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/ |
