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
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
"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.
