1. In the weeks after we were chosen as prospective adoptive parents, we bought a gift for our birthmother (H, as I will refer to her). We were told not to buy her anything expensive (as that could be manipulative), so I started hunting on Etsy for something small and meaningful. As strange as it sounds, I asked the Holy Spirit to help me find the perfect piece of jewelry. It mattered greatly to me because, at some point, she was going to be left with this gift instead of her child. I wanted it to remind her of the baby while still being ambiguous to strangers, and to be something she might pick for herself. I ended up at THIS shop, because the pieces were reasonably priced and looked like something H might like. As soon as I saw this necklace, I knew it was perfect.
No name or initials, because she had chosen a different name ... she was going to put "Alexandria" on the first birth certificate, and we would put Sloane on the certificate when the adoption finalized. Ambiguous, but a way to carry the memory of her October-baby close to her heart. When it came in the mail, I was horrified to read on the invoice that it symbolized infant loss. How did I miss that? But, still convinced that God had settled this as the right gift, I packed it up in our stuffed-to-the-brim diaper bag to bring to the hospital.
Needless to say, the irony of this gift was not lost on me. Someone did lose a baby ... and it was me. It is my reminder of the October-baby I never held, never met, never brought home.
When I finally got around to bringing baby things back into the house after returning from Warner Robins, I hesitantly pulled this gift out of the diaper bag. I wanted to break, burn and bury the stupid necklace. But, as the greatest act of faith I've mustered in the last three weeks, I put it in our "remember" jar. It houses reminders of how God has worked in our family (for more details, read HERE) .... and, as impossible as this currently seems, someday I will be able to see our fateful trip to Warner Robins as a part of God's perfect plan for us.
For whatever reason, Karl Marx's accusation that religion is the "opiate of the masses" has always been unsettling to me. More than once, I have wondered whether I merely use God to placate my tumultuous heart. But losing a baby has forever settled this question for me.
I've seen Josh on a lot of opiates/narcotics in the past two weeks because of his kidney stone. While they did not solve his pain problem, they brought a certain degree of numbness and escape.
God is a terrible opiate. I very violently feel the pain of loss, and faith does not afford me the luxury of escape. I must have more focus, feeling and fervor because of the road ahead .... numbness will not do. And, while I feel the peace of his presence, the pain remains.
Being at
home is really hard. I think it's because time moves a little slower at home,
which gives me too much mental space to feel the hurt. And there is "that
room" all ready for a baby ... freshly washed crib sheets, a closet
organized with blankets and clothes, and that damn car seat.
So I've been out and about, for my own sanity above anything else.
Needless trips to Costco, to the mall, more than one trip to church (I admit it
- I totally abused the free childcare) ... turns out, all of that has been
helpful in passing the time, but not much else. I had no
more errands to run, so I headed to the gym this morning. Not because I
actually care about working out right now; I barely have the energy to make it
through the day. But I needed to do something, and that was
really my only good option. I dropped
Phoenix off at childcare, settled into a comfortable pace on the
treadmill, and decided to lean in. From the moment we started the adoption
process, I have felt the call of God to really lean into everything that would
come my way. As I blogged in April, "It would be easy for me to have
tunnel vision, to focus on the parenting task at hand, and to protect my heart
from getting burned along the way. But I feel like God has been asking me to
lean into the emotion of this season, and to actively hope." Well, as much
as I want to fight it, I know God is asking me to keep leaning in. Process my
grief in His arms instead of ignoring it or running away. The
thought of starting from square one again makes me want to throw up - I
currently hate adoption. Strong words, I know. At this point, I would
hands-down choose a horrible pregnancy, traumatic birth, and long NICU
stay again. As difficult as that season in my life was, at least things were
happening and God was obviously near. I wasn't sitting around, waiting for a
child that I haven't met yet but I still seem to miss. I want to run away from
this whole thing, letting it be just a horrible memory instead of my incessant
reality.
But,
again, I felt the prompt of God to lean in. I took a deep breath, and made
my heart available to Him. All of the
oh-so-kind and empathetic words of my friends and family have been helpful, but
I needed to hear something healing. So I listened to the Bible as I walked, and
this familiar verse stood out like a beacon:
"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have
peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ,through whom we
have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast
in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our
sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance,
character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because
God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has
been given to us." (Romans 5:1-5)
Sometimes
this verse gets turned into one of those well-intentioned platitudes that
Christians throw around, but it struck me so differently today. The end goal of
suffering is hope. Not really sure how I missed that before, but I realized
that this loss of Sloane is my greatest lesson in hope during this season,
because it is my greatest moment of suffering (to date, at least).
I now have
these twin passengers, longing and loss. The weight of longing was burdensome
indeed, but my hope-muscles have gotten stronger while carrying it for many,
many months. Thankfully, we have had many people help us carry our loss in the
last few days; childcare, meals, flowers, chocolate, prayer and notes have
truly helped to lighten the load. But life goes on, and soon the grief will be
just ours to carry. And I am trusting God that He will supernaturally gift us
the perseverance that will lead to greater character, which will in turn
produce greater hope.
And I
don't, for one moment, doubt the love of God. I don't claim to understand His
love, or the way that it manifests itself. But I undeniably felt his presence
this morning, and it was overwhelmingly tender and loving. So much so that I
ended up crying on the treadmill, which was probably so weird for everyone at
LA Fitness. One of the
songs that played at our wedding (How He Loves, by David Crowder) came up on my
Pandora station. I normally associate the song with a season of great joy,
walking into a forever love with my Josh. So, though it was strange to hear in
a moment of deep sadness, it was the perfect reminder that God has been
oh-so-loving in orchestrating our family. And He is loving still.
[No promises that this is coherent ... just the ramblings of my heart]
Yesterday I read "A Grief Observed" by CS Lewis -- a very short and very poignant book. People who know me well will not be the least bit surprised that I turned to my bookshelf in my moment of need: the written word tends to be my coping mechanism.
The book is essentially Lewis' journal writings following the death of his wife, Joy. It was originally published under a pseudonym, for it is disturbingly raw and honest. Honestly, I'm not sure why I own it. And I have no idea why it was actually on my bookshelf (alas, most of my precious books are in boxes in the basement) -- it is usually reserved for favorites, current reads and things I want to read soon.
But there it was nonetheless, and my tear-stained eyes seemed to find it almost instantly.
It did not, by any stretch of the imagination, ease my heartache. Not that it was ever intended to. It is called "A Grief Observed" because it is a window into one man's particular pain, not a self-help book to guide one on the way to recovery. But it gave me a fellow traveler on the journey, and some words to help process my hurt.
We have spent a year and half gaining love-traction for our adopted child, and that was compounded with 6 weeks of fierce love for this particular girl. She had a name - Sloane (which is not her name now, of course) - and we prayed over her and dreamed about her by name.
Of course the overall pain of the loss is horrible, but it's so big that I can attend to it. The little things, the specific dreams that unsuspectingly replay in my mind are much, much worse. The death of each of those dreams aggregates into something unbearable. I imagined the way her dark skin would look against the new, bright clothes we picked out for her. I imagined waking up to a quiet cabin in WV over Thanksgiving, getting to nourish my new girl while snow fell outside. I imagined bundling her up, getting both of my girls set in the new double stroller (which I now need to return) and taking long walks while looking at her sweet sleeping face. I imagined doing puzzles with Phoenix with Sloane wrapped up next to my chest. I imagined her tiny body rising and falling on her daddy's sleeping body.
I don't regret those dreams - if Sloane had ended up as my child, I didn't want to miss one moment of loving her. Refusing to dream about her wouldn't have made the loss easier; when we are chosen again, I will commit my imagination to dreaming again.
In Lewis' book, he talks about a mother's loss of child. She is comforted that her "child has not lost the end for which it was created," and she is comforted that she has not lost her greatest treasure, "that she may still hope to glorify God and enjoy Him forever."
And here is where he hit the nail on the head:
There is no comfort to her motherhood. "The specifically maternal happiness must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will she have her son on knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see her grandchild."
There is great comfort for my soul, but my Mama's heart bleeds uncontrollably.
I feel sick to my stomach, and yet I want to drown in a pint of ice cream. I am so deeply exhausted, but I can't sleep. I don't want to be around anyone, but I don't want to be alone.
This is uncharted territory for me. I recognize that this makes me very lucky indeed ... grief is not a stranger to most people. But it is nonetheless a hard lesson to learn for the first time. And, as Lewis writes, "there is nothing we can do with suffering but to suffer it."
"You can't see anything properly while your eyes are blurred with tears." And since I have spent much of the last two days trying to catch my breath while weeping, I know that I can't see straight.
Fortunately, God was preemptive in caring for my heart, knowing that I would be too broken to make my way to His arms just yet. Sunday night, while I was driving to Decatur, I felt God pressing on my heart to recount to Him the many things that I have learned about hope in this season of waiting. I also felt strongly that I should write them down. At the end, I wrote:
"The one who pursues hope leaps with great faith, knowing (even in a free-fall) that God is greatly kind. And even if she hits the ground at her greatest hope-speed, she rests safely in the care of a healer who will surely mend her broken heart, her rattled mind, her fragmented soul."
Well, I sure did hit the ground. But I am in the hands of a healer. A surgeon, lovingly taking me apart so that I can be made into His likeness. Unfortunately, this surgery comes without anesthesia. I acutely feel each cut.
Even still, in darkest night, I worship God. Because I am still forgiven, still loved, and still adopted by Him. He hasn't changed.
So while my heart cries "Sloane," it also sings "Jesus."
On August 26th, we received the long awaited call from our social worker: we had been chosen by a birth mother! Just a few short days before, we had driven a couple hours to meet her, a beautiful fifteen year-old, pregnant with a biracial baby girl. We had committed not to get too invested just because of our meeting, so we were both in shock and couldn't believe this was finally happening for us! Our social worker reminded us to remain "cautiously optimistic," but we had so much to prepare in just the six short weeks before her due date.
This Wednesday, we got another wildly exciting call ... our birth mother had gone into labor! We frantically found childcare for Phoenix, packed our bags and finished last-minute work. The plan was to head to her home town in the morning, and to meet her and the baby at the hospital at 9:30. Then the time got pushed back to 1:00 -- which honestly, was great. It gave Josh and I a chance to get settled at our hotel, go buy flowers for the birth mother and get some quality time together. We met out social worker at the hospital, and then found out she still didn't want to see us. So the plan moved to 4:00. We were still optimistic at this point, and just hung out with our awesome social worker in our hotel lobby. Then we got the call that our birth mother was reconsidering her adoption plan. No one from our agency had actually gotten to talk to her in person though, so we decided to stay in town just in case she wanted to go through with her adoption plan. Plus, we had already paid for our hotel room and we were committed to enjoying the chance to get away.
I can't even tell you how kind God was to us in those hours of waiting. Mostly significantly, he was near to us in the prayers of our friends and family. As soon as I texted that things might not be looking so good, there were so many people who hit their knees for us. Josh and I were still composed (no point in mourning something that hadn't happened yet), but I ended up in tears of gratitude for the amazingly faithful people that God has put in our lives. I know that every ounce of peace that was given to us in those hours was the result of people bringing our hearts before the throne of God.
We wandered around the local mall, ate some wings for dinner, and then headed back to the hotel and watched TV for awhile. I ended up taking a bath and talking to God -- we dangerously prayed that His will would be done, and that her hospital room would be a place free from fear and thick with His presence. We prayed that God would draw a boundary line around her that the enemy could not cross and we asked for her to be given great clarity. And, most deeply, we prayed God's best for the baby.
Just as we were going to sleep, we got a call from one of the pregnancy counselors who had met with our birth mother. Though her head and her heart were in two different places, she had decided that she was going to go with her original plan and sign surrenders in the morning. Obviously, this was still not a solid decidsion - but it gave us great hope to carry us through the night.
The pregnancy counselor touched base with us in the morning before she went to meet with our birth mother, and told us to be on-call around 11:30 to come to the hospital to do paperwork and pick up our sweet girlie. And it wasn't long after 11:30 that she called ... to tell us that our she had decided to parent. They offered to come talk with us, but all I wanted was to go home.
So we got in our car -- with an empty carseat, with a bag packed with tiny diapers and sweet new clothes, with a present we bought for the baby to give to Phoenix -- and headed home weeping.
We originally decided not to tell the world that we had been chosen for this very reason - in case things fell through, I didn't want to grieve with everyone watching. But one of the intentions that I set at the beginning was "to be vocal about the process, so that people get a window into the miracle of adoption. It was truly a gift for me to share my heart during our NICU experience, and I plan to be equally honest and forthcoming about this next journey in our family." And, as I was reminded by someone on Wednesday, my blog about Phoenix's time in the NICU was raw and honest (almost to a fault). To say that we told our adoption story without sharing this great loss would be a gross misrepresentation.
So welcome to our pain. I will write more in the next day or two about how we are feeling, what we are thinking, and how we are processing it. But, for now, spare us platitudes about God's plan: we know that He is still orchestrating the process. But that doesn't ease the ache. What we want most is your prayers ... pray that He leads us well through our sorrow and that we honor Him as we grieve.
