It’s 11 o’clock at night, and I’m sitting on the tiny little red stool in his room, gazing up at the little white paper stars he cut out to hang over his bed. The stars, all hanging low from fishing wire, are dancing in the wind of the ceiling fan. He is sleeping peacefully while I am praying for peace. And I pray for him, and for his teacher, and his classmates. I can still remember the first time I dropped him off at the church nursery. I have the sticker from that day in his baby book. He was fine, I was not. And it was just the beginning of a lifetime of saying goodbye, of giving him over to someone to watch him during the time we left him and the time we got back … someone we had to trust to take care of him in the “in between.” It doesn’t really matter our choices as a parent: if we decide to not work and stay at home, if we decide to homeschool … at some point we have to squeeze our child’s hand tight, take a deep breath, and then let go. Our God knows fully about letting a Son go. Tucker's very first pillow was in the shape of a star. Someone gave it to him as a baby. It was striped and khaki. And he loved it and took it everywhere we went until one day it got left behind. So I ineptly tried to sew him another one, and this time it was his favorite color — red. And he loved it even in its lopsidedness. It lay on the bed next to him last night as he slept. He was all stretched out looking big; his red star beside him looking small. Yesterday, we went up to his school all abandoned and quiet, the calm before the chaos. And I took a piece of chalk in my pocket. And we showed him where we would drop him off and where we would pick him up, and we took his picture by the door before there were a million people swarming around in 1st day chaos. And then I drew stars with chalk: a few on the playground, a few on the sidewalk, one near the stairs. All small and blue, because that’s his favorite color now. And as we walked back to the car, I told him if he felt nervous, uncertain, lonely, scared, or sad tomorrow to look for the stars. I told him that we hoped they would remind him that his God loves him, and he can talk to Him anytime. I told him that we hoped they would remind him his mommy and daddy love him, and we are praying for him in the “in between.” That’s so much of what parenthood is. It’s loving and teaching and training and rehearsing the truths we know into their ears and then praying that they are prepared and will stand firm in the teachings we have passed to them (2 Thessalonians 2:15). Praying they will look to the “stars” (the reminders) when they forget. And praying they will let the Father guide them through the “in between” and everything else. Parenthood is breathing deep and saying “I submit to Your will for my kids and I accept Your best plan for them” whatever that may be. And in the letting go, we worship our Creator and enable them to worship Him more freely too. And this past year and this summer and this morning, I found how hard it is not to buckle under the weight of the fear of the unknown. And when I am buckled under fear, I have a choice to stand back up and claim them as ours or to stay down low on my knees and surrender them to the one who created them. And I had to remind myself that parenthood isn’t just about God using us to shape our children, but it’s also about God using parenthood to shape us. This morning, all four of us walked to school in the morning sun, and Ben prayed over him again as we walked. We reached the door of his class, and we took him in all hugs and kisses and chaos. He found his seat all confidence and smiles, and I snapped a picture determined not to cry. And just before I turned, he reached up his arms one more time, and I gratefully squeezed him tight, breathed deeply, and let him go. Last night after I left his room, I went out our front door and stood barefoot looking toward the Heavens at stars all white and little in the sky. Then I drew what I was standing under. One on the sidewalk and one on the stair. All large and blue.
And they were for me. So they would remind me that his Father loves him more than I do and He is holding him in the “in between.”
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It’s August, the month I’ve been dreading. And I spent last week with my hands dirty. I scrubbed and sanded, and dusted out cobwebs hidden, and removed staples, and layers of fabric, and painted. There was a lot of painting. I was refinishing our dining room set. Ben helped in the evenings when he came home and though he never voiced it aloud I know he wondered what possessed me to tackle this project now and with such fervor. Or maybe he knew. I sanded six chairs. And Libby joined and held sandpaper on the wrong side and worked beside me, making me smile. And I thought about how big she was getting. And I remembered her last year, pigtails high, running around a courtyard on campus, while music blared, Ben grilled hamburgers, and Tucker talked to the students gathering. And I watched from the side, heart overflowing. It was August 23rd, the day of “the call”. The day they said “we might have a child for you.” Ben and I had barely had time to talk to each other about what we were going to do, but as I stood there watching Libby twirling around in the early evening sun and students smiling at her dance, I thought "this time next year there will be another child with us". I moved everything off the hutch, and I pulled down Aida’s picture and the little pair of pink shoes that have been sitting with it that will probably be too small when we bring her home. And I thought about the day we saw her sweet face while sitting at the very table I was currently piling everything on. The day every doubt anyone had ever spoken to me about not being able to love a child that was not born of my flesh fell hard to the floor. Our daughter. I scrubbed hard, and washed away dirt on the hutch, and sanded out bumps and stains. And frustrations. I thought about the continuously moving timeline and how the seasons passed as we watched her grow up through pictures and read about her milestones on our computer, and I watched my friends’ children who were her age with bittersweetness, and we mourned for a daughter who remained in Africa without a family. I wiped my hands on my shorts and wiped away the dust, and saw the bare wood underneath, excited to finally be able to paint. I remembered finally planning for our trip to meet her. Making arrangements for our kids, talking with a travel agent, phone calls with our coordinator, tucking Tucker in at night and answering lots of questions about who was going to take care of him and what we were going to do when we got there, and laying in bed dreaming about the first time we would lay eyes on her. We removed hardware and took apart seat cushions with four layers of staples holding on four layers of fabric and I thought about when everything began to fall apart. When Ben called, and I asked if it was bad news, and he said “yes,” and I sat on the couch listening and crying and twisting a piece of paper over and over in my hands. Our little girl had faulty paperwork, no one knew the truth about her past, and there would be an investigation to find it. And 5 days before we were suppose to leave, we canceled our plane tickets. I brushed hair out of my face and I brushed on the first coat of paint and I knew I was going to love the change. We got news toward the beginning of May. The investigation had uncovered that Aida truly was an orphan in need of a family. Her paperwork would need to be redone to re-declare her orphan status so that we could legally adopt her. We started sanding on a Monday and I thought the whole project would be done in a couple of days. But the “primer/paint in one” wasn’t covering up the wood. So, I kept painting. One layer. Then two. With each layer of paint, I thought, "this will be the last one" When we canceled our plane tickets in March, I began fervently praying that we would still bring her home before the end of the summer. But at the end of April, we realized it wasn’t to be. I began praying that we would just make the first trip before August. But at the end of May, we sat together at a desk on a conference call. I put my head down about two minutes into the phone call and cried through the rest of the 30-minute conversation. More time. Lots more time. Another season, probably two (maybe three?) would pass. I glanced at Ben, who sat sadly shaking his head, frustration and disappointment creasing his brow. And I looked across the room as if I actually expected to watch the hope seeping quietly out the door. Two layers of paint, and I wasn’t done. The wood was still showing through. So I pressed on frustrated but determined and painted a third coat. After the call, something inside of me changed. I didn’t want to write about adoption anymore. No one wants to only read bad news. I definitely didn't want to only write bad news. And there was a desperate desire to protect her, protect her story and I didn't know how to share without fully sharing. I was weary. And silence on a blog seemed better than the noise of confusion in my head. Our summer moved on without the child we had planned to be with us: the weeks, the months, the events passing without her. I was hosting a ladies’ event for our Sunday School class on Sunday. So on Saturday I brushed on the fourth, and last, coat of paint. We attached new hardware. We stapled on new fabric and then screwed cushions in place. I still needed to seal the paint on the hutch and chairs — and our table sat completely untouched — but there was no time. I felt a sting, real and sobering, that I couldn’t finish. I had needed to finish. Needed to finish something. It’s rainy season in Aida’s country so adoptions aren’t being processed. The lady who needs to file a piece of paperwork to move Aida’s case forward in her region is on maternity leave, and apparently no one else can do it. During our wait, requirements have changed, and we have more paperwork to complete. Sunday afternoon, women entered our home, gathered around our table, and sat in newly covered chairs, and I pulled craft supplies out of our freshly painted hutch. And joyful conversation and laughter filled the space. I thought about the last year: sisters gathering around our table to help cut out endless amounts of appliques for T-shirts, strangers contributing to an auction, friends and family celebrating with us over exciting news and mourning with us over the hard news, cards in the mail, checks unexpected, texts with prayers. And somehow I heard Him even amongst the clamor in our living area and in my head: “Many people have shared and walked this journey with you for over two years, let them finish the last miles with you; however long they take.” So here I am, sitting in one of our still unfinished chairs, typing out our last year's journey. Here we are, tomorrow- the year mark of when we sat in these same chairs and first saw her face. Here we are, praying for a miracle because she needs it more than we do.
There she still is, a little girl in need of a Mommy and Daddy to tuck her in at night, a brother and sister to make her laugh, a family to call her own. There she still is, a little girl with a journey home to finish. And here and there HE always is, still faithful and in control from one August to the next. He's still holding our baby. Thankful List for July -adoption announcements from friends= sweet pictures of kids who have forever families adorning our refrigerator -our little Aida turned 18 months -"Do not fear My will, for through it I accomplish what is best for you. Take a deep breath and dive into the depths of absolute trust in Me." - Jesus Calling -overhearing conversation between Tuck and neighborhood boy. Caden: "who is that on your refrigerator?". Tuck: "my sister... but not Libby." (wish I could post her precious face) -"In the morning, O Lord, You hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before You and wait in expectation." Psalm 5:2-3 And a few random things that have nothing to do with adoption: Our trip to Georiga (the July half) -swimming kids -S’more making -the sweet treat of seeing my dear friend Dianna and her kids for a few hours while they were home from MercyShips -celebrating the day Andrea was born -being able to help my dad in the kitchen -making peanut butter pie with my sister -Cooper playing ball with Tucker -bike rides with my mom -Eric always being willing to take the kids swimming -watching cousins play together -returning home and to Ben -Ben’s welcome home gifts to the three of us: baseball cards, bubbles, and real tulips (I have no idea how he managed to find them for me in July)… he knows us and loves us well -Sequence -Tucker's note to me -4 free meals from chick-fil-a (cow appreciation day) -Ben to Libby “Who is your favorite princess?” Libby: “mommy” -air conditioning -Faith Youth helping break up our cement (making progress on summer projects while giving money to a good cause) -laughter of kids in the morning -blankets stacked in our bedroom (daily reminders of the beautiful women who made them) -Vacation Bible School -truth and conviction: “Hospitality means if there is room in the heart- there is always room in the house. And if we’ve really welcomed Christ into our lives it means our lives are evidence that we’ve welcomed the strangers and the neglected and the outcasts.” -Ann Voskamp -conversations with Julie Lindsey -movies with friends -Great news at Libby’s cardiologist check up (we are so thankful for Dr. Muyskens, our amazing cardiologist, and for continued improvement with Libby's heart) -smell of sausage sizzling -celebrating birthdays -finding kids playing happily together -“… that you may love the Lord your God, listen to His voice, and hold fast to Him…” –Deutronomy 30:20 -lunch and dinner with new friends -tea parties -Tuck: “Mom, let's have snuggle time” -the joy of lots of kids in our house throughout the month -Libby’s hairstyling abilities
-Tuck playing Sequence and baseball with college students -good bye dinner with Staci -Carissa and Kelli’s help -Tuck’s excitement in finding his name on the wall at the library -spray park with Melissa and Drake |
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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