Saying Yes to the Scary and the Unknown in International Adoption

*** TRIGGER WARNING****

This is a transparent and possibly uncomfortable post to read.  My views have been formed based on my personal experience and also from families who have shared intimate details of their journey with me.  In addition, my faith is the biggest guiding factor in how I shape my views and make decisions.  After completing four international, "special needs" adoptions, this is where I have landed in regards to accepting a referral.

I arrived at each of my daughters' referrals differently:  1) through a waiting child list  2) a call from my caseworker asking if I was ready to return to the India program  3) waiting the traditional way for THE CALL and 4) by default after losing a child I had prayed for and pursued for close to a year.  Furthermore, each of my daughters arrived at their respective orphanages in different ways and at different ages.  They each have a unique story.   Finally, they came home at various ages:  Almost 7 years old,  3.5 years old,  19 months,  and 4 years old.

If you read my book, then you know when I started on this adoption journey, all I could envision for myself was a healthy baby.  I was naive and selfish.  God used the closure of Nepal to begin the process of gently stripping away my desires and replacing them with his.  A paradigm shift happened and I clearly became aware that international adoption is not about my wants and desires; it's about providing a family and a home for a child that has none.  It seems obvious, but when you are in pursuit of motherhood or building your family or "answering the call" or whatever other reason that led you to adopt, it's easy for your vision to become cloudy and self-centered.

With each successive adoption, my idea of "special needs" has evolved.  What I once thought scary, terrifying, overwhelming, or a definite NO, has been replaced with a deeper understanding of God's grace and provision.

What I said YES to when I signed their referral papers:

Trauma
RAD
Facial anomalies
Severe scarring
Older child
Failure to Thrive
Strong susceptibility for severe behavioral issues
Unilateral leg paralysis
Sickle Cell Anemia
Meningitis

The reality of my YES once they were home and received medical care:

Trauma
Facial anomalies
Severe scarring
Older child
Failure to Thrive
Unilateral leg paralysis - HEALED
Sickle Cell Anemia - Turned out to be trait
Meningitis 
Alpha Thalassemia
Brain damage
Unilateral hearing loss - severe
Active lymph node TB
Active ocular TB
Latent TB
Microcephaly
Cerebral Palsy
Speech Delay
Schistosomiasis
Septopreoptic holoprosencephaly
Toxocara
Giardia
Hepatitis A
Cafe au lait spots
Strabismus
Metabolic disorder
Short stature
Precocious Puberty
Possible Peeling Skin Syndrome 
Disinhibited Social Engagement Disorder
Anxiety
Global delay

I may have forgotten a few things because it seems that something new is always being discovered :)   

We've seen ENT, Audiology, PT, OT, SLP, Hematology, Genetics, Endocrinology, Infectious Disease, Neurology, Ophthalmology, DDBP, Urology, Pediatric Gynecology, Developmental Pediatrics, Orthopedics, and a new referral for Pediatric Rehab.  I'm sure I missed a few here as well because... it's a lot of specialists to remember.

I am a single woman.  I started my journey knowing that I would be a single parent.  I don't have someone I can come home to and tap out.  I'm the sole-provider, the sole-decision maker, the sole-comforter, the sole-protector, the sole-weight carrier, the sole-everything.  In addition to all of that,  I also homeschool all of my girls.

I don't say all of these things for any type of recognition, or unsung hero crap.  Because nothing could be further from the truth.  I am a sinner and a broken person.  I am woefully inept.  I question my sanity and decisions daily.  I'm overwhelmed 95% of the time.  I cry in random places.  I cry when someone is nice to me.  I'm an expert worrier.  I worry about our finances.  I wonder if we will ever get out of this season of hard.  Will God keep me in the valley of absolute surrender and trust?  I worry about the health of my girls - there are some scary issues and all of it feels enormous.  I wonder if I'm meeting their needs.  Am I listening enough?  Am I playing enough?  Am I present enough?  Why did I flip out over the hangers on their floor?  Why do dirty dishes in the sink drive me to the brink of rage?  Because I am weak and I can't do it on my own.  No one can.  I need Jesus every single day of my life.  Without him, I can't even begin to imagine how terrible our life would be.

In John 16:33 he says:

"I have told you all this so that you will have peace of heart and mind.  Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows; but cheer up, for I have overcome the world."

He straight up tells me that life will be hard.  I will have sorrow.  I will have many trials and tribulations.  However, he also tells me to have joy because of what he has done on the cross - he has overcome the world.  He has overcome my problems, my sorrow, my troubles.

He clearly tells me in Matthew 16:24-25:

Then Jesus said to his disciples, "If anyone wants to become my follower, he must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.  For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."

This life is not mine.  I was bought with a price - his life.  My purpose here is to be a vessel of God's love, through the unique gifts and talents he has bestowed upon me.  The only way I can do that is through his strength and community.  God's purposes are always eternal and he accomplishes them through relationships because he is a relational God.

The cross was a horrific death, and yet, he tells me to pick up my cross daily.  To surrender my will, my desires, my "self."  And when I do all of those things, I will find true life - life everlasting.  

So when I think about each of my girls and the needs they came home with, both known and unknown, I'm convinced that God used my YES to shift eternity for each of them.

Waiting potential adoptive parents say to me all the time that they want a child with minor needs.  I get it because I was once that person.  However, I want to shake them and tell them that just navigating trauma alone is a severe need.  Every single child who is adopted suffers a primal wound - the loss of birth family, and in the case of international adoption, language and culture too.  A significant part of their identity is missing and for the rest of their life, it will be a permanent question mark.   Everyone wants a quick process and minor needs, but that's not the majority of international adoption processes.

I am in a unique situation and my family is atypical - we are a transracial family, led by a single woman, with four internationally adopted girls.  We are the underdog.  By faith, I stepped into the abyss of the frightening unknown.  I came home with way more than I bargained for; yet, God has never left us.  He continues to provide every single thing we need - from shelter, food, and transportation to medical specialists of every kind.  He provides medicines, therapies, and procedures.  He provides a community of other adoptive parents that just get it.  I don't have to explain anything, they just know and in that knowing, provide comfort and encouragement.

Adoption is not easy.   The genesis is profound loss and therefore, should not be easy.  I learned through saying yes to things that terrified me that God would never forsake me and even more, he would never forsake my daughters.  He is passionate about caring for the orphans and the widows.  I've seen more miracles being on this adoption journey than I would bet most people ever see in their lifetime.  When you say YES to adoption, God is committed to seeing you through it.  I'm not saying he is committed to making it easy, because that would be a bald-faced lie; however, He will never leave.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, will separate me from his love.  No diagnosis, no sadness, no anger, no despair, no moments of distrust, no loneliness nor depression - nothing.  I know this because his word is true.  He promises in Romans 8:28 -

"That neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor ANYTHING ELSE in ALL CREATION, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus." 

Last year, I went through hell and back after losing Sparrow.  It was the darkest, saddest, most faith-shaking season I've ever experienced but through it all, he never left me.  He walked with me through my grief, my anger, my sorrow, my questioning, my depression, my unbelief, and most of all, my fear of ever trusting him again.  He was big enough for all of it.  He peeled back layers and exposed deep wounds still in need of healing.  He gently lanced the cysts filled with the puss of sin and unforgiveness.  He cleansed my spirit and bound up my wounds.  I learned an invaluable truth from that situation:  his grace and love are bigger than I can imagine.  They are all encompassing and readily available to me as I stumble through this life.  Because of this knowledge, I know that whatever unknown comes our way, he will provide everything we need and will walk with us every step of the way - the hard, the scary, the sad.

I can't fathom not having each of my girls home with me.  I can't even comprehend my life without them.  Were their needs beyond anything for which I was prepared?  Absolutely.  Have I been scared out of my mind since getting home?  Without a doubt.  But I would never, ever in a million years trade any of it.  I love my girls with everything that I am.  I'm not a perfect mom, but each and every day I strive to love them with the love of Christ.  We soldier on knowing that he will meet us exactly where we are.  He will never leave us.  And that is what makes saying YES worth everything.

Where I've Been

I looked out the window at the Cincinnati skyline and smiled at the beauty of it.  Dazed from thirty hours of travel with four kids, I felt a sudden surge of adrenaline pulse through my body:  we were moments from our final destination.  I heard the landing gear engage and my excitement intensified.  My adoption journey that started almost a decade ago quickly approached its finish line.  It was surreal.  I fought back tears as the flight attendant welcomed us home; I almost stood up and clapped as the captain expertly landed the plane.  A wave of joy and relief washed over me.  We were home.  We were complete.  We turned the last page of the adoption book of our family, closed it, clutched it to our chest, and in a final family hug, thanked God for all He had done to weave our lives together as one.

We stepped off of the plane, excited to open a new book, ready for the next adventure.  We had been living "On Hold" ever since Munni came home - it had taken a toll on everyone and all of us were excited for a new beginning.  

Two weeks after arriving home, I reached to put my laptop on the coffee table so I could get up to go to the bathroom.  I felt something in my back, not a pop, but something wasn't right and it hurt.  I told Roopa I thought I pulled a muscle.  It hurt all night.  The next day, it still hurt.  Wow.  I knew age affected things, but this was crazy.  I couldn't believe how bad my back was hurting.  And not only my back, but my hip, and a sharp pain that ran down the outside of my right thigh.  Then, a day or so later, as I was getting dressed, my hand rubbed against my right thigh as I pulled on my shorts.  Ew.  My leg felt like a stranger's leg.  My thigh was completely numb.  The pain continued to worsen.

I ended up completely out of commission, as in flat on my back for almost a week.  I couldn't sleep.  I couldn't drive for a month.  The pain of sitting and extending my foot on the gas pedal about put me through the roof.  This also coincided with the 8,325 hospital appointments we had for both Sonali and Mohini.  My mom had to drive us everywhere.  In addition, I couldn't lift, hold, or even have my girls sit on my lap because even the weight of them being on my lap, sent shooting pain in my back and deep into my hip.  

I saw a chiropractor who performed decompression therapy on me.  It provided minimal pain relief.  I went to urgent care because the pain was so bad.  The doctor said she would give me a steroid shot and a steroid pack.  On the verge of tears, I told her I had 4 kids.  She said she would give me 2 shots.      Finally, I was able to get in to a spine specialist.   First, I had to have X-Rays.  Then, there was a debacle with the pre-authorization for the MRI, so I lost three weeks of waiting.  At last, it got sorted out and I got my MRI last week.  The results came back and I have an annular fissure in my lumbar disc.  So that's fun.  I find out tomorrow what the plan of action will be.

While all of this was going on, more and more medical issues kept appearing with Sonali and reappearing with Mohini.  My vision and expectation of how I thought our life was going to look when we stepped off the plane was nothing like what we were living.  I cried every single day.  The worst part has been not being able to hold my kids, especially Sonali.  Imagine just having a baby and then not being able to hold your baby for almost 2 months.  Attachment and bonding are critical in adoption and physical touch is such a huge component to that equation.  On top of that, Roopa asks me daily when I'll be able to hold her again.  I struggle with this because she is growing so fast and I wonder if I'll ever be able to hold her again and that breaks my heart.

And then there's Mohini.  I had a total breakdown in the neurologist office.  I think it all just came tumbling out because the doctor was nice and I'd been in denial/avoidance for so long but now that Sonali is home and it's staring me smack in the face, it gutted me, right in the doctor's office.  It wasn't pretty, but thankfully, the neurologist was compassionate and the team at Cincinnati Children's is amazing.  I know we will get the resources Mohini needs - it's just overwhelming looking at the big picture.  We are looking at years of therapy.  And it frustrates me because I HATE trauma and all that trauma does and how it wraps its disgusting tentacles deep within their brains and hearts and affects their lives for years and years and years and I want to punch trauma in its face because I feel helpless and pissed and tired and frustrated and scared and sad because I love Mohini with all of my heart and I want her to be all that she can be.  Her medical issues alone are significant, but the consequences that trauma adds to her issues just makes everything a million times harder.

Almost everyone has heard of RAD -Reactive Attachment Disorder, when a child doesn't establish healthy attachment with parents or caregivers.  Another lesser known attachment disorder is the one we are fighting: Disinhibited Social Engagement Disorder.  We became hermits because of this.  It's exhausting explaining why I parent the way I do and why it's not "just normal toddler behavior" when Mohini does the things she does.  People wouldn't respect the boundaries I asked, so we stayed home or stopped visiting.  I had to put her in the carrier to help eliminate some of her behavior, but then she got too heavy for that and I got too frustrated.  I grew resentful.  Our life changed dramatically and where we once were able to come and go freely and enjoy parks, the zoo, museums, basically anywhere outside of our house, suddenly became major anxiety points for me.  She has no stranger danger.  She would literally go home with the mailman.  She thinks every adult is a safe adult.  She doesn't cry when I leave.  She wanders away with no fear at all and never, ever panics.  If I let go of Mohini's hand for one second, she would be hugging a stranger's leg, or grabbing another's woman's hand, or hugging a random man - lightning fast.  She's freaking adorable so everyone thought is was soooo cute and smiled and laughed, which only encouraged her behavior.  The whole time I have to say it's completely unhealthy, run through my script, please don't touch my child, she doesn't know what a mom is, blah blah blah, the faces drop, the looks turn and I can see their thoughts running across their face... I'm the crazy one.  But they don't know.  They don't see it every. single. day. and every. single. place. that we go.  So, we stayed home for basically an entire year.  I tried everything the therapist told me to do.  I prepped her before we left the car:  "Mohini, we don't talk to people who aren't our family.  We don't touch people who aren't our family, Ok?"
She'd smile and say, "Okay."
And then, we'd go into whatever establishment and it was as if the conversation never took place in the car.  I'd remind her, "Remember?  We don't talk to people.  We only talk to Munni, Roopa, and Mommy."
Big smile - "Sorry, Mommy."
Walk three steps and she's talking to random man, reaching out trying to touch his arm.  She's adorable and so he responds to adorable baby reaching out to him and touches her back.  The cycle continues.   These are just small examples.  You can google the effects of DSED as children get older, it's not good.  That's why I'm busting my tail trying to lay the foundation for her to have healthy attachments now.

Sonali has been home two months.   Seeing her attachment compared to Mohini after being home a year and half is startling; hence the breakdown in the neurologist office.  Thankfully, we managed to get in for an assessment with the Division of Developmental and Behavioral Pediatrics (DDBP) at the autism center in a few weeks.  Normally, it's a 6 month wait.  They don't think that she has autism, but because of her brain injury, and being an institutionalized child, a lot of her individual behaviors are somewhat autistic in nature.  The neurologist thought it would be a good "home" for us because of the amount of resources available.  We were also assigned a Developmental Pediatrician.  In addition, she starts speech therapy next week.

My back injury occurred on September 6th.  When I stepped off the plane at the end of August, I truly thought we were home free.  I was giddy with joy.  We had been dreaming of all the fun things we wanted to pursue this year.   Funny how things change.  Instead, I found myself in convalescence.  Basically, a decade of stress and anxiety came crashing down and literally took me out.  There were many days were I wondered if I was ever not going to be in pain and it scared me.  I have a new compassion for those who live with chronic pain.  It messed with my mental state big time.  I read my bible and found solace in the story of Elijah.

He had just come off of two major spiritual victories - and then ran 6 miles back to town to make sure the correct story was told.  But when he got there, his public enemy number #1 aka Jezebel, had a little warm welcome note waiting for him.  It went something like this:

I'm gonna kill you.  

That was enough for Elijah, who dipped and bounced to the desert.  He ran for his life, terrified.  Exhausted, he sat under a Juniper tree and told God to just let him die, there was nothing left for him to do and that he was no better than his ancestors.  Then he fell asleep.

I thought about my adoption journeys.  When I was in process, there is an adrenaline and energy to get you to the finish line.  God performs so many miracles, a community rises up beside you, it's like a tidal wave that pushes you forward.  And there's a beautiful face in front of you - keeping you focused, prayerful every day, fighting the battle.  The climax comes when you finally arrive in country and wrap your arms around the child for whom you've prayed, cried, dreamed, loved for months and months.  The title orphan is exchanged for daughter and that child is grafted into your family forever.  It is the sweetest victory.  But then you get home and real life sets in and all the demands and medical needs and stresses and attachment issues and sibling issues and behavioral problems and resentment and doubt and fear and sadness and questioning and I'm sitting under that Juniper tree feeling afraid when I think about all that we are facing.

An angel comes and wakes Elijah and tells him to eat.  He looks and sees bread and water so he eats and falls back asleep.  A little while later, the angel touches him again to wake him and tells him to eat or else the journey ahead will be too much for him.

I was reading a devotional about thankfulness.  It talked about learning to take every single circumstance and thank God for something about it - to look for the good that He can bring from it.  It's been challenging, but I have to say shifting my perspective to that has been a great lesson for me.  I thanked God for my back injury because it forced me to rest.  It forced me to slow down.  It forced me to be present with my girls in ways I normally wouldn't have been.  It forced me to humble myself and ask for help.  It provided opportunity to spend more time with my mom.  I made three new friends who have ministered to me and my family in the sweetest ways.  I think about my journey ahead, and I see how He has provided sustenance for me while I rest and prepare.  Part of that meant pulling back and circling tighter.  He sifted some relationships and brought me new ones.  We are idling in first gear, waiting for the moment we have the healing to pick up speed and shift gears.  Until then, we are going to continue to slowly inch forward.

Finding You: A Memoir

I wrote a book.

It took me two and a half years.  Writing a memoir is not easy because revisiting those raw, emotional places takes a toll.  

However,  I hope our story will encourage others and most of all,  I pray that everyone who reads my book will see the tender heart of God.

You can order a copy here.

Not the Highlight Reel

My perspective on adoption has evolved since I started my journey.  In the beginning, I was super self-focused.  I was excited to become a mom!  I couldn't wait to adopt a healthy infant, because... it was all about Me and My wants.  What I could handle.  What I wanted.  My dreams.  My longings.  I didn't want messy.  I didn't want special needs.  I wanted picture perfect.  I wanted those beautiful moments.  The Hallmark card.  The perfect story.  My daughter would be named Sofia because that was My girl name.  The name I wanted for My daughter forever.  Me.  Me.  Me.

I spent hours upon hours watching Gotcha Day videos.  I imagined the day some orphanage worker would place a beautiful baby in my arms, the camera would zoom in on my face, tears streaming down my cheeks, everyone filled with joy!  The moment captured forever when we became family and everyone lived happily ever after.  Can you see it?

And then God said, "we'll see about that my child, because I have a different plan."  He let my heart marinate in loss.  While the juices of sorrow soaked in, a funny thing happened.  My heart became tender to the things for which God's heart is tender.  And when it had been saturated enough, He brought the sweetest six-year-old into my life.  I'm so incredibly thankful God didn't give me my way.  

As I've continued on this path, other scales have fallen from my eyes.  Their extraction has been in large part, due to my children.  I look back at videos of my first two adoptions and cringe at things I did.  I was naive.  Even though I had read and researched VOLUMES on trauma and attachment disorders and been through hours of training, I can clearly see my mistakes.  Behaviors I mistook for attachment were clearly survival skills.  Two steps forward, three steps backwards.  We trudge along.

Right around Roopa's family day celebration, snuggled up in bed one night, we were talking about our trip to India.  We talked about the day we met Roopa and our time in India.  It was extremely traumatic for her.  Nervously laughing, Roopa said, "I thought you kidnapped me."  Her remark caught me off guard.  I looked at her and with fear in her eyes but mustering all the courage she had, she timidly asked, 

"Did you kidnap me, Mom?"

My heart shattered into a million little pieces.  Sorrow filled my being as I thought about the weight of that ugly lie she had been carrying in her heart for three years.  How many times had she looked at me and wondered?  How many times had she shoved that deep down within her?  How many times had she denied herself the answer to that question?  How many times did she wrestle with loving me and reconciling her emotions over the fear of the answer to that question?

I told her immediately I understood how it seemed completely logical that I kidnapped her.  Here I was, a total and complete stranger.  I looked nothing like any other woman she had ever seen.  I had blue eyes.  Blonde hair.  Funny looking skin.  I smelled different.  I didn't speak her language.  And I took her from the woman who, for all intents and purposes, was her "mom."  Even though she was a woman who worked at the orphanage, she had taken care of Roopa since the very first day she arrived at the orphanage.   So, in Roopa's mind, I kidnapped her from her mom.  I'm quite certain that many children who are adopted, have very similar emotions.

Thankfully, Roopa witnessed me go through two adoption processes.  I talked to her about all of the paper stacks for Mohini and Dove.  We talked about driving to the state capital for the apostille process.  We talked about how I had to get blood drawn.  We talked about the social worker coming to our house.  We talked trips to the bank, to the post office, to staples to make a zillion copies.  We talked about the fire marshall coming to our house to do the fire inspection.  We talked about all of the hoops I had to jump through to get to the point we are at now in Dove's process.  I told her, I had to do all of that for her!  I did not kidnap her.  I adopted her and it took a very long time.  I'm glad she asked me that question and she let me tell her exactly how she became my daughter.

These are the conversations you don't see in the youtube adoption fairytales.  

In January, I received two short videos of Dove.  I showed them to my neighbor.  The first thing she said was, "She's an old soul."

She's right.  She is.  You can see it in her eyes.  There is a loss.  A deeper understanding.  The other day, I received two more videos of sweet Dove.  We were able to send her a little book of us.  She saw our faces and our names.  As she is looking through this little book, she gets overwhelmed and looks off to the side.  And there it is.  That look.  So much loss.  Her little best friend was with her.  He is being adopted by an European family.  I don't know if he will be gone before we get her or not.  He was also in the videos I received in January.  This is a special relationship for her.  Another major loss.  So much change.  Her entire life is being decided for her.  Everything is changing and she has no say whatsoever.  Can you imagine?  How stressful that would be?  Obviously, a family is ultimately better than living in an orphanage.  But, these precious children already come with such loss and endure so much brokenness.  When I watched those videos I thought, this is a truer reflection of what our kids suffer and a more realistic portrayal of adoption.  

When it's time for us to finally go get our Sweet Dove, we are anticipating some intense grieving.  I'm mentally preparing myself for our trip to be similar to how Roopa grieved.  Roo told me that she's going to sing lullabies to her.  She has a compassionate heart and an understanding I can never know.  I think about my little family and our mosaic and how God has knit us together so perfectly in our brokenness and imperfections.  We pray for Dove every night.  We pray for her tender heart.  We pray that she will let us love her through her transition.  We pray that peace will override fear.  We've been praying this verse for our family and continue to pray it for Dove as her life nears a new dawn.  

"For I am about to do something new.

See, I have already begun!  Do you not see it?

I will make a pathway through the wilderness.

I will create rivers in the dry wasteland."

Isaiah 43:19

Mosaic

Today is Sparrow's birthday.

Moving through this grieving process has not been easy.  It's a strange phenomenon how God can knit a child into your heart, and then take that child away.

But the love remains.

This past year has been hard.  Really hard.  I wish I could say that I've handled this whole situation with the upmost grace and wisdom and all things holy.  I haven't.  I've had bouts of anger.  I've had wicked thoughts.  I've had heartbroken thoughts.  I've had thoughts of despair.  I've had thoughts of apathy.  It's been a struggle.

I'm an avid reader.  One particular book I read since losing Sparrow ministered to my soul.  A section I highlighted, ended up getting copied onto an index card and carried around with me on a daily basis.  Shoved into my jeans pocket.  Tucked into my jacket.  A gentle reminder of my journey here.

"Jesus is not primarily a teacher of information or morals.  His teachings go much deeper than that.  He is a teacher of a way or a path that leads to change and transformation and a new heart brought about by a surrendered life deeply centered in God."  

And I will go further to say that for me, the surrendered life is reached through suffering.  As painful as is it, I've learned to recognize the sweet in it, as there is no other conduit that draws me closer to Jesus in such an intimate way.

Every winter, my parents go down to Florida.  Last week, I drove the long drive down there so we could have a much needed respite.  I desperately needed a reset.  Admittedly, I did a horrible job of self-care last year and was not in a good place.  I needed serious down time.  On top of that, it seemed like day after day was never ending gray and rain and mud and cold and snow and just made me want to sit on my couch and do nothing.  

Waking up to sunshine and warmth was an immediate relief.  I know that sounds dumb, but that's how out of whack I was.  We spent all Sunday by the pool and on the beach.  I felt the sand in between my toes and let it fall through my fingers.  I loved looking at all of the shells and walking on the beach with the girls.  Slowly, I could feel some of the stress and anxiety dissipating.

Monday morning, my dad followed me to the Honda dealership.  My minivan had been making a horrible noise and I was so incapacitated, that I didn't deal with it and just drove to Florida.  I know.  Stellar move.  My dad heard the noise Sunday morning when we arrived and insisted we take it in first thing the next day.

Anyway, Josh in the service department wasn't feelin' our non-appointment, early morning drop-in.  He wasn't fond of my sound descriptions either.  I was a hot mess.  I basically rolled out of bed, threw on a hoodie over my tank, flip flops, and a messy bun, standing there with my dad.  Josh had an attitude and was clearly annoyed.  I wanted to cry.  I told him when I purchased the van, I also ended up getting some kind of expensive warranty that ended up covering a new engine 6 months after I bought the van.  I said some other stupid stuff that I don't remember because I talk too much when I'm nervous.  I get nervous when people are annoyed with me and Josh was just staring at me.  He got up to go get the VIN number and the mileage off the van; I told my dad I thought we should just leave it there.  I took my hoodie off because I was getting sweaty from being nervous and Josh was making his way back to the desk.  I tried make a joke and asked him if he thought I was going to have to Fred Flintstone it back to Ohio.  He looked at my sleeve, winked at me, and said, "I got you."

I blushed.  I felt like a high school girl.  Who knew my ink would turn my day around?  I turned to my dad and he told Josh to give us a call when they figured it out.  In the end, it needed two front axles replaced and some other stuff.  Josh took care of it and made me feel like a million bucks when I picked it up.  It's the little things like someone telling me, "I got you," or my dad basically holding my hand at the car shop because I was so worn down that I couldn't do that simple task myself.  I needed his support.

I let myself just be.  We didn't have an agenda.  We rested.  We played.  We swam.  We talked.  We were quiet.  I read.  It was a healing time for me.  

Roopa got baptized and we celebrated Munni's Forever family day.  I'm so very thankful that we spent that time with my parents.  My girls love them so much and each day with them is a gift.  

One day on the beach, my mom and I were talking about Sparrow and the whole situation.  She shared a story she heard.  She said a man had been pondering the Trinity of God and tried to understand it as he walked along the beach.  He came upon a little boy who was busy digging a hole in the sand.  The little boy had a bucket and was running to the ocean, filling the bucket with water, running back to the hole, and dumping the bucket into the hole.  

The man asked the little boy, "What are you doing?"

The little boy replied, "I'm putting the ocean in this hole."

The man gasped, "You'll never be able to do that!"

The little boy replied, "And you'll never be able to understand the Trinity."

It is such a great picture for me, because I will never understand God's ways.  I'm learning each day, some days better than others, to open my hands, let go, and trust.  For whatever reason, only he knows the purpose and specifically why I needed to go through it.  He knew the transformation that would take place within me.   It has taken me to a deeper place than I've ever been.

On the long 15 hour drive home, I had a lot of time to think and pray and listen to music.  I was struck by one of Alanis Morissette's songs and thought, how did I want to be?  Which refrain did I want my life to reflect?

Cause I've got one hand in my pocket 

and the other one is giving a high five

and the other one is flicking a cigarette

and the other one is giving a peace sign

and the other one is playing a piano

and the other one is hailing a taxi cab

I decided that I want my other one to play the piano.  In the pain of the journey, I want to make something beautiful ~ even if it's just plucking out a simple one-handed melody.

All week long we collected shells. Whole shells and broken shells.  I thought about those shells throughout the week.  I pondered how Jesus uses our broken state to make something beautiful.  I look at my family and how each of us have our own broken shards, different colors, different shapes, and he has masterfully created the most breathtaking family mosaic from all of our individual pieces that none of us ever would have imagined.  I love my girls with everything that I am; but I wouldn't be their mom if not for my broken pieces.

Our Little Dove

2017 ended in the worst way imaginable when we lost Sparrow.

We had been praying for her for almost a year.  So many prayers.  And then, in an instant, she was gone.  Our dream of her joining our family shattered into a thousand little pieces; I stood in the middle of the shards trying to make sense of it all.  Only, none of it made sense.  I've come to the point of acceptance that I will never understand why it happened the way it did.  I also know that she will always be my little Sparrow.  In my heart, she will forever be my daughter.

I don't think I realized that amount of underlying stress and anxiety I had experienced while praying and waiting for her.  It was like a constant pressure on an open wound.

A week after the match devastation, the waiting child advocate sent me a file of a child.  In her email, she said the only reason she sent me the file was because of a conversation that she and I had a month prior, when I was still in the home study phase.  When you adopt, part of the process requires you to go through a checklist of special needs for which you are comfortable accepting.  It's an extremely bizarre experience and nothing about it feels good.  She and I were talking about that checklist and I casually told her how Kristen during adoption #1 vs Kristen during adoption #4 are two totally different people.  I've learned a thing or two along the way, and special needs that would have scared the bejeezus out me then, don't even cause me to bat an eye now.  Almost all of the medical challenges I've dealt with my girls were all things that were never disclosed in their files. 

 SURPRISE!  

You take in the information, process it, adjust, and move forward.  Because at the heart of it, is a child.  A child who needs a family to call their own.  A child who had no control over the special need assigned to them for the rest of their lives.  

She told me this child had been waiting for a very long time, almost two years.  She told me that this special need is one that adoptive parents are not pursuing.  She told me that there are many children with this need who continue to wait and wait and wait.

She told me that she thought about our conversation and wondered if I was interested.

I emailed her back and told her I wasn't interested.  I told her I didn't know if I would ever get to a point of considering another child.  I told her my heart was broken.

She responded.  She told me she was matched with a child for 18 months and then it all fell apart and she lost the child.  Eighteen months.  But then, she found her daughter.  She told me that people tried to tell her that she lost her first child so she would find her daughter.  She told me that she hated hearing things like that and knew I didn't want to hear it either.  She told me that she still thinks about the first child, but it is no longer with sadness.  I told her that I couldn't imagine.

The weeks passed, Christmas came and went, and with it, so did my hope of Sparrow ever coming back to us.  I stood at the edge of the new year and surrendered all of my dreams, hopes, desires, and plans for my family.  As I threw them over the cliffs, I told him not my will but his.  Blank canvas.  Have your way.  Do what you want with me.

He reminded me of Noah and the Ark.  This last year felt as if I built my own ark by stepping out in faith and pursuing Sparrow.  Then the rains came.  And it rained and it rained and it rained.  Tossed around by the storm of grief, I lost my orientation and became nauseous from processing her loss.  It felt as if the swells of raging emotions would never subside.

Then one morning after Christmas, I woke up and something was different.  The wave that used to knock me over the moment I opened my eyes, had become a gentle, rocking sway.  I opened the window of my ark and found the storm had ceased.  Still surrounded by water, I knew that underneath the sea, my landscape was forever changed.  

With each new day, the water began to subside.  Glimpses of sunshine through the love of my daughters felt warm on my face.  The lull from my sea of emotions became familiar and somewhat comforting; but ultimately, I wanted to step on dry land. 

I started to wonder how my new landscape would look.  I started and ended each day by staring at the horizon, hope slowly returning.  I waited for the day the little dove would return with an olive leaf in her mouth, signifying peace and new beginnings.

The waiting child advocate emailed me again.  She sent me the list of all the children for whom they advocated.  I wasn't sure if I wanted to open the attachment.  Something in my heart nudged me to do it.

I scrolled through the many faces.  Every one a jewel, just waiting for their family to find them to bring out their radiance that stays hidden behind empty eyes.

Pages and pages and pages.  

On the second to last page, I stopped.

There she was.

The little girl the advocate had emailed me weeks ago.

Still waiting.

I stared at her little face.  This sweet child who has no control over the future that's in front of her.  

Waiting.

I hit reply.

I asked to see her complete file but deep in my heart, I already knew what I was going to do.  

I knew that I was going to change her status from Waiting Child to Daughter.

My daughter.

Their Sister.

Family.

I am officially matched!

Her orphanage sent us a little video and we all gathered around to catch a glimpse of her sweet personality.

The girls are thrilled for their new sister and my heart is filling with love for her.

But I am changed.  

My landscape is nothing like what it was before.

 God brought me to a deeper place of acceptance and to a fuller understanding of what it truly means to adopt.   Knitting her into the fabric of our family is an honor and obedience of faith.

This precious child coming into our lives is 100% because of total surrender to God and letting him paint on the canvas of my life.

Our little dove fluttered into our lives at the end of a typhoon season and she has brought a sense of peace that I can't describe.  But one thing I can say is that through all of this, God never left me.  We've opened the door from our ark and let down the ramp.  As we step into our new beginnings onto dry land, we know that God is creating beauty from ashes.  We are walking into the new day rising and I know deep within me, 

all is well.

Surrendered Faith

My "word" for 2017 was metamorphosis.

I'd say this year hit that nail on the head.

I am not the same person I was on December 31, 2016.  However, my vision of what I thought the word metamorphosis would mean in my life versus God's version are polar opposite.

This past year, my faith has been stretched, bruised, snapped, and fractured.  The beautiful result of all the trials and heartache I've endured is a depth in my relationship with Christ that I've never before experienced.   I've grown in ways I didn't know were possible and quite honestly, ways that my human self never would have chosen.  

Losing Sparrow the very hour I was finally able to be matched with her has been brutal.  I covered her in prayer for almost a year.

And then, she was gone.  

It threw me into a tailspin of questioning; a vicious cycle of never-ending whys.  Why did God allow that?  Why did he bring her into my life?  Why did he knit her so deeply into my heart?  Why did he give me such a powerful dream about her?  Why did he provide signs and assurance along the way?  Why did he open the pathway to her just to slam the door at the last minute?  Why did he allow me to experience such excruciating heartbreak?  All of those and more led to further questioning:  

Do I even know God's voice?

I've been a believer and follower of Christ for many, many years and this question shook me to the core.  I thought I knew his voice.  I study his word.  I pray all of the time.  I seek wise counsel.  How could I have been so far off?  It's like I took a hard left when really I was supposed to go right.

I was content to be finished with adoption.  My girls have been the biggest blessings ever and I'm beyond thankful I get to be their mom.  They are thriving and we were ready for the next chapter.

And then he brought me Sparrow.

I go over and over and over all of the details but I never get an answer to my why.  This last month since I lost her, has felt like my faith played a giant game of Jenga.  I pulled perseverance from the bottom and precariously perched it on top.  Hope was drawn out from the middle and I tried to slide it in next to perseverance.  Trust was pulled and gently placed on hope.  Finally, I carefully extracted faith from the foundation of this structure and gingerly placed it at the very top.  

And it all came crashing down.

In my tirade of emotions, I took my arm, angrily swiped it over the panel, and sent the pieces hurling into the air.

I sat staring at the blank game board of my life.

Where do I go from here?  How do I move forward?  This adoption journey has consumed the last eight years of my life.  I've been stuck in what feels like quicksand; a perpetual land of waiting, where the only movement I felt was the ground sinking beneath me.

***

I bought Roopa a Batman big wheel for Christmas.  She didn't even know they existed.  It came complete ~ decked out with stickers, rims, and alllllll the buttons you ever wanted to push.  Each one with flashing lights and a corresponding command:  "Moving left!"  "Let's get to work!" and of course, the Batman theme.  This gift elevated me to new heights in Roopa's mind.  Her eyes filled with wonder and excitement.

"Mommy, how did you even know I wanted this?  Oh, wait.  I know.  You used your mommy powers!"

I laughed and then grew quiet.

As Roopa's mom, I see her in ways others don't.  I know her heart.  I know her reactions.  I know her deepest desires and her greatest fears.  I know how she responds to correction.  I know how she processes new information.  I know how she learns and plays and thinks deeply about life. I know her gifts and talents.  I know where she needs growth.   I know all of these things and more because I am her mom and she is my daughter.  I spend almost every moment of every day with her.  I knew that she would love that gift.  I knew that because I know her. So even though Roopa had no knowledge of its existence, I knew.  And it brought me great joy to give it to her.

In my questioning and my doubt, God used Roopa to reveal more of himself to me.  I will never understand his ways.  I will never get an answer to my whys.  I will never be able to see things the way he sees them.  I will never understand his theology.  He will always be a mystery to me.  

The only thing I do know, is his character.  I know he is always good.  I know he loves me more than anyone ever could.  I know he will never leave me.  I know he is always with me ~ in the deepest depths of grief and the highest mountaintops of joy.  I know that his plans for me are good.  I know he wants to transform me; he leads me through the refiner's fire to make me more like Christ.  He is the potter.  I am the clay.  He molds, bends, and shapes me.  Sometimes, I become hardened, which makes his work more difficult.  He adds water through my tears spilled during trials and tribulations to once again bring me to a place of pliability.  

He is the God of the universe and the Creator of everything and everyone.

Who am I to even slightly begin to understand his ways, his thoughts, his plans?

So I enter 2018 with the words, "Surrendered Faith."  

I have no idea what his plans are for me or my family.  I don't know if he will bring Sparrow back to me.  I am hoping against hope he will.  I don't know what the next chapter will entail.

What I do know is that he loves me and wherever he calls me, it will be good.  It might not be good in the initial way I see it, but he has a way of washing away the dirt and dust that clouds the mirror through which I view myself.   He draws me closer to him so that I can see through his filter the beauty he has crafted within me.

I walk into this new year with a blank canvas, open arms, and no vision of my own.

I humbly await to see the brushes he puts into my hands and the colors he chooses for my palette.  

I know that by letting him guide my hand, whatever he paints into my life this year will be a masterpiece.  I've painted enough to know that a truly beautiful work of art is not just made of highlights.  Shadows are critical to the depth of emotion that is elicited from viewing such a showpiece. 

 I am at a point of total surrender; knowing that he will lead me to the mountaintops this year holds for me, but more importantly, he will carry me through the deepest, darkest valleys. 

I learned this truth, however painful it was.  

My God will always be with me.

"Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever."

Psalm 23:6

Deeper Still

I anticipated that Christmas was going to be hard.  And it was.  The waiting and hoping for God to fulfill his promise for Sparrow has been painful.  Excruciating.  I wish I could say that I've handled it like a champ, but I haven't.  I feel like I'm riding the longest, twisted roller coaster I've ever ridden.  I have days when I'm on top of the hill, full of excitement and hope for what God is doing, and then the next day I'm in the middle of a corkscrew rotation, upside down and completely disoriented. 

On Christmas Eve, I went to bed more discouraged than I've ever been.  My 98 year-old grandma had to have life-saving surgery two days prior to Christmas Eve.  Thankfully, she did great and is improving daily.  But traditions are important to me and it just felt weird that we weren't all celebrating Christmas Eve with the family at her house.  This is Mohini's first Christmas and every year since Munni came home, we've had our picture taken in front of her tree.  I was looking forward to getting our picture with Mohini in front of that tree!  It sounds dumb I know, but it just was more sadness that things were "off" and changing.  Instead, we celebrated in the ICU.

We got home from the hospital and started to do our nightly routine, when Munni frantically called to me that Honeybee couldn't get up from the floor.  She is our 16 year-old boxer that we took in when she was 13.  I ran to the living room and she was clearly in distress.  I'm pretty certain she had a seizure.   She lost control of her bowels, was breathing erratically, vacant stares, and her tongue and lips did not look right.  We laid her on the new dog bed, prayed for her, said our goodbyes, and cried.  The girls went to bed and I had to put Roopa's big wheel together.  

Merry Christmas to us.  

By time I finished the big wheel, Honeybee was still breathing, but things did not look good.  I went to bed and cried.  Thoughts raged through my mind about how this was the worst year ever and I couldn't wait for it to be over.  Waking up to a dead dog on Christmas morning was the icing on the cake.  Really, God?  Is this what stepping out in faith looks like?  I don't want to do this if it is.  

2017 was a difficult year in many aspects.  My beloved dog, Rollie, died in July.  Several of my close friends are dealing with profound grief.  Mohini coming home was a huge adjustment.   She is a great little girl and we love her, but her age has been a huge challenge for all of us.  How we lived our life before she came home is nothing like how we live now.  We've had to adjust everything.  And right when we were finally getting our footing back, her brain MRI and hearing tests came back that she is deaf in her left ear and has brain damage in two parts.  Shocked can't even describe my reaction.  Through all of this, was the underlying waiting for Sparrow.  

Hoping, praying, believing. 

 When I found out on my dad's birthday that she had been matched with another family, it felt like a nightmare  from which I could not wake.

As I reflected on all of this, I barely slept Christmas Eve.  My heart was heavy, broken, and in complete despair.  Finally, I got up and went into the living room to start the Christmas morning tradition of lighting the fire, putting on Christmas music, making much needed coffee, and preparing to feign excitement for the girls.  I had already decided that I would wrap Honeybee in a towel and put her in the garage until I could take her to get cremated.  This was not how I wanted to start Christmas morning.  I literally could not believe my eyes when I walked into the living room and she popped her head up, eyes alert, and then GOT UP and walked over to me in that traditional boxer wiggle!  I immediately thanked God for reviving her.  It was as if nothing had happened.  I felt a little excitement welling in my soul and thought maybe this Christmas won't be so horrible after all.  I got my camera ready and stood in place so that I could capture their expressions as they walked out and saw some of the "big hitter" gifts that were on display.   I called the girls and told them they could come out.  They walked around the corner, took one glance at the cornucopia of presents, and then all three of them ran right past their gifts, through the living room, and directly into my arms to give me a giant hug, and wished me a Merry Christmas.  Queue the tears.  In that moment, I realized that at least I have done one thing right.  My girls value our family, our relationships, above all else.  Their early morning display of affection and love was the best Christmas gift!

We spent all day at my mom and dad's house; it was the perfect distraction from my thoughts.

The day after Christmas I crashed.  It felt like God was never going to answer.  I was not in a good place.  Each time I hit these horrible lows, he always provides the encouragement I need through dear friends and strangers from across the world.

I received several emails and messages from people in countries far away.  Messages of hope, encouraging me in this fight for Sparrow, standing with me in prayer and belief that God will bring her back to me.

One dear friend set me straight and told me that Jesus waited two days and let Lazarus die.  Could Jesus have gone and healed him immediately when they told him that Lazarus was sick? Certainly.  Lazarus' sisters, Martha and Mary, sent word to Jesus that "the one he loved" was very ill.  But that was not his plan.  Even though Jesus intended something far greater than what they could imagine by bringing Lazarus back from the dead, he still met Martha and Mary in their grief and wept with them.  

Jesus has also met me in my grief.  He has not taken away the pain; instead, he has provided compassionate fellowship.  He's given me encouragement from friends and strangers who are praying with me.  Their words of wisdom, love, and support have carried me through the most difficult  moments.  Every day, I wake up and pray that Jesus will take my hand and walk me through the day, leading me through the dark parts and helping me to steady my eyes on him.  

This has been the most difficult faith journey I've ever experienced.  I pray and pray and pray and ask for discernment - should I abandon this hope that he will bring her back to me?  Should I pursue another child?  Should I stop all together?

Every single time, he answers me with the dream he gave me in May, and even though I've been riddled with pain, there is peace knowing I'm exactly where he wants me to be.  It's taken time to get to that realization and acceptance.

The girls and I have a dream of one day owning a farm.  We've been praying about it for almost 2 years.  We talk about it daily.  My mom gave us a vegetable growing kit for Christmas which led to a discussion of how we anticipate our farm will look and what purposes it will serve.  God used this conversation to minister to me.

Growing food takes much waiting.  In between the time of planting the seed until the harvest is much "dead" time.  Above ground, it appears as if nothing is happening.  We can't see the seed.  We can't see what's going on in the soil underneath our feet.  We can't see the effects the sun, heat, moisture, and pressure have on the seed that eventually causes the hull to break apart and allows the tiny roots to burst forth.  We can't see those roots slowly digging deeper into the rich, moist soil, securing a solid foundation for growth.  None of that is visible.  Instead, it appears as if nothing is happening.  I thought back to all of the prayers I have prayed for Sparrow.  How God gently led me step by step.  I planted the seed in obedience.  And now, I have to wait and trust that like the forces of nature, God is preparing that seed for the harvest.  He knows the time when that precious green shoot will force its way out of the ground to be seen by all.  

What a glorious day that will be!

But for now, I wait.  I trust.  I believe.

And in my dark moments, I remind myself that like the seed underground, I can't see the spiritual realm.  I can't see the work God is accomplishing and I can't see the foundation he is preparing.  And isn't that exactly what faith is?  Trusting in what can't be seen.  Having confidence in what we hope for and assurance in what we can not see.

I can't thank everyone enough for all of your love and support with which you have covered me.  It is invaluable and priceless!  Please keep praying with me, you have been a wellspring to my soul!

Walking in Faith

It's been almost a year since I first saw our Sweet Sparrow's face.  Funny how I thought the "wait" would end once I was approved to officially move forward with her adoption.  I never would have imagined that it would be just the beginning of the most difficult part of the wait.  

When God gave me the dream in May, I knew she was my daughter.  Not a doubt in my heart.  When I found out that after two years of no movement on the waiting list, she was matched the very hour I was approved, confusion consumed me.  For the life of me, I could not make sense out of it.

I still don't know why God allowed that to happen except that his plans for her and the story he is writing is bigger and more beautiful than anything I could have dreamt. 

In these last few weeks, he has drawn me closer to him in ways I've never experienced.  My faith has reached new levels of depth, trust, and surrender.  

However, this growth has not come without costs.  There have been days of immense sorrow, utter despair, rage and fist-shaking at God, unending questioning, and a deluge of tears.

Excruciating doesn't come close to describe what these last few weeks have been.

I've had moments where I've wavered.  I almost didn't go to my USCIS fingerprint appointment.  I declared I would put the girls back in school, I would get a "safe" job, and we would live the rest of our lives with no risk, and therefore, would not set ourselves up for disappointment and heartache.  We would live what I call the "MMC" or Magnolia Market Christianity that seems to flood our church culture today.  The type of Christianity where our life looks perfectly put together.  All blessings, no heartache.  No risk.  Safe.  Boring.

I even asked to view the waiting list of children, knowing I could match today with a child who needs a family.  But as I scrolled through the list, I knew deep in my heart what God spoke to me through that dream in May.  None of those children were mine.  

Our Sparrow is the dream God gave me.

 God snapped me back to reality and reminded me that it is his promise he gave and his way for fulfilling it.  He brought me back to Sarah and Abraham.  God promised them a son.  Sarah grew impatient because in her human wisdom, she could not fathom a way for her to conceive in her old age.  So she did what I can relate to - she took things into her own hands and told Abraham to sleep with Hagar, her maid,  to produce a son.  He did and Ishmael was born.

But Ishmael was not the son through which God's promise to Abraham would be fulfilled.  Instead, Sarah's meddling and rushing God's promise only caused heartache and jealousy. 

I was becoming Sarah.

You see, I had lost my focus of his power, his ways, his purposes.  Who am I to question the path on which he is leading me?  My view is completely myopic while his is a wide angle lens.  He is working behind the scenes in ways I don't know.  He's doing things that I would never conceive.  He's fulfilling plans and answering prayers of which I have no knowledge.  

I've heard from people all of the world.  Words of encouragement.  Words of empathy.  Words of compassion.  Words of "me too."  He is using her story to bring others to deeper levels of faith - deeper understanding, deeper trust, deeper surrender, and ultimately, deeper hope.

As I continue in this wait, I am slowly learning to have joy.  Joy that he writing the most incredible story. Joy that he knows the exact moment he will bring her back to me.  Joy that he is growing and stretching my faith, taking me to new levels of trust in him.  Joy that he is omniscient.  Joy that he is omnipotent.  Joy that he will fulfill his promise.  Joy that he is worthy to be trusted, honored, and praised.

Joy that I know him and that our relationship is becoming more intimate with each passing day.

So while I will never understand his ways and his purposes, I am choosing to have faith ~ the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen. 

Not By Sight

May 26, 2017, God gave me a specific promise about Our Little Sparrow that she is ours.  Even though it right now it seems impossible, I know that God's promise will prevail.  

He does not lie.  

He intended her for our family and on the day that I can finally share her story, it will be clear TO ALL how perfect his plan is and why she fits perfectly in our family.  

It. Will. Blow. Your. Mind.

So now, I'm patiently waiting as the Holy Spirit continues his work, removing the mountains that stand in the way of bringing God's promise to fruition.

Can I get a witness? Amen to the glory of God!

Heartbroken

After two years on the waiting list, after 47 weeks of praying for her, after 31 weeks of having a God-given dream about her adoption, today, in the very hour that I was finally approved to move forward,

Our little Sparrow was matched.

But not with me.

I can't even put into words all of the emotions I felt and continue to feel.

We are heartbroken.  Roopa has faithfully prayed for her "twin" every single day.  She talks about her all the time and tells me in great detail all of the adventures she is planning to have with her once she is home.  She doesn't understand why on the day I received approval, another family beat us to match.

I spent most of the day in bed, crying, praying, questioning.

To say I was not in a good place is beyond an understatement.

How can this be?  There were SO MANY THINGS that confirmed she was ours.  Miracle after miracle occurred to get me where I am today in the process.

It was very tempting to go down all of the rabbit holes.  The abyss of "what ifs?"

What if I had started a week sooner?  What if my social worker wouldn't have delayed approving my home study?  What if the India team hadn't left for India right as my home study was being approved?  What if I had been uploaded one day sooner?  What if...?

And then there is the why?  Why would God lead me on this journey again when I was certain I was finished growing my family?  The adoption journey is not fun.  It is torturous.  The last thing I wanted to do was be in process again.  Why would he give me that dream?  Why did he give me the other miraculous confirmations?  

But the biggest why I have asked all day is, why did God allow me to get to the HOUR of approval just for someone else to match with her?  Why would he allow my heart to break in ways I didn't know were possible?

This morning during my devotional before I even heard the news, I meditated on Psalm 25.  Throughout the psalm, his word proclaims that those who hope in the Lord will not be ashamed.  A few short hours later, I found myself struggling to believe this.

I could hear the ridicule already.  You were foolish to believe.  Why did you think God would hold her for you?  You should have guarded Roopa's heart.  What a fool to believe in God.  You say he's a loving God, but what kind of loving God would do that?  What kind of loving God would time it just so?  It felt incredibly cruel.

I was nauseous all day.  My mind clouded by the tornado of fear, grief, and doubt that swirled in my thoughts.

I cried out to him, begging for anything.

He answered me. 

 He sent his love through my dearest friends.  He sent his love through the words of compassion, empathy, and sorrow from other adoptive moms.  He sent his love through the texts, the messages, and the phone calls from my family and friends.  He held me up with their wisdom and empathy and he righted my path.

It has been a slippery slope but I refuse to allow bitterness, anger, and unbelief finish her story.

I am clinging to his word.  I am hanging onto the truths I know deep within my spirit.  I know that he is a loving God.  His plans for me are for a future and hope, for good and not for evil.  I remembered Job and how after he had lost everything, he still blessed the name of the Lord.

And so I lay prostrate before him, confessing the wondrous things he has done in my life.  He has brought complete transformation to me and my girls.  He bathed us in his love and his healing.  Today, he reminded me that his way are not my ways.  Although I may not understand, he is still at work within me and for me and around me.  

I believe that I am in the midst of the greatest test of my faith.  Will I still love him if she doesn't come home?  Will I still praise his name if she does not become my daughter?  Will I fully, completely, and with total abandon, surrender to him and his will for my life?  Even when that means certain heartache?

Six years ago this month, I was in the exact same spot with Munni.  I had been praying for her every single day and waiting on the India program to end its suspension.  

The agency with whom I found her informed me that they could not help me bring her home.

Utter devastation took over me.

God stripped me of my heart's deepest desire and in the most excruciating moment of my life, I let her go.  

I surrendered her to God.  

Broken in every way, I sacrificed my one true desire and told him that if there was a better family out there for her, so be it.

As I write this, Munni is reading next to me.  

Tears won't stop falling as I am reminded of  the incredible and miraculous journey he led me on to make us a family.

So here I am again.  

Broken.  Weary.  Grieving. Shattered.

Will he once again write a miraculous story that ends with Our Little Sparrow somehow coming home to us?

Or will it be a different ending?

With every fiber of my being, I want her with us, part of our family.  

My knees will be bloody from begging.

I am hoping beyond hope that he makes the way for her to come home.

But once again, I am on the mountain with my Isaac.

I lay Our Little Sparrow at his feet and surrender her to him.

He knows the perfect family for her.

He knows the perfect daughter/sister for us.

Although I'm wringing my hands in prayer that he will declare us to be her family and for her to be our daughter/sister,

I have to trust in who he says he is, his power that holds up the universe, and that every single thing he does is for the good of those who love him.

And somehow, at the end of all of this, I will glorify his name.

Then Job arose, tore his robe, and shaved his head; and he fell to the ground and worshiped.  And he said:

"Naked I came from my mother's womb,

And naked shall I return there.

The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;

Blessed be the name of the Lord."

In all this Job did not sin nor charge God with wrong.

I Hate Orphan Sunday

Every time I read this book to my girls, this page never fails to bring tears to my eyes and a lump in my throat.

The look on Jesus’ face as he runs towards his lamb stirs intense emotions deep within my heart.  

Today is Orphan Sunday.  

I hate that word.  I hate it with every fiber of my being.  I hate that we live in a broken world where free will and sin and evil leave innocent children without their families.  I hate that there are children languishing in institutions all over the world because the very foundation of which every other relationship is formed, was ripped out from underneath them.  

I hate that not enough people are angered by the fact that there are 140 million orphans in the world.  140 million.  I hate that people are numb to that statistic because it’s overwhelming and it feels like nothing can ever change it.   I hate that because the number is so large, it’s easy to look at it as just a statistic instead of a child.  I hate that there are 140 million faces waiting for someone to claim them as family.  I hate that for the majority of them, they will never exchange their title orphan for son/daughter.

I hate that Our Little Sparrow is passing her days not knowing that she has a family half way around the world, who prays for her every single day.  I hate that she has no idea that she is deeply loved and treasured and we eagerly anticipate the day we can embrace her in our family hug.  I hate that human inefficiency and governmental bureaucracy delay the adoption process longer than necessary.

I hate that there are questions to which my girls will never find the answers.  I hate that for the rest of their lives, in spite of being redeemed through adoption, there will always be a deeply imbedded wound of profound loss.  I hate that a part of their identity will never be known.

I hate that there is a crisis so devastating that “Orphan Sunday” needs to exist.

And so when I turn to this page in the book and I see the look on Jesus’ face, I am reminded of his indescribable love for each of us.  He RUNS to his lamb.  He tells us that he will not leave us as orphans, he will come to us.  He sets the lonely in families and his plan is to give hope and a future.  He tells us to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves and to defend the weak and the fatherless.

Every morning, I wake up to three precious faces.  Faces that radiate joy, love, and a confidence from knowing they are daughters and sisters; we are a family.  Faces that used to project dull, lifeless, and empty stares. 

Through my daughters, I have been given a priceless gift - the gift of seeing first hand the transformation that has taken place in each of them.  In return, I will fight and advocate with all that I have for those who have nothing. 

 I will speak up.