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/

Love Letter

Jesus, Abba, Daddy,

It's Christmas Eve and it's raining -- a gently calming patter forming the backdrop for my reflections this morning.  I sit in the stillness as I do every morning.  This month I've carved out space to ponder Your Coming and Christmas and Love and You as a Baby, the Gift of all gifts.  A Baby, and then a Savior, and now also a Friend. And I want to pause in this brief slice of time and say thank You for the Gift of You.  If there is anything I have learned in this short life, anything that has stolen my heart and gripped my soul, it is this: You are here.  You are with me.

You are for me. You adore me.  You delight in me.

It's not about what I do or don't do.  I cannot earn you.  I cannot pay you back.  I cannot lose you.

You're there.  You're always there.

When I'm sad.  When I'm fearful.  When I'm angry.  When I'm doubting.  When I'm bitter.  When I'm selfish.

You relentlessly pursue me.  No strings attached.  No expectations.  No condemnation.

You love me for me.  You accept me for me.

No matter where I go, no matter what I do, no matter how I act.

When I'm brave.  When I'm kind.  When I'm patient.  When I'm joyful.  When I'm fun.

You love me for me.  You accept me for me.  You are proud of me.

Your Love stands.  Immovable.  Unshakeable. Unstoppable.

I can't escape You.  And why would I want to?

In You there is unmatchable freedom.  In you there is captivating kindness.  With you there is genuine acceptance.

I am safe here.  I am loved here.  I am wanted here.  I can rest here.

You are here.  You are with me.  Emmanuel.  God with me.

Forever Yours,
Katie

Anchor of my Soul

Yesterday I woke up so sad.

We've been reading a lot in preparation for the major life change ahead, trying to educate ourselves and prepare ourselves for a world that has been foreign to us.  Up to this point we have lived in middle class America, a typical family with typical kids and a typical house who go to typical schools and have typical friends.  We are a type.  We are a middle class white family.

Soon we will be a middle class multi-racial family.  We will not be typical.  When our family walks into a room, we will not blend in. People are going to try to figure us out, and they will probably make assumptions.  They might stare.  Some might even ask questions.  We had to take a whole class about this -- what to say when people ask you questions.  It was funny, sad, enlightening, and maddening.  Because some people will ask out of curiosity and a desire to connect and learn.  And some will ask out of their own criticisms, prejudices, and fears.

I read a fascinating and scary blog post the other day.  I think it was the catalyst for my sadness.  The title is "Cute Little Black Boys Do Grow Up to be Black Men, Part II - And Now They are Ten" - you can read it here.  I feel like I am standing on the tip of the iceberg right now -- about to fall into the deep and scary and unknown waters of racial division in our country.  And stories like the one above reveal how little I know and how little I understand. 

I've read a lot of articles about Ferguson, from all sides and angles.  I wasn't there so I have no right to make a conclusion. What I did conclude is that there is still a very strong racial divide in our country.  One that I will never understand because I have grown up in middle class white America.  And it makes me mad and sad.

When we adopt these two children in a few months, we will stand before a judge and promise to be their parents until death do us part.  It's a covenant, a promise -- much like a marriage vow.  I promise to love them exactly the same as the other three children in my family.  I promise to give them the same opportunities, the same experiences, the same privileges, the same grace, the same love.

But I cannot promise that the world will offer the same opportunities, the same experiences, the same privileges, the same grace, and the same love.  I cannot promise that they will not be judged unfairly.  I cannot promise that they will not experience prejudice.  I cannot always protect them from stares and questions and ignorant comments.  And it makes me mad and sad that I have to bring these two precious children into a country where their skin color could set them back and make them feel less than.  And although I will promise to love and accept them unconditionally, I cannot promise that others will.

I am grieving for our country and for our people.  Every night Jonas asks me to sing him a song before bed. His request last night was "Jesus loves the Little Children."  Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight...  And as much as I am sad, I thought about God who must look at His children and grieve.

Yesterday I read a story in Genesis that was terrible, so terrible I put my Bible down and couldn't keep reading.  It was the story of Dinah, who was raped by an arrogant prince.  Her brothers decided it was their job to get revenge and they killed all of the men in the town.  Every daddy, every brother, and every son.  An innocent woman was violated and innocent blood was shed.  And it made me mad and sad.  Because it reminded me so much of our world. 

Sex trafficking.  Child abuse.  Orphans.  Homelessness.  Poverty.  Disease. Drug Addiction.  Murder.  Rape.  So much senseless brutality.  So much darkness.  So much sin.

I was overwhelmed by the weight of it all.  Overwhelmed with a desire to protect my five children from it all.  Overwhelmed with the knowledge that I cannot.

Later in the story, Dinah's father Jacob moves his entire family to a new place.  They bury their idols in the old place and he builds an altar in the new place.  It's a new beginning, a fresh start.  I can only imagine this grieving father is ready for change after all of the tragedy of the past.

God comes to him and talks to him.  God tells Him who He is, and He tells Jacob who he is.

"I am El-Shaddai. God Almighty." (Genesis 35:11)

I researched this Hebrew name a little bit (read: Googled it).  El means "God."  Shaddai comes from the Hebrew word "shad" which means breast.  Before it gets too weird, think nourishment, sustaining, life-giving.  God was telling Jacob -- I am going to give you new life.  Like a mother cares for her newborn baby, I will care for you.  I recognize your neediness and your helplessness, and I am here to take care of you.

And God tells Jacob who he is.  He is Jacob, a man full of mistakes.  A man who has made horrible decisions, has lied,  cheated, and stolen.  A father who grieves over his children's horrible decisions. 

And then God says, "Your name is Jacob, but you will not be called Jacob any longer.  From now on your name will be Israel." So God renamed him. (Genesis 35:10)

The name Jacob means: heel grabber
The name Israel means: May God prevail

As I was reading, I took comfort in the knowledge that as sad as I am, God is more sad.  I have 5 children to worry about.  God has a whole world.  I see a little bit; He sees it all.  He cares for this world as a mother cares for her innocent newborn.  He sees the promise of what could be in the eyes of every one of His precious children.  He grieves over the innocence lost and the promises broken. 

There is one promise that cannot be broken and will stand: May God prevail.  I don't know exactly how.  I don't know exactly when.  But GOD WILL PREVAIL.

When God stood with Jacob that day thousands of years ago, He promised to be El Shaddai.  He promised to take care of him.  And He knew how He would do it.  He would do it many years later with an innocent, newborn baby.  Baby Jesus.

A baby would pierce the darkness of sin and bring new life and hope.  It's backwards and upside down.  It's tragic and it's beautiful.  It's grace.  It's love.  It's HOPE.

And so that is what I hold onto in this season of sadness - HOPE.  And hope will be the anchor of my soul as I step into the dark waters of this unknown.

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. Hebrews 6:19

One Year Later

On November 23rd, one year ago, we were on a plane on our way to Ethiopia. It is C-R-A-Z-Y what happens in one year.

Here's what happened.  Our year in review, a little early.

November 23 - 30, 2013 - Andy and I spent a week in an incredible country with incredible people doing incredible ministry.  We met a little girl at an orphanage.  She has an older brother but we didn't get to meet him.

December  2013 - Lights! Festivities! Gifts! Time with friends and family! And amidst all the holiday trimmings and events, I begin to pray for the little girl I met in the orphanage.  I try to imagine what she would be doing, seven hours ahead of us. 

January 2014 - A new year.  Time to reflect and ponder.  Andy and I continue to process all that we saw in Ethiopia.  I begin to fast on Monday mornings and set aside time to pray for the people I love in Ethiopia, particularly the little girl. I don't tell anyone about this.

February - I receive a disturbing text from a friend who knows the little girl.  She's not as "little" as we had thought.  She's a teenager and she and her brother are close to aging out of the orphanage.  Without family, that means life on the streets.  I sob all day, knowing deep down in my soul that God is calling us to action.  I don't know what that means though.  I tell Andy.  We cry and pray and ask God to show us if we are supposed to do something.  Andy breaks his ankle five days later.  Life stops. Surgery is scheduled.  Meals are delivered.  Two friends offer to bring lunch and we blurt out what's on our hearts - two kids, about to age out, can you help us get more information?  It feels really scary to put this into words and tell someone else. The four of us begin to explore the possibilities together.  They are adopting too, from the same orphanage. 

Our dear friends who are woven forever into our story! Many late nights and many tears and many laughs. Pray for their adoption too!

March - Emails are sent and phone calls are made.  Doors seem to be closing.  Many well-known agencies are shutting down in Ethiopia.  We are told the process has become very difficult. We spend a lot of time on the phone and online researching.  We receive some very bad news about one of the agencies and we feel like quitting.  But then I read Psalms.  "The helpless put their trust in You; You defend the orphans." (Psalm 10:14) There are 3 real kids (our 2 and our friend's boy) who are in an orphanage and need a family.  We can't give up on these kids until we've explored every possibility.  We fill out some pre-applications and tell our story to many more agencies.  More doors close.  More frustration, more tears, more crying out to God.  We spend hours on the phone with our friends and with agencies.  We finally find an agency willing to work with both families. Tears and rejoicing! Lots more paperwork.  Lots more phone calls.

April & May - A flurry of appointments, paperwork, check-ups, a fire inspection, a vet appointment, fingerprints, social worker visits, blood work, notaries, a tornado safety plan, more paperwork, more phone calls.  We finish our home study and submit it to our state for approval. 

June - We receive a phone call from our agency. They have obtained the official birth certificate of our girl and the age listed is 15 years, 9 months.  We are shocked.  We thought she was 13 or 14.  Our agency explains that we have a very limited window of time which to finish our dossier and apply for the I-600 (orphan petition).  If we don't apply by the time she turns 16, we could lose both her and her brother.  We finish our dossier in record time and it is mailed to Ethiopia to be translated.  We beat the deadline by a matter of weeks.

On our way to get our FBI fingerprints

July - We receive our official referral for S&A!! This includes lots of pictures and official documents.  We see pictures of their birth parents, learn the name of the town they grew up in, and receive medical and other reports.  We feel a deep connection to them after learning so much about their lives and their past.

August - Wait. 

September -   Our final piece of paperwork is submitted: the official application to the US to adopt these specific children.  The US Embassy in Ethiopia begins reviewing our case.  This is the approval we need from our government that allows them in the country.  Now we wait.  Again.

October -  We receive an RFE (Request for Evidence) from Ethiopia, which is very common.  As the documents are translated and reviewed, often an official will ask for clarification.  They require a new court order to be issued and signed and translated again.   Our agency (America World Adoption) is amazing and fields all of this for us.  Finally, we receive official approval from the US to adopt S&A!!

 November - Wait. We are waiting on one document - a positive letter from the Ministry of Women, Youth and Children Affairs (MOWYCA).  We find out that a batch of letters was released and we were not in the stack.  But, all of those letters were negative anyways due to officials rejecting a Power of Attorney that had been used for years with no problem.  In order to be proactive, we sign the updated document, get it notarized and certified by both county and state, and overnight it to our agency, who will have it certified by the State Dept and Ethiopian embassy and then sent back to Ethiopia to be added to our paperwork.  Our case will be reviewed again, and as soon as we get this one letter, we get a court date. 

And here we are today. November 25th.  One letter now stands between us and our kids in Ethiopia.  It's unreal.  There are so many days that it feels like it will never happen.  There are many days where it feels like it's all happening so fast.

On November 25th of last year, we met a little girl in an orphanage.  ONE YEAR LATER, she is almost our daughter.  In just a short time, we will be standing in a court room in Ethiopia, right hand raised, being sworn in as her mom and dad.   And not just her, but her older brother as well. Making a promise to love them both and enfold them in our family. 

Isn't our God crazy?  The more I get to know Him, the more I see how crazy He is. Such a Good, Amazing, Crazy God we have.  He took two ordinary people with ordinary lives and showed them this story that was unfolding halfway across the world.  And even though they were SCARED.TO.DEATH they said Yes and jumped in and now they are adopting two teenagers.

It's crazy.  It's wild.  And it's an honor and a privilege to partner with Him in His incredible story of redemption -- not just for those two children, but for us, for our family, and for our little corner of the world.

"Father to the fatherless, defender of widows - THIS is GOD, whose dwelling is holy.  God places the lonely in families, He sets the prisoners free and gives them joy."  Psalm 68:5-6