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.
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A couple of months ago, I gathered up blankets and quilts and sheets and carried them downstairs. I went to work transforming our dining room table into a magical fort for a fun filled day. Tuck and Libby were so excited. Libby followed her brother around, both of them scooping up toys and carrying load after load of books, puzzles, and stuffed animals to their little hideout. Once they had their space set up adequately with pillows and flashlights and all their earthly treasures, they played underneath for a few minutes. And then they were done.
But Tuck was so excited to show his daddy. He begged me not to take down the fort so we ate our lunch as a picnic on the living room floor and left our monument of 20 minutes of work and 5 minutes of play up until the end of the day. By 5 p.m., Tuck could hardly stand it any longer. He sat on the couch, looking out the window for his fellow dragon slayer to walk through the door. Waiting. So many people around me are waiting. Waiting to finish school. Waiting to sell a house. Waiting to move. Waiting for a baby. Waiting for a baby to start sleeping through the night. Waiting for healing. Waiting for Mr. Right to come along. Waiting to be back under the same roof as loved ones. Waiting for answers. Waiting for relief. Waiting for their child to be well. Waiting for financial stability. Waiting for time to heal wounds. Waiting for reconciliation. Waiting for a promotion. Waiting to feel loved. Waiting for support. Waiting for peace. Waiting for summer. Waiting for life not to seem so hard. February marked one year since Ben and I decided we were pursuing adoption. When we passed that date I have to admit I was discouraged. We were discouraged. We thought we’d be further along in the process by then. In my discouragement, I pulled out my journals from the past year and there in my notes were the themes that My Redeemer had been writing across my heart for the past 12 months…. trust, dependence, sacrifice, patience. I could see the whole picture in those pages … verse after verse, quotes and scribbled prayers all pointing to His faithfulness … even in the waiting. In the waiting, we’ve been reminded about the importance of community. We need it. Others around us desperately need it. The fellowship of His church is part of HIS carefully woven plan. And we have been overwhelmed by the community that we have been shown. We’ve smiled over emails and blog comments, notes, and Facebook messages of encouragement. We’ve received kind words from strangers, donations from people we don’t even know. We’ve been standing in the hall in church when someone slipped cash in our hand and left us grappling for words. We’ve sat stunned in our living room as we’ve opened checks inside envelopes. Friends have cared for our kids while we’ve had a homestudy, a yard sale, attended an adoption seminar, and even while I’ve sewn. Sweet sisters have sat at my dining room table cutting out appliqués, organizing and folding what feels like a million t-shirts, cutting tags, and making me smile through my exhaustion. Our college students have amazed us by their thoughtfulness and generosity. People have bought shirts, attended painting classes, donated to and helped with our yard sale, plastered our cause all over Facebook. My own sweet little four-year-old has written two “checks” for us “to help with the adoption” (pretty sure those are frame-worthy). We’ve laughed and cried from astonishment and joy of how He is using people to minister to us, to walk beside us, to remind us of His faithfulness, to water our mustard seeds, to encourage us while we wait. And bit by bit, month by month, He is sowing His Peace in our hearts. We’ve felt the “village” surrounding us and through the “village” we’ve felt HIM. We have one year behind us and still several years to go. And in the last two months, on hard days, I’ve had to pull out my journals again to trace my finger over His promises. And I am sure I will have to read them many times again. But His promises are there, always in His Word for me to see, for me to cling to. Our waiting is not in vain because even it is part of His intricate plan. We trudge on together and we fill ourselves up with HIS promises and remind ourselves daily that sometimes the long way is God’s best. And we pray that our little family will know how to be the village for others who are in the waiting too. Ben came home that afternoon and four little arms tackled him at the door and led him to their fort. And being the dad that he is, he immediately disappeared under the table into an imaginary world where colorful fabrics make the best castle. Three people went under but all I could see were one pair of feet sticking out. And it was a reminder to me. My prayer: that while we wait, we will be transformed more and more into Our Father’s image, that in the end … people will see a whole lot less us of us and a whole lot more of Our Savior. It’s sitting at HIS feet while we wait that we find our Peace. And we are privileged to be sitting at His feet with so many beside us. |
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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