While you were sleeping last night, I was praying. It was daytime here, and while I folded laundry, your name was on my lips. At lunchtime, the four of us gathered around the table and lifted you up. In the evening when your daddy was gone, I lay on the bed cuddled with Libby and Tucker, and they both prayed for you. And after they were asleep, I washed dishes and responded to messages, and sewed, and worked on a Bible study and I simply called out “Lord, Lord” because I had run out of words and tears. Or I thought I had. But then I sat at our table again and wrote in my journal to Him the hardest words … the words I had offered before.
“We want Aida to be ours… so badly. But even though it’s hard … more than that, we want what’s best for her, we want Your plan. And if that means her staying in the place where she was born… then let it be done Lord. “ And while I was getting ready for bed, I pictured your relatives getting ready for the day. Making the long trip to court. And I prayed for our Provider’s supernatural peace and wisdom and comfort to overcome them. To let them know what is best. I fell asleep, knowing that while we were sleeping, people were going to court and making a decision that would alter the rest of two families’ lives. And while we were sleeping, they were given an unimaginable choice (that no one should ever have to make) for the third and final time. And while we were sleeping, they chose to love you by letting you go. And while we were sleeping, you became one step closer to becoming ours.
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It was one of those long nights.
I was exhausted and emotional and tired of sewing, and I saw no end in sight. I sat at my sewing machine, and Ben sat at the desk behind me, and we listened to Pandora and shared the same space. And my shoulders shook, and I cried quietly (I’ve become pretty good at that over the past year) and wondered aloud how sewing T-shirts was going to bring our child home when the total to raise kept increasing as the months passed ($27,000 to $30,000 to eventually $35,000). Sewing appliques on T-shirts that made about $10-12 apiece just didn’t seem like it was going to make much difference. And my husband, the gentle strength and steadiness that he is, said to me, “loaves and fishes.” And in the quiet hours of the night Ben repeated all of the things our Provider had done over the months, all the ways He had multiplied the tiny things we had to offer, and I knew he was right, and we laughed, and I, of course, cried some more, and Our Redeemer’s promises filled our little space with peace at midnight. About 21 months ago, we stunned our parents by telling them that we were going to adopt, it was going to cost about $27,000, and the only plan we had to pay for it was to use some of our savings and to fundraise for the rest of the money. I wish I had a picture so I could show you (and them) the looks they tried hard to hide on their faces. I knew they were scared for us. I was scared too. At the end of August 2012, when asked if we wanted a referral for a child — “YES! Please! Of course!!!” — we realized it would mean we would have to raise the remaining $20,000 in about 6-8 months (you can find that story here). It seemed impossible. There were moments that doubt filled my mind and I thought, “No, it just can’t be done. We will have to wait for another child when we have a little more money raised.” But my husband, with faith much greater than my mustard seed, believed and repeated the past of God’s faithfulness to me (once again), and so I followed his lead and my God filled me up with a peace and a faith that I knew I wasn’t capable of. We offered our loaves and fishes (our time, our abilities, our energy, our little bit of resources), and we were overwhelmed with all of you who joined us and offered up your loaves and fishes too. And our Lord multiplied it. My Savior who fed the five thousand with five loaves and two fishes said to us, “I can do this too.” And He did it. With time to spare. Thank you seems so inadequate. But we are so glad you are walking this journey with us. So grateful you are partnering with us. So blessed you offered what you had. If we had any money left, we would throw a party to celebrate with you. But truthfully the real celebration is still a few months away. All that is left to do now is wait. I’m going to be honest, waiting really stinks. Waiting alone stinks even more. So… as if we haven’t already asked enough of you, we would like to ask one more tiny thing: would you wait beside us and continue in praying our Aida home? My darling Aida,
I wrapped a gift for you today. We took your big brother and big sister to pick it out. I slid it under my bed for the future. Today is your first birthday (or what we currently have as your birthday but that’s another story). There are no candles to blow out and no cake for you to eat. The birthday banner is still tucked in its drawer. You aren’t here. Not yet. I sure wish you were. Today, I am mourning. And today, I am celebrating (at least I’m trying to). I am mourning this birthday without you -- your very first one. I am mourning that there will be no first birthday pictures, no off-key birthday song, and no rocking you to sleep tonight while I think about the past year. I am mourning that you are in a transition home and that I don't know if there is any celebration for you today. I am celebrating for the promise of future birthdays when you will be here to blow out candles and open gifts and to run around laughing and celebrating with your siblings. I don’t take the gift of hope for a future lightly; there are mommies and daddies who don’t have it. I am mourning all that I have missed already, all the big milestones and all the simple ordinary moments that will have made you into the one-year-old we will bring home. I am sad because I will be able to tell your big brother and sister about the first time they laughed and rolled over, but I won’t be able to tell you about when you did those things. I am celebrating the moments I won’t miss and the memories we will make together and the years to come: holidays, first bicycle rides, late-night conversations, proms, laughter, tears, pillow fights, and college applications. I am mourning all that you have lost and all the hardships that you have come through in the short little span of your life. I am mourning because our gain came from someone else’s loss, and that we live in a world where such things as poverty and hunger and grief exist. I am celebrating that God in His wisdom can make something beautiful out of tragedy and that through it I will get to be your mother, I will be the one you call Mom and the one who gets to kiss your boo-boos and argue with you over eating vegetables and tuck you in at night and wipe your tears when you are sad and laugh with you when you are happy. I am mourning for you the loss of your background and the knowledge of where you came from -- the loss of living in the country where you were born and having the same color skin as your family, the loss of knowing how to fill out the form at the doctor’s office that asks for your family medical history, the loss of your culture, the loss of hearing about how you have your grandma’s eyes and your dad’s chin, and the story about the moment your mom first felt you kicking in her belly. The loss of knowing your biological family in an intimate way. I am celebrating the future Aida I will know and celebrating because while your past is a part of you, it is not all of you. Celebrating that we get to walk beside you when you grieve all that you lost and that we will be here to help you sort through all the little pieces that remain and try to make sense of it all. I am celebrating because you may not look like the father you are gaining but you might share his laugh or pick up his mannerisms. You will get to wrestle with him and hear his prayers for you and sit in his lap and one day know how much he longed for his second daughter to come home. And I am celebrating because you will gain an amazing brother and an amazing sister who pray for you every day, talk about you all the time, and keep your photo by their bed. Get ready, sweetie, I’m not sure they will be able to contain their excitement when you finally come home. I am mourning for all the other orphans you leave behind: for the ones who will not have a home and family and who will spend their days in an orphanage or in foster care and will spend their adult years trying not to become what the statistics say they will. I am celebrating that you will have a home and a family and you will not live in poverty or in a transition home or an orphanage all of your childhood; I am celebrating that you are one less orphan out of the 5 million reported orphans in your country. I am mourning because I know that our first interaction will not be of you running to me and hugging me and thanking me for coming to get you, but it will involve distress in your eyes and fear in your heart because we will smell weird and talk weird and look weird and threaten the only world you know. And I mourn because I know the moment we’ve been working for and wanting so badly -- getting to take you home -- will be one of the most difficult moments, because our baby won’t want to come home with us. I am celebrating because we will work through it and it will be hard and challenging and exhausting but worth it. Oh, so worth it. I am mourning because this year I didn’t hang an ornament on our tree that said “baby’s first Christmas,” and because this year I opened your gifts, and you spent Christmas day in a transition home millions of miles away from us. I am celebrating because next year we will know what size you wear and what toy might make you laugh, and we will add your stocking to the others, and you will actually be in your chair at our table as we walk through advent each day and we will rejoice together over what the season celebrates. I am mourning because just a few weeks ago, I read about your favorite foods and the number of your teeth on a form. I am celebrating that soon I will know what to cook you for dinner and that I’ll be able to count your teeth for myself. I am mourning because there are lots of people where you come from who have never heard the Good News and will never find freedom and peace and joy in knowing Him. I am celebrating because we get to share the gospel with you, we get to tell you about Jesus and whisper His promises in your ear and pray for His name to be written across your heart. I am crying for you today my darling: tears of sorrow and tears of joy. And I remind myself, “Weeping may last for the night but joy comes in the morning.” Someday someone might try to tell you that you are “lucky” that we rescued you and changed your life. But I hope you know the truth we already know … HE rescued us, HE pulled us up out of the pits and adopted us. And we are just two flawed people clumsily trying to live out the grace we have been given, doing what parents do and loving our child, our daughter, our gift. We are “lucky”. We are changed already … because of you. Happy birthday, my sweet Aida. I am praying you home. Love, Mama Thankful List for December: -new pictures of Aida -even better... video of Aida!!!! -biggest painting class yet, the paintings of the nativity turned out so great, and that after having been sick I was able to make it through the class -lots of donations amounting to around $1,200 -the bitter sweetness of updates on Aida... its such a joy to get but also so hard to learn things about your child from someone else... I should already know that Aida loves mango and potato bread (whatever that is) -generosity extended to us from our kids' preschool -the Riddle's official approval from China to adopt Joshua Marc!!!!! -a pair of pink shoes on our Christmas tree -sweet Christmas gifts for Aida from our family (I wish I had pictures of it all) -working on Valentine's shirts -thinking about how much has changed in our adoption process in the last year... praying with great hopes that she will be home this year And a few random things that have nothing to do with adoption: -our simplified version of the Truth in the Tinsel ornaments and the little tree in our dinning room that held them -receiving Christmas cards... it is so fun to open the mailbox in December -decorating our Christmas tree with the kids... watching the way they hung the ornaments -Tucker's resolve to make his (and Libby's room) look like "O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining" and the lovely results of all those paper stars he cut out -the "stable" Ben kindly made out of sticks for our Willow Tree nativity per my request -Tucker's question "Mom, how many days until Jesus' birthday?" -the last few months of working at my kids preschool two days a week, sharing their schedule, and getting to work with Lena -that we are close enough (we hope) to our trips to Ethiopia and bringing Aida home that I won't be working this semester -Christmas parties with our college girls, leadership team, and friends -Libby picking out what she wants to wear every night and hanging it up on a dresser (fancy yellow dress for a Saturday at home when its 40 degrees outside, why not?) -snow day!!!! -giving a gift you know someone will really like
-Kelli watching my kids so I could run errands -lots of Chick fil A eating over the holidays -lots of of sweet time with our families over Christmas (visiting Legoland, putting together puzzles, watching movies, eating...) -surviving the drive to and from GA -Celebrating Jesus' birth ("Heaven's Son sleeping under the stars that He made" - Song of the Stars) -"A light from on high will dawn upon [us]... to direct and guide our feet...into the way of peace." Luke 1:78-79 |
AuthorWe are a family of five (Ben, Beth, Tucker, Libby, and Zane). We started this blog during our 7 year journey to bring home a child through adoption. This is our story of how God is faithful in the good, the bad, and all the in between. Archives
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