So tonight I lay here in bed. Tired from an early morning and a busy day, with my heart and stomach doing flip flops over our news.
Today we learned that we have exited IBESR. Excellent news. Amazing news. Praise God news. Because that means she is one step closer to being home.
To being here.
A while one part of me is kid-on-Christmas-morning excited, another part is oh-dear-God-what-have-we-done terrified. If we’re being honest, that is.
From the moment I laid eyes on this little girl in a grainy photo sent from Haiti via Blackberry Messenger, I have known she is ours, she is one of us. Our fifth daughter. And yet this isn’t a child who has grown in my womb, developed to the sound of my voice, my heart beat. She comes with her own strings attached to someone else, no matter how much she may think she loves me in her 5 year old mind. No matter how much I love her. She comes with a story and a history and a lifetime of hurt.
And what that means for the rest of us scares me more than a little. This great unknown of what are we inviting in. Some days we’re barely hanging on as it is. What happens when a little girl who doesn’t speak our language gets here and realizes she can’t pinch these other children when they want my attention because she has to share me with them forever? Or when she cries at night and wants a mama with her skin color, her hair, her history? Or when one day she longs for her homeland and in her personal wrestling forgets what a gift it is to be here with us?
How do we deal on those days?
I have no idea.
But over the past few months I have watched as God has taken last year’s impossible and overwhelming schedule and opened it wide, making time for the six of us here to bond, connect, and slow before she comes. I have watched as God has given both of us more of a heart for our children. Still not where we want to be, but more including, sharing, doing life together. And I have watched as God day after day puts hope in my path. In devotions. In blog posts. In scripture reading. In a quote. Everywhere there is hope. And I cling to it. As we travel this road of adoption. As we struggle through home schooling and parenting all these girls. As we fight for our marriage against an enemy who hates it. I cling to hope. I cling to the point that I write it on my skin, a daily reminder of what I have in Christ.
And this little girl, she will carry this hope with her always. Amania Hope: faith in God, hope. What a name for a little girl whose part in our story has only begun to be written. Faith in God. Hope. That is where our strength is found. That is where her strength will be found. That is where all strength is found – as we continue to wait. As we continue to weather. As we continue to walk this path that He is leading us down.
And Ann writes today, “hope, it can split right open in the dry places and yield up life”. And as I read that post, God gives more hope as she writes on, “Sometimes if you wait until you really know what you are doing – means you don’t know really God and what He can do.”
And peace comes as I realize I don’t have to know how this will all play out. There are no guarantees with our biological children, just as there are no guarantees with this adopted one. But as we follow Christ is serving the least of these, we know we are doing right and He will lead and never abandon and we can trust in His plan and we can have hope.
For His Glory ~