I was in Sam's shopping for work when I got the phone call early last week. I was standing in the snack aisle when she told me that we received our LOA (letter of acceptance) from China to adopt you. I stood there for a moment crying, trying to stop my spinning mind long enough to think what I should ask. I got off the phone, and I wandered aimlessly for a good 20 minutes putting random things in my cart, not able to remember why I was there. I called her back 20 minutes later with all the questions I suddenly had. After 7.5 months of unusual, frustrating, baffling delays that no one could explain, the last 3+ months have finally been a series of steps forward. When our dossier (collection of documents) finally sailed off to China at the end of September, I merely dared to hope we would get our approval by the end of December. That seemed a safe dream, something that wouldn't set me up for another disappointment. So when, at the end of November, I stood in a store listening to the words "I have good news!" I was overcome, overwhelmed, overjoyed... 6 1/2 years of delays, closed doors, and "no's" and here, finally... a "yes". And I keep thinking about what your name means, a promise I repeat to myself: "God is gracious." You are going to be a son. A brother. An Edfeldt. I'm tucking our 5th stocking away for yet another year but I'm trusting that next year will finally be the year it hangs on our mantle. Across the world, we are waiting for you. Hoping for you. Praying for you. Preparing for you. Loving you already. Merry Christmas, sweet boy.
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It arrived in a huge brown box on our front porch. At the time, I had no idea how many memories and hopes could come in a cardboard box. It was a crib. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and my dad assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn. They pushed it proudly against the green wall in his room, and my mom and I added a mattress and sheets. And while I waited for him to come, I would sit in the rocker beside the crib and pray for this little person we didn't know. When he came, we named him Tucker. When he was 18 months, we took off the front piece and added a new one, and it became a toddler bed, and my heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor next to his little bed and stroke his hair and pray for the little boy he was becoming. And just a few months later, we moved him out of it and turned it back into a crib for his sister who was on the way. And while I waited for her to come, I would sit in the rocker beside the crib and pray for this little person we didn't know. When she came, we named her Libby. We were preparing to move when we she was almost 18 months and he was almost 4. We were six months into the adoption process and we decided to let them share a room in the new house. A friend texted me one day with an offer of an extra twin bed. We went to pick it up, and there it was disassembled on their living room floor. Simple and white and wooden. When we moved, we put the new bed together and put the crib back together once again. And our kids began the adventure of sharing a space. We kept her in the crib as long as possible. And then we took off the front piece and added a new one, and it became a toddler bed, and my heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor next to her little bed and stroke her hair and pray for the little girl she was becoming. Seasons changed and a year passed from the time we moved, and we got the referral for a baby. A little girl. And while I waited for her come, I would sit in the rocker between the two beds and pray for this little person we didn't know. And long before we thought she would come, we named her Aida. We began to get ready for her and the transitions to come. We began to make the playroom into a little boy's room, and I bought stuff and put it away for when the girls would share a room. But the months kept on passing. And eventually our trip was postponed. We stopped working on their rooms. We left things the way they were. My heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor between their beds and I would long to stroke her hair but instead I would pray for the little girl she was becoming. In the evenings the four of us would bend low together by the twin bed and pray for her, our Aida. After Ben and I went downstairs, we could hear them laughing and talking and jumping on beds. I would stand outside their door and hear whispered plans and hopes of a sister and silly stories and stuffed animals thrown from the simple and white and wooden beds. Seasons changed and a whole year passed from the time we had first heard about her. Then another 6 months and suddenly the door closed on our Aida. Our 4 year old was still sleeping cramped in that toddler bed, and we breathed in the reality that we no longer needed the little bed we had been saving for a child who wouldn't come. We took it apart. All of its simple and white and wooden pieces and piled them together- a bunch of memories and hopes on the floor. The time was right as another family needed it, and a sweetness was found in the bitter because we could share our past for our dear friends' future . And so the bed that was supposed to hold our third baby walked out the door to hold another one. It arrived in a huge brown box on our front step. It was growth and loss and hope and a new season that had came in a cardboard box. It was another twin bed. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and I assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn again. We pushed it proudly against the off-white wall in their room, and moved the old twin bed to his sister's side. And the laughter and whispered plans and bedtime prayers and hopes continued. Because healing comes slow and unpredictable... but His healing still always come. *WIll you continue to pray for our slow and unresolved adoption process? Will you continue to pray for a home for Aida? It all began with a red heart. A red heart created in Sunday school, colored and cut out, and brought to me by a 6 year old boy. “It’s for you, Mama.” And I smiled at a gift all simple and innocent and beautiful and leaned it against a jar on my desk. Later, one word was added in black. A name scribbled in kid font. And he brought it to me again all sheepish smiles, handing me his love for his sister on a crumbled piece of paper. His heart for Aida. And I brushed away tears and we hung it on my bulletin board. Months later, I finally managed to put together the Christmas cards I’d been dreading and I stared at the stack of envelopes all ready to be stuffed on my desk. But I felt lost. How could I send them…cards with 1/5th of our family missing? An all too familiar ache and confusion caught in my throat. And then I saw it. The red heart. I recruited some help. Our boy drew his heart for me again and this time he added two more words. His daddy scanned it and shrunk it and copied it over and over. Then our little artists, the three year old and six year old, sat down. They colored and painted and created 80 hearts all unique, all special, all perfect. And we finished our magnets and slipped them into envelopes now exactly the right amount of full. Sweet pictures began to creep up in my Instagram feed with colorful hearts and some on my facebook wall. And I felt like a little soothing balm had been applied to my aching soul. Christmas break we traveled over the river and through the woods to Georgia and then North Carolina. And for two days on our long way home to Texas, as we traveled through hills and trees, and over long bridges, and through big cities and middle of nowhere back roads, I thought about her and what was coming. Her 2nd birthday. And I thought about her 1st birthday and how I never dreamed then that I would celebrate her next one without her too. And I thought about the moment months ago when I quietly released my hope that she would be home for Christmas, be home for her birthday. And I thought about how I didn’t know what to buy my daughter for her birthday because I didn’t know her. And I thought about her birthday gifts from last year wrapped and unopened at the top of my closet. And I wondered and we discussed and I prayed over and over as we drove, what do we do for her birthday? What do we give to a child we don’t know? Can’t see? Can’t sing too? And I thought about the heart. And the last words added to it. Pray for Aida. And I breathed deep, knowing the answer fully. We could give her the gift of prayer for her 2nd birthday. What better gift could we give her? But not just us praying for her. I could beg and plead and rally the saints. I could use this blog that I have forsaken and ask you humbly, graciously… will you help these weary parents give a birthday gift to our daughter? Will you cover her in prayer today? Will you give 2 minutes, 10 minutes, 30 minutes, an hour? Will you ask our Father to work His best out for her, no matter what that looks like, regardless of whether it involves us? Ask Him to protect her and love her and draw her to know Him, please? And if you give this most precious of birthday gifts to our girl, will you do one of two things? 1. Comment below with your name so we can write it on a heart for her. 2. Or print out the hearts from the file at the bottom of this page, write your name on one, and stick it in the mail to us so we actually have it in your handwriting (send us a message for our address)! One day, Lord willing, we will make something with all the “hearts for Aida” and give them, the physical symbol of all the prayers lifted up on her behalf, as a gift to her. So, today on our darling Aida’s second birthday, we celebrate her. We celebrate the beautiful child that Our Creator brought into being 2 years ago and even then, set into motion writing His perfect story for her life. We celebrate the Aida that we may never know but yearn and beg and plead for; the Aida that is known and loved fully by Him. And we ask you to celebrate with us too. Will you give her the birthday gift of praying for her today and write your name into her story? Your heart for Aida.
She says it with only the honesty a child could muster.
Its evening, and I’m tucking the warmth all around her. The sun’s already vanished the way it does in October in Texas, and I’m looking at her from the tiny light glowing from the hall. With her hair already a mess and a 3-year-old pout, she says fiercely to me: “God’s not bringing Aida home.” And the unspoken is spoken aloud, words hanging there in the dark, taking my breath away. Suddenly, I’m back sitting in early summer’s hot sun. Discovering 2 Samuel 22 as if it is balm to my aching soul. I read it while cooking dinner, food splattering on the page; while sitting at our table with crayons and coloring papers surrounding me; I whisper it through tears on the couch; search for it in the wee hours of the night. It’s what I went back to all summer long and even now into the fall. David’s song of Deliverance “… my God lightens my darkness.” (v. 29) Her statement is really a question. The one we’ve all been asking silently for months: “Why isn’t He?” The tears sting hot on my face, and I utter some words strung together “pray … keep asking … one day” and kiss her good night. But it haunts me for days, the words I’ve never been brave enough to say. HE could bring her home. But He’s not. I talk to my mom on the phone. “I can’t see the good. I can’t see the good in this situation.” “This God — His way is perfect” (v. 31) I’ve been here walking blindly through the haze before. So I keep going. I keep writing down all the little blessings every day, turning back to the page bent with verses highlighted, keep filling our moments with music that remind me of the wonder of His name, scribbling promises in my journal and across chalkboard’s black. And I keep crying. And we keep praying. And keep reciting all that we know deep in our bones that is true of Him and His character. And it’s here in the repetition that I realize: When I can’t see the good in my world, I can still recall all the good that is in HIM. The more time I spend dwelling on the character of my Lord, the less time I have to spend dwelling on the bad in my life. Will I choose this? To call out His Names instead of calling Him names? “For who is God, but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God? This God is my strong refuge …” (vv. 32-33) And the sun goes down early in October, and I look around me and see so many hurting people missing its light. Dear ones who know the gut-wrenching bellyache of loss and turmoil and anger and defeat and physical pain and guilt and uncertainty and blame and confusion. And I ache for them and I am weary. “For you equipped me with strength for the battle …” (vs. 40) I know it before I ever dared to ponder the question: that I can’t explain why He chooses not to do what we know He can do. And I also know that we may never see clearly through the fog of this dark world, but He will equip us to walk through the darkness, He will sanctify us as we walk closer to His sufferings. His Word is the beautiful story of Light coming from the darkness and of a perfect Son who walked through the very black of it and of Glory claimed by a God above it all. There are no easy answers, no perfect clichés, no precise words that clean up the mess or make the hurt disappear for those trudging through the bad and wrestling with the questions. But in the early summer I find God-given hope and promise printed on thin pages. -He makes the dark more bearable. (v. 29) -His way is better than ours. (v. 31) -He is Lord and nothing will happen that is not for His Own Renown and His Ultimate Glory and therefore the good of His kingdom. (v. 32) -He promises us strength for the battles raging within us and around us. (v. 40) I’ve got a mess of a beautiful life that is testimony that His mercies are new every morning. The sun will come up again tomorrow. She tells me today, “I’m going to have a sister. Aida’s my sister. My baby sister.” And I see light. 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. |
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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