“Oh, Lord” I cried. “How long will he have to wait?”
He waited a long time, you know. He waited for a lot of things. He waited for someone to feed him. He waited for someone to find him.
When he finally was found. When he finally was fed. It was not enough.
His poor, beat-up and weary three-year-old body had to wait some more. He waited to heal, to walk again, feel full. He waited to be accepted. He waited for a mama and daddy to call his own.
He waited to be nurtured the way a tiny boy should be. He waited for someone to wipe his nose and hold him close.
Today he’s been home four years. Four beautiful and redemptive years. Today, he rested his head on my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me tight. Thank you, Lord he’s no longer waiting.
Four short years ago, I carried him on my back, that sweet and confused six-year-old boy. Four short years ago, I put him on my hip, tickled his toes and taught him how to blow his nose. Four short years ago, he was a stranger, but I loved him deeply and fiercely.
I lost six years with this blessed boy. And here I go again, thinking of me. I thought of myself a lot while I waited. Will I ever get to parent him? Will I ever get to hold them? Hug them? Give them the proper care and show them what forever means? Will they ever know who we really are?
My wait for them was hard. On my knees, I prayed, begged God to bring them home to me. I prayed for their understanding and safety. I asked the Lord to make a clear path. Move to Congo? Lord make a way. Find permanent adoptive homes there? Lord, guide us through that heartache if they are never to come home. What have I done? Are they in more danger because I love them? Children adopted by U.S. citizens were sometimes targeted. Orphans were of no value to life there. They were frowned upon, degraded.
But some precious Christian families stepped up, some churches came through and our littles were loved on while they waited. At a cost. They waited, at a cost. They were loved on, at a cost.
They grew to love their foster family to which I am eternally grateful. But in that wait, the temporary and permanent lines were blurred when a three-year-old sickly boy is healed in a home with a mama and papa who aren’t your own. And the lines fade away as you love them as your own, get too attached, raise them for so long. When the eighteen-month-old toddler turns two, three and four. You send her school and snuggle her at home. She is your own.
I know the ache in their hearts must have grown with each day. Knowing the wait would end and joy would be sent across the ocean to a whole new world. Would they be okay? I’m sure she wondered more than a time or two. What if they never come? How will we provide for them? Love made a way this far, but how far? Who will eat and who will starve?
I can imagine the moments of frustration as my strong willed one would fit. “If you do not feed her, she will destroy things” was the monthly report. I couldn’t wait to get her home, to all the unknown and forever love. What I didn’t know was the unknown to me. The unknown to her. The confusion at four. Who was her mommy anyway? She was four. What did she understand about love and family and adoption and forever? She only knew her foster mama, who was kind and firm. Who cared for her as she toddled and ran. As she went from diapers to potty trained. As she went from little to big. From staying home to going to school. She was the constant in my little girl’s life. And suddenly she was gone. And I took her place in my girl’s eyes. So many big feelings for such a small girl. A whole twenty-five pounds at four years old, her face lit up like pure gold as she bathed in a real tub for the first time. At that moment I realized just have very much I had missed.
I may have missed the first four and six years, but I have a lifetime of love for them. The Lord reminds me he is good. Each time I think of my loss, I am reminded of my gain. Each time I grieve the image of a toddler boy and newborn girl, I pray for their birth parents lost in a sea of souls, somewhere in Congo, somewhere on earth. Somewhere along this journey of life, they gave the ultimate sacrifice and gifted their children life. Whether they are living or dead, I will never know. Our search always ended empty handed, hearts weary.
Weary, but thankful. Because they were found.
Found.
Loved and chosen, found. Redemptive stories in the midst of deep pain and suffering and hunger and illness and weary heart. Redemptive-God stories in the middle of loss and grief.
We fought hard. Through great loss and deep grief, through sorrow and joy, they came home. Into our arms, into our familes. And now here we stand, collapse, tread water, as a big, mismatched imperfect, scarred but bold and brave and beautiful family. Maybe it wasn’t our first plan, it wasn’t theirs either. But maybe it’s just a glimpse of how God redeems. How he heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds. How he can bring beauty out of the ashes.
Oh, Lord, how thankful I am for these children. I have been blessed with four beautiful biological babes and two amazing adopted ones. I am not thankful for Thao’s death. But I am thankful for the life that has triumphed over it. I am not thankful two of my children were left as orphans. But I am thankful they were found and now part of our family. I am not thankful for what all of my kids have endured. But I am thankful for how it has brought us all together.
