to court on a Tuesday to swear before a judge to parent these two children.  As I'm trying to make lists and pull out summer clothes to pack (it's 75 degrees there right now--go ahead and be jealous), I'm also trying to wrap my brain around the idea that I'm about to go meet my teenage son for the very first time.  I have a teenage son.  Who I've never met.  I've seen tons of pictures and some video so I feel like I've met him in some strange way, but I have never laid eyes on this boy.  I met my girl in November of 2013 but at that time I had no idea she would be my daughter!  I don't have words for this.  I cannot comprehend what it will be like to walk into that orphanage for the second time, knowing my son and daughter are inside. And if I can't figure out how to feel about this, then it must be even more complicated for them.

For eight years they have been waiting, and waiting, and waiting.  They didn't even know what they were waiting for.  They have watched their best friends be adopted into families.  They have watched their best friends age out of the orphanage and try to make it out there on their own.  At eight and nine years old, with many years stretched ahead of you, you have the luxury of hope.  You can dare to believe someone will want you, someone will come along at some point.  That you will belong to a family someday.  At sixteen years old, your time has run out, literally.  If we hadn't started our process when we did, these two children would have no longer been eligible for adoption.  Our daughter was 15 years, 6 months when we started our home study in March 2014 (unbeknownst to us -- we thought she was 14) and our I-600a (approval for U.S. adoption) was approved in August.  Five weeks later, she turned 16 and would have no longer been eligible for adoption. And our son, at 17 years old, is only eligible because his sister was also in the process of adoption.  He would've aged out by now if she wasn't in the picture.  It still gives me chills to think about the precise timing of it all, the details that had to fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

So what will that initial meeting be like -- Our hopes and their hopes colliding into that first encounter?  I have no words for it, no way to really prepare for something like this.  It's nothing like being handed your newborn baby in the hospital.  These are teenager-almost-adults with a lifetime of experiences and memories behind them.  They have real opinions and real preferences and real emotions about all of this.  They didn't choose us -- we chose them.  They are at our mercy.  That has to be frightening, if not terrifying.  They will have one week to get to know two strangers as their mom and dad.  Then we will leave for one or two months.  And then we will come back and their world will be turned upside down.  They will leave their orphanage, the only home they've known for the past eight years.  They will leave their caretakers and their best friends.  They will leave their culture - the sounds, the smells, the food, the language.  They will  get on a plane (for the first time ever) with virtual strangers (but call them mom and dad) and travel seventeen hours to a foreign land.  The sounds, the smells, the food, and the language will be completely strange to them.  And then they will drive to a home they've never seen to live with five people they don't know.  If I can't get a handle on this, what will it be like for them?

Many well meaning people tell us that these kids are so lucky.  I totally understand their sentiment and where it comes from.  No one wants to grow up in an orphanage.  None of us would wish that upon our children.  Everyone deserves a family, a place to belong, a place where you have nicknames, inside jokes, family vacations, and family pictures on the wall.  Yes, they are getting all of that.  But they are not lucky.  They have endured great loss.  That's not lucky -- that's tragic.  When I think about Eva (at eight years old right now) losing both of her parents and being dropped off at an institution to live for the next eight years of her life, I would never consider her lucky.  I could bawl my eyes out thinking about it.  And then to think of her getting new parents and having to leave America and go live in a foreign land, again - not lucky.  It's too much for a child.  And so we are not placing any expectations on them to be grateful, to love it here, to be "so happy to have a family."  And I'd ask that no one else place those expectations on them either.   They may get to that point eventually.  But for now -- this is all very new.  They're not going to know what to feel.  And we need to give them the space to figure that out.  

Adoption is beautiful and messy and redemptive and tragic.  If there's one thing I've learned over the past several months, it's that adoption is many-faceted.  It's easy to get caught up in the romance of it all, if you can even attach that word to it.  It's easy to spout off James 1:27 and yet another thing to live the day in and day out of it.  I've read dozens of books, watched hours of training, and talked to other adoptive parents and yet our experience will be unique to us.  And I've read enough to know that I can't place my expectations and my hopes on these children.  It's not about me.  

Adoption is born out of loss, as many before me have written.  They should be with their first mom and dad, going to school, planning for their future in Ethiopia.  That's where they belong.  There will be a lifetime of grieving over that loss. 

But I have to remember that as believers we "do not grieve like people who have no hope."  (1Thessalonians 4:13) We have room for hope.  We are creating space for hope.  There is redemption wherever there is Jesus.   Verse 14 goes on to say: "For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again...."  Jesus died.  Jesus was buried.  Jesus was in the grave for three days.  And then, He wasn't.  He came to life.  As a believer my whole life I can easily lose the wonder of that phrase: He was raised to life again.  That which has died can have new life again.  I don't know what that looks like in our situation.  But I'm leaving room for it.  I'm daring to hope for it.  The verse I keep reciting over and over: "We have this hope as an anchor for our soul, strong and secure." (Hebrews 6:19)  As I struggle to find words and capture thoughts, I'm going to throw down my anchor into hope.  Hope that can save, hope that lasts, hope eternal. 

Photo credit: http://oldbarnrescue.com/we-have-this-hope-with-anchor/