Where Wholeness Should Have Been

As I write this, there are forty-one minutes left of Mother's Day, 2014. 

This morning I awoke to the familiar sounds of a wire whisk scraping the sides of a scarred mixing bowl. 

And I thought of her.

With uncharacteristic solemnity, two girls offered dutiful "Happy Mother's Day" while dumping a fresh-from-the-griddle pancake in my hand. And we laughed.

I wondered if she had laughed today.

A certain baby of the family insisted the pancake was hers. I fed her only a nibble, despite her protests. A corner of my heart squeezed at the thought of sustaining life with such a meager nibble.

She had tried. She had desperately clung to fading hope. 

Lastly, one more entered the room, flinging herself on the bed for a restless snuggle. A little prompting..."Happy Mother's Day". She craned her neck to see my face. Like most people, I am drawn to her deep, liquid eyes.

And I see her look of defeat as pools threaten to betray her glossy resolve. 

Seventeen minutes, and ticking...

Just a day earlier, I sucked a breath into constricted lungs as I heard the words "You'll always be my mama. I'm so glad you adopted me." 

We share the lump in my throat, she and I.

"Children born to another woman call me Mom. The depth of that tragedy and magnitude of that privilege are not lost on me." ~ Joy Landers

The clock blinks 12:01, and just like that The Day is done. She and I have checked another day off the calendar. Though I may never again see her this side of Heaven, I carry her with me every day. Oh, I don't keep her picture in my wallet. I keep her heart tucked into mine. How? I hold her despite having the wrong arms. I double-check her toothbrushing job. I slice her sandwich from corner to corner. I dive into books and icy cold swimming pools with her. I wince as she wobbles on raised training wheels, and dance when she keeps her balance. I scold when she hits, and I kiss when she hurts. 

And I look into haunting eyes, wishing that hope had bloomed into possibilities, and possibilities into reality, and reality into wholeness. 

Instead there is irreparable brokenness, of which our daughter is the shared fallout. Yes, I love her fiercely, but I wish my love was not necessary in the first place. I wish the woman who loved her first could continue to see her firsts; Her first school day, her first date, her first...everything. Instead, I will be the mama to celebrate those firsts. Those moments are not stolen, nor are they merely borrowed. They are shared in the most intimate, most anguished, and most cherished way possible. And I am grateful. 

Her arms were, at the same time, perfect and inadequate and beautiful. Her image is too sacred to parade across the screen of some blog. Her face, too precious to squander on blog hits. This is the most you'll ever see of this strong woman:

Final Embrace

And it is enough.

Two Years Down, And A Lifetime To Go!

A legion of butterflies fought for space in my stomach. It is a van ride of which I have tried to commit every turn, every jostle to memory. My eyes took in the long-awaited sign; one we had seen in other meetcha videos and pictures. We pulled up to a tall, metal gate set in a concrete wall. The wall, like many others had broken bottles embedded along the top-poor man's razor wire. The driver honked the horn and a face appeared at the gate. The gatekeeper/guard permitted our entry. 

And we were there. 

All the paperwork, all the months of prayer, all the packing and fundraising was about to take on human form. We could see little faces crowding around a gate toward the back of the property, and little brown noses pressed against a large window set in a nondescript building. It was impossible to tell if Sophia was among the runny noses smearing the glass. Part of me hoped to catch a glimpse of her and part of me didn't want to spoil the moment of meeting her on the steps of the transition home. We were the first family in the line-up. Several families had arrived in the days prior to our arrival and they stood off to the side, preparing to share in the wonder of our moment and identifying with the scope of emotions we were encountering. I felt an unbidden pressure to respond with just the right amount of warmth and love, lest the nannies think I was unfit to become her mama. We were told they were changing her diaper and would bring her out in a minute. I heard her protesting this upset in her day. At the time I swore Ethiopian minutes must be longer than sixty seconds. Just when I felt my nerves would burst, her nanny brought her through the doors and my heart skipped a beat (or three). Pictures had done her little justice. Her solemn expression as they handed her to Timothy held none of the exuberance we see now. Timothy held her for a handful of moments as I gingerly touched her brittle hair. She didn't cry. She seemed resigned to the hand-off. My sweet husband asked if I wanted to hold her. Do I want to hold her? Ummmm...YES! I held it together until she was tucked in my arms. Then I bawled like a baby (much like I'm doing as I type these words). She fit. She was mine and she was precious. 

The most animation from her was when she was facing
away from us, looking into the only home she knew.

Sophia, that was two years ago. We held you, rocked you to sleep, fed you and tried desperately to eek a smile out of you in the short time we were with you on our court trip. We knew you could crawl and walk, but you refused to do anything except dully hold a toy and stare past us. Now not a day goes by that you aren't full of infectious giggles and smiles. You are inquisitive and engage the world around you in a way that is fresh, unique and ALL YOU! You have rocked our world and we are changed forever. Thank you for teaching us to love in another dimension. You opened our eyes to the beautiful tragedy that is adoption. You reached a part of our hearts that was barren before your touch. I love you, my sweet daughter, and I would do it all over again.



To Ethiopia And Back,
Mama

The Day My Heart Broke

We were standing outside an orphanage, waiting for the drivers to unload our donations. I stood by like a helpless American while they hefted huge boxes down from the tops of their vans. A nearby window was open and there's nothing like a group of ferengis* to draw a crowd. In mere moments, the window was crowded to capacity with little arms straining to reach us. Their noses were drippy, their clothes were dingy and their eyes held unreserved, unwavering hope. They all said the same haunting word over and over.

Ah-by-ay, ah-by-ay, ah-by-ay...

Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? 

Are you my daddy?

As hard as it was to leave Sophia behind, it was bitterly more heartbreaking to leave these children. Sophia had a family. She was desired, loved and cherished. I was coming back for her. No one was coming for these children. Despite this horrible truth, their hope remained undimmed during our entire visit at their orphanage.

I firmly believe there are people reading these words, knowing God is telling you it's time. Your family is missing someone around the dinner table. Your movie nights need another child snuggled next to you on the couch. There's one more stocking to add to the mantel.

And somewhere there is a child waiting for you to be their ah-by-ay and eh-my-ay.**


Irreparably Broken For The Better,
Cynthia


P.S. I want to address ways other than adoption to help the orphan, but first will you please, please, please with a cherry on top spend earnest time in prayer, seeking God's heart for your family and keeping an open mind?


*Amharic for "non-black foreigner".
**It's probably obvious, but Amharic for "daddy" and "mama".

Imagine

Long before Sophia came home, God gave me a beautiful glimpse of His desire for the orphan.

Allow me to take you along for the ride.

Imagine a Ukranian orphanage being converted to a church. Why? Because an entire church in the U.S. adopted every single orphan in that miserable facility.

Imagine a Guatemalan village growing strong families. Why? Because a church in the U.S. sponsored all their kids through Compassion International or World Vision. 

Imagine an Ethiopian mother who doesn't have to choose between a death sentence for her baby and placing that child in the arms of a stranger who will replace her as Mama. Why? Because churches are providing micro loans to single mothers, equipping them with life skills and materials to provide for their children.

Imagine older children, and those with "special needs" being embraced into families all across the nation. Why? Because churches are fostering an environment that says, "We aren't afraid to dream big, take risks, and live dangerously for the sake of the gospel."*

Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this:

to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep

oneself from being polluted by the world.

James 1:27

Imagine talking to a social worker who just cannot believe the sheer volume of mentors and foster parents lining up to fill a gaping hole in the life of a hurting teenager. Why? Because pulpits across America are preaching it loud and clear:

Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause

of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.

Isaiah 1:17

Imagine visiting a website like adoptuskids.org only to see a banner scrolling across the top that reads, "There are no children available for adoption at this time. Please fill out the form below to be put on our wait list." Why? Because the Church became ignited with a passion to address the orphan crisis in their own backyard.

Give justice to the poor and the orphan; uphold the rights of the

oppressed and the destitute.

Psalm 82:3

Imagine all of God's precious children being tucked into beds at night, cheered for during a soccer game, or comforted when their first crush ignores them.

Once our eyes are opened we can’t pretend we don’t know what to

do. God who weighs our hearts and keeps our souls knows that we

know and holds us responsible to act.

Proverbs 24:12

Thank You For Imagining With Me,

Cynthia

*AKA, "Can't touch this, Satan. My God's got my back."

Our Journey to Sophia: Part Two

Let's see...Oh yeah! I left you all sobbing uncontrollably from our touching video. 

If you missed Part One, it's kind of a big deal, so go back and read it. 

Let me start by saying that every adoption story begins with gut-wrenching loss and grief.* This concept became painfully tangible to me when it came time to leave the transition home with Sophia. Ethiopians are not given to displays of strong emotions (at least not in public). To face a room full of nannies who had known my child more intimately and for a longer period of time was humbling. To observe their tearful goodbyes was crushing. The only thing I could do was offer my sincerest appreciation for the role they played in my daughter's life. "Thank you" was not enough, but it was all I had to offer. 

As painful as this was for the nannies, there was, and is, another woman who grieves more deeply. She loved this child first. Her arms will be empty tonight, while mine are overflowing with the blessings of children. Sophia and her birth mama both suffered traumatic loss just a few months into Sophia's life. A loss that each of them will undoubtedly grapple with for a lifetime. There is a part of Sophia that can never be adopted. A part of her will always belong to another mama, another country and another culture. To top it all off, every fiber of that was ripped from her when she and I stepped onto the airplane. The cabin door sealed, shutting out everything familiar. 

Yes. Every adoption story comes at a steep emotional cost. 

Here's where the plot really thickens. Refill your coffee, stretch your legs and then come back.

I'll spare you the flight details, but I will say this: If you are traveling internationally and see a woman on the verge of sleep-deprived hysteria, carrying a child who is leaking poop, your sympathy (and some baby wipes) will go a considerable distance to restoring a smidgen of sanity for that woman. She has a long road ahead of her.

The airport is where all the magic happens. You are greeted by signs, balloons, flowers, teddy bears, your own cheering section, and enough camera flashes to feel like the paparazzi have found you out. Everyone at the gate knows what's going down and a lump forms in the throats of onlookers and passerbyers. It's a "Dear Diary" moment. Everyone feels good for giving you a proper welcoming, but they have no idea what else to do. 
After the airport is light years more crucial than those few minutes in the airport. 

While we truly appreciated the support shown at the airport, I felt completely misunderstood and alienated in the following weeks. While I wanted nothing more than to cocoon in our home and focus on attachment and bonding, circumstances outside of my control dictated otherwise. I felt forced to go out in public, when it was least desirable to do so. Well-meaning people would say things like, "This is so precious." or "You just fit together so beautifully."or "Look at how happy she is with you!" It took every bit of fortitude I could muster to plaster on a fake smile and say "Thank you". No meal deliveries had been set up. Two friends independently brought us enough food to last a few meals and one young woman did some grocery shopping for us. They are all lucky I didn't turn into a sobbing puddle of gratefulness. Our phone remained silent. No one asked how they could help or how they could pray for us. 

I won't belabor this point, but I want to make it crystal clear that Post Adoption Depression is real and very sticky. Sticky because it is a big question mark to those outside the adoption community. Everyone understands Postpartum Depression. We identitfy the hormonal changes as the major culprit. Considering the lack of hormonal changes taking place in an adoption, struggling newly adoptive parents just seem mental and needy. There's a sense that others are thinking, "You made your bed. Now lie in it." You chose this path. Ouch.

So here's what I have to say to families who are waiting to bring home an adopted child (or children):

1. Rest in the Lord's timing. I know it's agonizing, but savor this season and use it prepare your heart for the tough months to follow. Saturate yourself with God's word.

2. Devise your "after the airport" plan, and stick to your guns. You will not be popular. You can always relax the plan as you reevaluate. Yes. You will miss out on things. Events will come and go on your calendar. So be it.

3. Set up a strong support system. Do not be shy about telling people ahead of time what you will need. Encourage close friends, family and pastors to educate themselves on the unique challenges adoptive families face. There are excellent resources available that you can pass along to your support network. Get to know adoptive families. Most of us are more than willing to answer your questions and address your concerns with transparency. Ask someone to be in charge of setting up meals. It doesn't matter whether you are bringing home a baby or a fourteen year-old, you will appreciate this gesture!  

4. Lastly (and unfortunately), be prepared for criticism. A lot of people don't understand the delicate thread holding your family together right now. In our case, most people didn't seem to understand that a one year-old is not a "blank slate".** It didn't compute that she couldn't be held by everyone or go in the church nursery. Again, stick to your guns. It'll be worth it in the long run.

To friends and family of a future adoptive couple:
Don't wait until the airport to declare your support. Walk the long journey with them. Let them know ahead of time that you want to help them during the tough first months. Respect the boundaries they lay out. Call them to ask what they need. Don't wait for them to call you. Remember that they won't always be this needy-it's only a season. Let them vent and say demented things without passing judgement on them.

One of the best conversations I had during the rocky first weeks was with a friend who caught me at a vulnerable moment. I confessed my attitude and admitted to sounding like a deranged woman. Her response was heaven-sent. She told me nothing I could have said would have sounded crazy. I clung to that small measure of acceptance. Every adoptive family needs that caliber friend.

Adoptive families, what did I miss?

Striving for Transparency,
Cynthia






*I know this doesn't fit nicely into adoption reality tv shows. POP! Now that your bubble is burst, we can continue.
**More on this later. Consider it a cliffhanger. 

Our Journey to Sophia: Part One

It's time to unpack our adoption story for you.

WARNING: Most adoption journeys are not Hallmark Channel pretty. The outside of the package usually looks decent, but there's a big ol' mess inside. Ours is no exception.

Here's the Reader's Digest format:

August of 2007 we applied to our agency.
March of 2010 we finally got our act together and submitted our dossier.*
September of 2010 we received our referral.
January of 2011 we traveled to Ethiopia for court and met our newest daughter.
March of 2011 I traveled with a friend to bring Sophia home. Shout out to my friend Lori! It takes a very special and brave woman to travel halfway around the world with me.

OK, first point I'd like to make is that the most idiotic way to handle adoption paperwork is over a two and-a-half year period. May I suggest you not follow our example on that front?

But I digress.

Our story begins well before 2007. Adoption was woven into the hearts of myself and my husband while we were dating (2001-perhaps even earlier than that). It was somewhat of an assumption that we would, at some point, probably adopt. By 2006 we were married, had a toddler and a peanut on the way. After choosing an agency, we applied to their El Salvador program in 2007. Some of you may notice that Sophia is a shade darker than most El Salvadorans. Mid-process we switched to our agency's brand spanking new Ethiopia program (at our agency's suggestion). Africa has always held my heart captive, so it was a done deal.**

Adoption paperwork is a bear. Imagine the paperwork required for buying a house, selling a house and doing complicated taxes all rolled into one. Now, imagine that each document is spread out over your city and you need to gather them in a specific order, within a specific time frame. Add fingerprinting (three times) into this lovely process and you're beginning to get the idea. Did I mention these documents have expiration dates? When you take (going on) three years to complete the paperwork, you have to start over with a lot of it (I told you it was idiotic).

In the adoption community there is a lot of "hurry up and wait" going on. Once your dossier is in country, you just wait. And wait. And then wait some more. People have a tendency to ask a lot of questions during this phase, because it appears you're not pursuing adoption anymore. It's monotonous and painful to answer the same question with the same answer. "Our dossier is in country and we're just waiting for our referral."

And waiting.

In all fairness, we didn't have a very long wait until our referral. Considering we had two younguns at home, our attention was not solely on the calendar, marking the slow march of time, noting that we were nearing the end of the posted referral time-frame. It's almost surreal when that phone call finally comes in. When you first lay eyes on your child, something shifts and all that paperwork fades to a dim memory (at least temporarily). I couldn't stop staring at her beautiful eyes (a weakness for anyone who takes one peek at her lashes). I wanted more than anything to hop a plane, gather her in my arms and never lay her down as an orphan again. Directly following our referral, I was scheduled to chaperone a youth trip to Magic Mountain. These seemingly opposite worlds collided, resulting in a painful explosion. Deeply embedded in my heart was guilt-ridden shrapnel of frivolity and poverty. Here was a group of kids, gaily comparing their spending money totals and posting pictures on Facebook of them having a blast on the rides. Meanwhile, my eyes were practically glued to my phone as I gazed, teary-eyed at two thumbnail-sized pictures of a girl halfway around the world, who had stolen my heart and who had never known such joy as could be elicited from a trip to an amusement park. Joy for her meant a semi-full belly.

Christmas passed, and we took comfort in the knowledge that next Christmas, Sophia would no longer be "just another orphan". In January, we traveled for court, and anxiously met our third daughter. Never have I known so much elation and sorrow to simultaneously engulf my heart. She was finally in our arms, only to have us leave her an ocean away, with no idea of when we would be reunited. We hadn't passed court (a common obstacle) and didn't know when our next court date would be scheduled. It could be days or weeks or even months. Turns out, our next court date was later in January. We passed-Thank you Jesus! And were submitted to the U.S. Embassy. We fully expected to be investigated by the embassy, but surprisingly were not.

Just a couple of months after meeting our beautiful Ethiopian daughter, I was headed back across the big pond to bring her HOME.

That's when the adventure truly began.

To Be Continued...


Dedicated To Those Still Orphaned,
Cynthia


P.S. Here's a rough-around-the-edges video from our court trip. 

*Aka ream of paperwork necessary for international adoptions.
**A mission trip to South Africa made sure of that.