Orlando

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, Josh and I watched all the available seasons of Dexter with amazing speed - to say we binged is really an understatement. One night, after a marathon of episodes from season four (the Trinity season, for fellow fans), I got in the shower feeling really unsettled. I have a high threshold for fictional blood/guts/crime (not really sure what this means about me), but I was deeply shaken by the particular form of evil personified by John Lithgow's character 'Arthur Mitchell.' As water fell from my downcast eyes onto my swollen belly, it occurred to me for the first time that we would be introducing our child to a world wrought with evil and destruction. Why would we bring a child into a world like this? A world where evil seems to have free reign, where one is always at risk of bearing the soul-deep consequences of someone else's depravity? How could we possibly protect a child from such present, subversive, expansive evil?

Obviously, it was a little late to ask such an important question. Like it or not, our growing child already had traction in this world, and the question changed from "Why would we raise a child in this world?" to "How will we raise a child in this world?" 

Sunday, upon hearing the news of what happened in Orlando, I was freshly disturbed by the realities of this world. And this evil was not fictional - it was real in the most profound sense of the word. 

Phoenix, now five, is at such an amazing age -- the whole natural world feels like a gift that I get to help her unwrap. She notices all the variations in the clouds, she instantly internalizes the names and habitats of ocean creatures, she overturns rocks to see what she might discover underneath. But those tangible expressions of Glory that she's constantly encountering are only a small portion of the world she will continue to explore. This week, I weep that giving her the world means she will inevitably be hit over the head with pain and grief and tragedy and unspeakable evil. 

Forty-nine mommas lost their babies this week. I wish more than anything that there’s a way I could ease their suffering, ascribe meaning to their loss, or offer small graces like a hug or a meal. But I can’t. There's nothing that can undo or reverse this horror.

What I can do is keep answering “How will we raise a child in this world?” with a resounding commitment to empathy. I cannot bring back lost lives, but I can fight for character in the lives of the two small people in my home. They are my sphere of influence for this season, and I can affect the trajectory of our world by the way I teach them about loving others. It is no easy or small thing to really understand and internalize the experiences of another human being, to see them with your whole attention and value them despite glaring ideological differences. It is no easy thing to set aside agendas, to find the smallest square of common ground and to contruct a relationship built first on love. It is no small thing to intentionally change words, phrases, behaviors and habits for the sake of honoring someone else’s experience. 

None of this comes naturally to me, so thankfully I have access to the greatest example of empathy in the Incarnation. Christ (quite literally) took on the form of those he meant to serve and love, experiencing the spectrum of our temptations, our hardships, our pain and our joy. Setting aside his glory, Jesus humbly walked among us, getting his hands dirty on the front lines of love. With no concern for social norms and no tolerance for religious spectacles, Jesus locked eyes with the misunderstood, the ostracized and the forgotten.

I am praying that my children are leaders in a generation marked by empathy. I cannot gift them a hate-free world, but I can foster the bravery and kindness that will change the tide. 

To the LGBT community - I weep as you weep. 

To the families and friends who lost someone they love - I weep as you weep.

And to the rest of us - let’s fight first in our own hearts and then in the world for the empathy that can prevent such senseless acts of violence.

Mourning in my Kitchen

Not long after receiving the call that my grandma was in the hospital, I found myself in the kitchen. An unfortunate by-product of having a family is feeding them. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Normally there is a fair amount of drudgery in the dinner experience for me; trying to cook amidst squeals and screams, force-feeding my small people, and then immediately cleaning up the inevitable messes. Not my favorite.

But something was different on that particular evening. 

It was almost an out-of-body experience, my senses both heightened and dulled by the news of potential loss. Peeling carrots, shredding cheese, whisking a roux - small moments of normalcy intoxicated with the immanent.

Since that call, I have found myself acutely aware that we live in the “now and not yet.” The kingdom of God was surely inaugurated in the first coming of Christ, but it has not yet found its fulfillment. Death has no ultimate power over those who know God, for we are promised resurrection bodies and eternity with Christ. But that happy truth is tethered to the inescapable presence of Death among us in this present age. 

To love someone on the brink of eternity is a strange and holy thing. It is a stark and obvious intersection of the temporal and eternal, which brings into focus all the other ways that heaven breaks into our everyday. It gives one fresh eyes to see the sacred in things that have become overly familiar. The last traces of baby smell that linger on Jericho’s skin, the perfect turn of Phoenix’s curls on a humid day, the crisp blue of Josh’s eyes … these things became miracles. 

I was in yoga class on a Monday when a YMCA employee came to tell me that Josh was in the lobby. As I quietly rolled my mat and slipped out of the room, I imagined all possible reasons for this interruption. Our minds are amazingly complex … I knew exactly what he’d come to tell me, but I deceived myself in entertaining other possibilities. 

After a lifetime of faithful service to Christ, my grandma took her last breaths that Sunday night, January 10th.

Mourning her loss means allowing Grief to be my ever-present passenger again for a season.  Having been introduced before, I thought I would know exactly how to navigate our relationship. But, as it turns out, grief is not that consistent. Mourning a particular person in a particular season brings a very particular pain. For me, this time, I started stuck in the mire of numbness and emotional volatility, which admittedly made me a miserable person to be around. 

And, for some reason, the loss seems to strike me afresh when I'm in my kitchen. Not every time I cook - only those times where I find a strange balance between focus and contemplation. Grating ginger, carefully avoiding my fingers while simultaneously basking in the sharp, herbal scent that my grandma loved so much. Watching swirls of sour cream slowly disappear as I mash potatoes, remembering all the Thanksgiving dinners where my grandma would stand at the stove whisking gravy. Sprinkling freshly cut tomatoes with herbs and garlic to roast for spaghetti, thinking about how she relished in beautiful produce (and anything else that grew from the Earth). 

The tediousness of cooking for my young family has been imbued with new meaning for me - largely because I know that my efforts in the kitchen would make my grandma so proud. The ways she loved were not grandiose or extravagant; she loved with meals, with presence, with a listening ear, with understanding, with greenery, with prayer. She wasn't changing the whole world, she just showed up every day to care well for her people. I'm learning the eternal significance of seemingly small acts of love, and Grief is a patient, long-suffering teacher. 

Born to Us the Hope of the World

Hope has been, and continues to be, the greatest challenge set before me by God in this season of my life.

Just last year, my greatest temptation was to despair. Everything about the adoption process had worn at my soul, and only tiny filaments of faith held me together. After our failed adoption match, it took every ounce of my energy to keep my head above water. I couldn't see a way out of my pain and into the promises of God.

God, with a protective and preemptive heart, prompted me to pen some words about hope just days before we lost the chance to parent that sweet baby girl.

Hope is expectation tethered safely to present contentment. It is not a flighty, breathless thing, but decidedly deep and intentional. Hope does not neglect the moment at hand; quite the opposite, really. Hope recognizes that the present moment provides a firm foundation for the envisioned future. To hope means to work diligently, whole-heartedly, for a beautiful dream. Unconcerned with whether or not it's in her power to build that dream, the one who pursues hope leaps with great faith, knowing (even in a free-fall) that God is greatly kind.

I have returned to those words again and again and again when God asks for fresh hope in some arena of my life. 

Today, again, I return. 

Despair, like a predator, stalks me when wounded. In this season, loneliness is the most raw ache of my heart. And where I would be tempted to dwell on what everyone else is doing without me, God is asking me again to dwell on the promised Coming. Asking me to take those pangs of hurt for relationship and turn to Emmanuel for connection and love. Asking me to believe promises of friendship and community.

Last-year-me would be astounded at the fulfilled promises that adorn my life. Most specifically, my Jericho baby and our financial freedom. I could not have imagined how God would move me from longing and bondage -- but that mystery, the unconnected dots are the playground of Hope. 

Some of the artists at our church put out a CD for Christmas (listen HERE) that has been my soundtrack for the last couple weeks. Most specifically, I've had "Born to Us" on repeat - it's a beautiful declaration of the hope that saturates this season.

So where your world feels engulfed in darkness, there is a glimmer of light on the horizon. Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Born to us is the hope of the world. 

Doug's Home

We are in Atlanta for a few days, and June Irvine so lovingly and graciously opened her home to us. When we were planning this trip, her home seemed the obvious choice - she has the space and we wanted to spend time with her.

As we walked into the house last night, both Josh and I quickly faced an emotional intensity that we weren't expecting.

Just a few short months ago, my hands rested on their siding as fifty of us gathered to pray for Doug's healing, eyes full of tears and atmosphere full of Presence. As I walked out to our car yesterday, I had a vivid flashback of June coming out her back door to update that group of intercessors, leading us all through our suffering while bearing her own.
I honestly spent very little time in this home while Doug was alive, yet every room beckons the memory of him.
The room where we would find our kids playing when we came to pick them up after a long adoption meeting.
The world's most complicated and (apparently) awesome TV - Doug's biggest contribution to the landscape of the house.
The table where we gathered after the funeral, eating sandwiches and tearing up with every story.

And the chair.

June has oh-so-beautifully redone much of their home, with peaceful earthy tones and thoughtful accents. So, in keeping with her new decor, much of the furniture is new.

But the office (where our kids are sleeping) has a chair that is not new ... it is one of the chairs where Doug spent most of his last days, where his body held off the cancer for as long as it could.

I don't want to sit in that chair. I know this is so irrational, but it feels like there must be something left of him, some Dougness that shouldn't be wasted on me. Again, this is going to make me sound crazy, but I want to just plop Jericho right in the middle of that chair and leave him. Doug never got to hold Jericho; it saddens me that Doug's intangibles, his goodness and graciousness and ferocity, were never made tangible through an embrace. I, quite literally, want Doug to rub off on my boy.

That evening when we gathered around to pray, I prayed all the things you are supposed to pray.
The theologically correct things, like "If it is your will, Lord, heal Doug for your glory." But the weeping came when I prayed the real things, like "Spare him for June. Spare him for his girls. Spare him for his grandbabies. Spare him for Josh. Spare him for my babies."

But perhaps facing the emotional intensity of this home is exactly what we, and most specifically Josh, need. To look our loss in eyes, to decidedly grieve again, to attend to the scars.

I wish soul-healing was more like scrape-healing. If I trip and scrape my knee, I can put a bandaid on it and passively trust my body to do the rest. Pray for me, Josh and all those still reeling from Doug's passing, that we would tirelessly and intentionally do the difficult work of healing.

Gratitude and Grief

In His kindness, God loved my husband by bringing Doug into his life and letting their paths intertwine for such a significant stretch of time. Our grief is both heightened and tempered by a deep thankfulness for having known this man.

Doug was family. It was no small thing for Josh to follow God’s call in moving to Georgia; he is a homebody, a small-town boy, a change-hater. He would never have stayed had he not found a place of belonging with Doug. When he had no one else, Doug embraced this fledgling leader and seamlessly made him family. He was a part of their home.  As Josh built his own family, we were welcomed just as lovingly. Papa Doug and Grandma June were a third set of grandparents to my babies.

Doug was a mentor. Being coworkers provided consistent opportunities for Doug to teach Josh about life, love and leadership; he very organically molded the people around him by simply sharing life with them. He was fiercely supportive of Josh, and was always going to bat for him. Even in his last days, he never stopped fighting for God’s best in Josh’s life.

Doug was a friend, in the deepest, most profound sense of the word. He was Josh’s confidant, encourager, sounding board, partner-in-crime … and Josh was the same to him. Doug was Josh’s “work wife.” It was a treasure to know that when he left our home in the morning, he was headed to an environment where someone deeply knew and loved him.

So much of the beauty of their relationship came from truly knowing one another … they frustrated one another, disagreed with one another, dismissed each other and hurt each other. Doug’s legacy in my husband’s heart is so deep and lasting because, despite all the pains that come from real relationships, Josh had an unwavering love and respect for Doug. He knew the best and worst of Doug, and still deeply desired to be a man like him. To be truly known and still honored … few men earn such a sentiment.

For whatever reason, I feel the loss most acutely for my children. They should have grown up knowing him. My babies have the most amazing daddy, and it is largely because of Doug’s influence in his life. I dreamed of them being tiny witnesses to the power of sustained, loving investment in unlikely people. Doug, having been the recipient of God’s great grace in his own life, had learned to bestow the same belief in other people.

He has been ushered in. Oh to see that reunion. Not a meeting, for Doug was deeply familiar with God. To see Doug reunited with the one who changed, empowered, motivated, saved and truly loved Him – we take great joy in imagining such an embrace.

3 Gifts - Part 3

Just hours before we got the call that H had gone into labor, Josh’s parents gave us some sweet little gifts for baby girl. Though we had no shortage of pink blankets and onesies from when Phoenix was little, they had thoughtfully picked out some new things for #2. I had eagerly unwrapped the little clothes to make sure they were washed and ready, but everything else was forgotten in the rush to leave for the hospital. When we came home with empty arms, those gifts didn’t really seem to have a place anymore.

Freed up by Josh’s parents to do whatever I wanted/needed, I decided to return them. So I found myself at Walmart with a gift card to spend … since the money was intended for grandchild gifts, it only made sense to use it on things we needed for Phoenix. After a few minutes, we had some socks, bibs and fairy wings in our cart and nothing left on the list. So we headed for the toy aisles.

I will just go ahead and own the fact that I am “that” parent … the one who is picky about what toys end up in our home.  I normally gravitate towards well-made toys that facilitate creativity, learning and motor skills. Plastics, characters and batteries aren’t part of my MO. And, while Phoenix really does enjoy the choices we make, she usually isn’t all that involved in picking out her playthings (yet).

While we perused the toy aisles, she made some comments here and there, but didn’t seem particularly drawn to anything. Until she saw that box of crappy, anatomically distorted ponies.

“You wanna hold the ponies!” she exclaimed (we are still working on pronouns).

I handed her the box, and she immediately began stroking their pink hair.

“She’s so beautiful!”

I wish that my video camera had been rolling in that moment. It was the sweetest display, and I’ve played it over in my mind many times to make sure I don’t forget it. This was exactly the kind of toy that I DON’T normally buy, but it gave me so much joy to get those ponies for her. It was a privilege to say yes to her. I might have even been more excited about this gift than she was.

And God instantly reminded me that it is also His joy to give gifts to his children.

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him?” – Matthew 7:9-10

I’ve had a hard time embracing that truth over the last year. I understand it cognitively, but it has been hard for my heart to get on board. I still don’t have the baby-gift I have begged to receive.

God, despite withholding our second child, has been relentless in working Matthew 7:9-10 into my soul theology. It started with the ponies, then a getaway with Josh, then a perfectly-timed free coffee, and on and on. But, like the ungrateful child I am, I have often sulked about His gift choices. Every morning, I have to choose to believe that he will answer my pleas for a child. And, each day, it is harder.

I wish that I had some gift-wrapped conclusion for this post – but I don’t.

All I have is a petition for your prayers. I need y’all to pick up my paralyzed faith on mat and carry it to Jesus. I know that my smallness of perspective is directly related to my understanding of God’s love. So pray that I experience His love more deeply, believe Him more fundamentally, and that I wait more patiently.

3 Gifts - Part 2

I know, I know ... this has been a long time coming.

Honestly, I hadn't written this post because these thoughts have been slow to brew in my heart, and because I knew it would hurt to write them down.
But I've ignored it long enough.

My senior year in college, I took a class called "Contemporary Christian Ethics Theory - Agape, Gift and Obligation." Much of the semester was devoted to exploring "the gift," and whether it can exist outside of economic exchange. For much of the semester, we mused with Derrida (whose name must be said in a French accent while shaking one's fist) about whether one can actually give a gift without expecting anything in return (even a "thanks") or receiving anything in return (even the warm-fuzzy feelings of having contributed to someone). He believed it was impossible to remove gifts from the horizon of economy, thus negating the term "gift" altogether.

We didn't get to give Hannah that necklace, but we did give her a gift. We gave her the gift of choice.

I can't imagine her hardship in the hours following the baby's birth. She was weighing options that not only impacted her directly, but that would forever impact that tiny new soul. We waited for 36 painstaking hours after the baby's birth because she had so much to consider.
But what if we had not been there? She wouldn't have had any terrifying decisions, right? Just the impending reality of motherhood. She would have held that little burrito-wrapped baby with no options but to embark on single-parenthood.
Because we were there, she got to choose motherhood. She got to say "I want to do this," instead of "I have to do this."
And that is a remarkable gift that we gave to both her and the baby. Alexandria has a mom who, with other viable options, decided to parent.

And this gift that we gave? I know for a fact that it blows Derrida and his aporias out of the water.
We received nothing in return and never will.
It came at a devastating cost. I am still unearthing new pains and still find myself punched in the gut with sorrow.
The knowledge of this given-gift doesn't serve me in any way ... if only it brought comfort.
And, though it was compulsory, I would give it again in a heartbeart.

At the end of the class, we concluded something that is so simply true: God has given us the perfect gift of Jesus. And this love-motivated, love-fulfilled gift came at great cost with no strings attached.

We gift-loved H because God first gift-loved us.

3 Gifts - Part 1

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.

Leaning In

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. 

 

My Grief Observed

[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." 

The Last 48 Hours ...

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.