A Cry of the Heart

My head has been telling me I need to deal with something that my heart would just as soon avoid, thank you very much. Because sometimes staying clinically detached from my own big feelings is a most necessary coping mechanism. People sometimes ask me, especially when I worked for Child Protective Services, how I manage not to bring those sad and painful stories home with me after being embroiled in them during the day. And the answer - I just don’t.  I do what I can do and give the rest to God. I compartmentalize. I distance. I read. I write. As willing as I am to encourage and empathize and jump into someone else’s grief journey, I’d just as soon avoid my own mud pit.

But the truth is this big feeling is staying with me, like a wet blanket I can’t quite shrug off. It’s there, weighing me down, not really affecting my day-to-day but always with me, right at the edges of thought. And so sometimes the feeling leeches out. I tear up at innocuous comments or sappy commercials or, say, while playing a party game with my siblings. My daughter wants me to see Les Miserables with her because she knows I loved the book and the play and because I love sweeping, soaring, musical epics. Let’s see: a story about loss and redemption and abandonment and punishment and death in which reviewers said, “Wonderful - I cried for three hours.” Cried for three hours? No, thank you. How ‘bout some Will Ferrell? Talladega Nights? Sweet baby Jesus? Anyone?

There is also the danger that detaching from the sad, painful feelings creates a detachment from the joyful, loving feelings. One can’t numb the negative feelings without also numbing the positive. And there is so much positive, so much joy and love that I don’t want to miss.

That’s what my head is telling me. My heart, however, is sticking its fingers in its ears and yelling, “Na na na na na I can’t hear you!”

Because, honestly, I don’t quite know how. I’m not sure exactly what I’m feeling - sadness and guilt and resignation and anger and even maybe a bit of relief which leads to more guilt and even more anger and also some hopelessness, woven in with a despairing sense that all of this was never even part of my story and therefore not even my feelings to feel and so I'm just being a shmuck.

It’s a mess. I’m a mess.

So I’ve decided to deal by writing it out, journaling, blogging, thinking as I think best - through my fingers.

To recap: Before we adopted Palamang, in several pictures we had of him, we noticed him with a particular little boy. In one sweet video, a group of preschool boys are singing the ABC’s and this little boy (little little, tiny tiny) joins them, hand on Paul’s head to make the turn then sitting next to Paul and tapping his foot to the ABC beat.

There are a total of six boys in this video, but I don't have permission to show their photos.

When Paul came home, this was the little boy he missed. The little boy he talked about. They’d shared a sleeping mat. They’d chatted and patted each other to sleep. Paul had protected him (at least in Paul’s mind) against monsters and big boys. Then Paul met his new mommy and daddy and Retselise was left behind.

On the day we met Paul, Retselise watched the proceedings from the fringe. Sam took this picture.

Paul wanted Retselise to get a mommy and a daddy, too. We asked how we could help him and we were told to pray for him and his sister, to pray that they would be matched for adoption. Because they were ready. Paper ready. So we prayed.  And when we learned that there was a shortage of food and of electricity to cook the food at his orphanage, we saved money to donate and then asked our friends to donate, too. (Which you did. Thank you.) 

And then we started talking. No, not really talking. Scattershot, unfinished questions and half-formed arguments and looks that communicated more than words. “Could we...?” “What if...?” “Two more...?” “Why...?” “Why not...?” “But it’s so...” “Expensive.” “Scary.” “I can’t manage...” “Vitamins.” “Matching socks.” "To plan dinner." “How?” and “Could we? Could God?”

And then Lesotho signed the Hague Convention for Intercountry Adoption and suspended acceptance of new adoption applications until March 1, 2013.  So we took a deep breath and said, “OK. We have some time. We’ll pray. And when Lesotho reopens, we’ll see what God says.”

So I prayed. And I asked God to make it very clear, in two very specific ways, if this was what He wanted for us, for our family, for Retselise and his sister. I put out a fleece. Two fleeces. Because this was too big for me. Too big in so many ways. We'd spent all our money on the first adoption and didn’t see another $30,000 appearing on the horizon anytime soon. We’re still, as parents, figuring out attachment and trauma and sibling relationships with the first adoption. Could we handle two more? Because while I know and respect that there are families happily raising tribes of four kids, six kids, twelve kids, we've always been an only child household. Was this what was best for our kids? For these kids? Were we what was best? Because adoption isn’t about good intentions. It must go way, way beyond good intentions into therapeutic parenting and balancing everyone’s needs and educating ourselves and structuring our lives and putting them first and... and... and. And dear God, I can’t remember to complete a ten-day course of antibiotics. How will I ever remember daily, to the minute, lifetime use of anti-retrovirals? How?

And also there’s the selfish side of me, the side that likes quiet time and date nights and sleeping until 7 am. The side that worries how to pay for school and activities and clothes and college. The side that hates going to the doctor, even when it’s not me going. The side that mutters grumpily about the chauffeur duties for two children, let alone four. That side. I hate that side, but it's there all the same.

Then we got an email that Nancy, while delivering food to MIS, found Retselise very ill. My heart lurched. We prayed and friends prayed and many, many people prayed. And God answered - answered big on what was a very difficult day with horrific news about other six year olds, seven year olds. Retselise was released from the hospital to the care of Ministry of Hope Lesotho, a smaller, supportive foster home whose director is a trained nurse and a social worker, who prepares the children emotionally for family life, for adoption. Retselise was smiling. He was eating. We told Paul. He said, as if we were a bit late to the party, “I know. He’s gonna get’em mommy and daddy.”

One of my “fleeces” - answered.

One down, one to go. I started rearranging bedrooms in my mind and planning a bathroom schedule and reading recent studies on HIV treatment and researching the best school placement for an eleven year old English Language Learner. Would Sam share a bedroom or move into the office? We still weren’t talking, weren’t saying the A word out loud, but was it feasible to add a third bathroom?

Then another email - back in the hospital. Hopeful but please pray! And another, Christmas Eve: He’s taken a turn for the worse. The MoHL director is going to the hospital to say goodbye for all of us. And finally the dreaded confirmation. He’s with his Daddy, the one who loves him best, free from pain and sickness, loneliness and hunger. 

It was Christmas so I wiped my tears and smiled and sought comfort in Scripture and tried not to beat myself up for my doubts and my worries. Because now, in retrospect, what did it matter if we had to share a bathroom or a bedroom or add a leaf to the table or buy more fruit or navigate the complexities of the Jefferson County ELL program? It didn’t matter, none of it matters. God could handle all of that. But God had other plans. The dream I had was not the dream I had asked God to give me. I dreamed Retselise went home. But not to my home.

When I told Paul his eyes grew wide with surprise and he stomped his foot and he said, “I’m sad! I’m SAD!”

Then he wanted to know. "What about Retselise’s mommy and daddy? He have mommy and daddy in heaven?" “Yeah, buddy. He has a mommy and daddy in heaven. A great mommy and daddy.” And Paul nodded, content that his prayer had been answered. Retselise finally had a mommy and daddy, too.

The faith of a child.

Because I’m still struggling. I’m still stomping my feet, with eyes wide in disbelief. “I'm sad! I’m SAD! I AM SAD!”

That's what my head needs my heart to admit. I'm just sad.

In Training

I have a couple of friends who run marathons. On purpose. They train for months and months then they pay hard-earned money and often travel to other states to run nonstop for four to six hours while their toenails fall off and their muscles seize up and they chaff in unmentionable places.  They post things like "15 miles in the rain makes me feel 50% more hard core as a runner." They think this is fun.

I think this is borderline psychotic.

I have run a few MINI-marathons, so I know whereof I speak. Running 13.1 miles straddles that line between God-only-gave-me-one-body-so-I'm-going-to-take-care-of-it physical fitness and I-am-a-bit-sadistic-so-I'm-going-to-run-until-I-throw-up insanity. Anything beyond that is completely-over-the-edge crazy.

Not that I would ever say that out loud. No, out loud I'm all, "Good luck on Saturday, Rick! Twenty six point two - Woohoo!"

What seems crazy to me gives the estimated 1% of the US population who run marathons a sense of accomplishment, of challenge met and overcome, of peace, of honor, of physical and mental endurance, of spiritual connection. Also it's a good excuse to buy top-of-the-line running shoes every three months.

Sometimes the adoption journey feels like training for a marathon. It's mentally and emotionally and even physically grueling. It seems to take FOREVER. I haven't lost a toenail, but I have broken out in hives. ON MY FACE. I know there are people who think I am crazy ("she already has a perfectly good family, why does she want to go through this bureaucratic nightmare and travel overseas and potentially throw their entire life into turmoil?") even if out loud they are all, "oh, you're adopting, that's so wonderful." Because, yes, it IS wonderful, but it is also messy and painful and ragged and raw and quite possibly borderline psychotic.

But even if they think I've gone completely off the deep end I'm thankful for those friends who don't actually say this but instead continue to figure out ways to support this crazed pre-adoptive mama. Those friends who listen to THE SAME prayer request week after week and who actually pray for me and Trent and Sam and that little boy in Africa week after week. Those friends who are okay with my frustrations and my doubts and my grief and who even enter into those emotions with me. Those friends who have never even met me yet take the time to love on our little guy and give us glimpses of his life. Those friends who have or who are running their own adoption journey but who manage to respond to my many, many questions. Those friends who invite me to the Melting Pot for a girls night out.

Because even if our journey seems crazy this is exactly where God wants us. We're in training for something, something big, so step-by-step we'll pound it out. We will run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfector of faith.

Stress? Me? Why Do You Ask?

The last week-and-a-half has been a roller coaster of emotions. Last Tuesday, 10/18, we received confirmation about a meeting between the Lesotho Department of Social Welfare and the adoption agency representatives on 10/20. We felt compelled to cover this meeting with some major prayer action. I went so far as to fast, which my friends know isn't my favorite Spiritual discipline and does weird things to me physically. Still, this was important.

On Monday morning, 10/24, I learned that my former boss and mentor, Gary Rowe, died after a six year battle with cancer. While I take comfort in knowing that he is now free from pain and surely enjoying heaven to the fullest, his death makes this world a little lot less vibrant.

While mourning this loss, we received news from our adoption agency that the meeting with Social Welfare went well and that our adoption can proceed. HOORAH! Except, while celebrating, a well-meaning-but-asks-too-many-questions friend asked what that meant - proceed. We realized we have no idea. Next step? No idea. So I scrambled to arrange a face-to-face meeting with our adoption agency director on Friday, which I can just pull off if I drive like a maniac to Indianapolis for Gary's funeral, spend the night, and break the sound-barrier getting to the agency before needing to arrive back in Louisville for work. Now I just need to figure out what questions I need to ask. I don't know what I don't know.

MEANWHILE, our dog got into the garbage (again!) and ended up spending two days at the vet with salmonella poisoning.

We are also in the thick of refinancing, which I thought would be a good idea until I remembered I have a deep distrust of mortgage companies in general (no offense to our super-great mortgage broker whom I love) coupled with an OCD need to understand the ridiculously complicated fees and credits and cost-breakdowns involved in refinancing. (Why math people can't use WORDS is beyond me.)

Oh, and Trent went out of town.

In the midst of all of this, I broke out in hives. ON MY FACE. It got so bad I went to the doctor, who, perplexed ("Did you know your ear is really red and swollen? How bizarre! I've never seen this before."), brought in a ginormous book on dermatological oddities as well as medical backup to figure out what was wrong with me. Allergies? Don't think so. Rosacea? No. A rare, obscure fugus from the depths of the African rainforest. Um...no? Finally, the doctor asked, "Have you been under any stress lately? Sometimes hives can be caused by an excessive amount of the stress hormone cortisol."

Have I been under any stress lately? Hahahahahaha ha ha ha! No, no more than usual. Why do you ask?

Rally the Troops!

I learn best through story. So whenever I think about prayer warriors, I think about the pastor in Frank Peretti's This Present Darkness. The pastor feels compelled to pray for his church and for the people in his small town. Unbeknownst to him, his prayers and the prayers of the other believers give God's angels the authority and the power to battle against the demonic forces attacking the town. It's a serious offensive against the powers of this dark world. The church grows, lives are saved, and the bad guys go down!

So now, when God's people pray, I imagine God giving the go-ahead for his angelic troops to launch an all-out spiritual offensive. And right now, I'm feeling the need for some serious spiritual intervention.

This Thursday, 10/20, at 8:30 am Eastern Time (2:30 pm Lesotho Time), there is an important meeting about adoptions in Lesotho between the Lesotho Department of Social Welfare and the adoption agency representatives. It is heavy on my heart to cover this meeting from top to bottom with all-out prayer action. Rally the troops! Forward, CHARGE!

1) Pray for clarity of roles and processes and for relationships to be healed and clarified.

2) Pray against confusion and the spirit of competition and control.

3) Pray for cooperation and a focus on the best interests of orphaned and vulnerable children in Lesotho. And here I seriously mean the BEST interests. I don't propose that adoption is the best option for every orphaned and vulnerable child, but it is the best for some. (That's another blog post in itself.) The determination requires much wisdom and discernment.

4) Pray that God will act mightily to defend the weak and  the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and oppressed; rescue the weak and the needy (Psalm 8:2).

5) Pray that God will continue to flood P. with a peace that comes from knowing he is loved, he belongs, and he has an identity.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Ephesians 6:12

Can a Girl Really Not Have Too Many Shoes?

This post isn't really about adoption. Well, I guess it is, in a way, about adoption finances. Because adoptions cost like a gazillion dollars, and we still have about a quarter of a gazillion to save, so we are ON.A.BUDGET. An every-penny-has-a-name-rank-and-serial-number budget.

So, here's a hypothetical. Imagine my daughter is a dancer. (I SAID it was a hypothetical!) Imagine she dances at a private Christian school. (Sounds like the start of a joke, doesn't it. But I digress.) She's been dancing for a little over a year, and she likes it a lot because her friends dance, too, but it's probably not God's future career for her. She's in the B corps and she's very content with this because the A corps girls are just a bit intimidating.

Last year, when she started dancing (this is just making me laugh. Okay. Sorry. I'm better). When she started dancing she had to buy lots of gear. Well, everybody had to buy lots of gear because the dance teachers wanted everyone in the A corps and the B corps to match. Dance teams do that, you know. So we bought all the gear. Matchy-matchy. Adorable. Now it's her second year, and the A corps teacher wants all the girls in A corps and B corps to buy new shoes. Again. These are practically identical to last year's shoes, mind you, except the new version has a tiny bit more mesh tulle (it is tulle, isn't it?) on the front.

Sam did, in fact, dance at one point in her life. And she was amazing. And oh, so cute. But when she changed the steps to kick ball karate chop, we figured she needed a new discipline.


BTW...those sweet little tap shoes were USED.


Now, practical me thinks, "Why does she need new shoes? Her old shoes still fit. (Praise God her foot growth has slowed dramatically! Which probably means she's nearly done growing, too. Which probably means she won't reach the dance teacher's hoped for height of six feet.) Her old shoes are still in good shape. Her old shoes are almost identical. PLUS, she also has her practice shoes. She doesn't need to buy new shoes. Who needs three pairs of dance shoes?"

The mother-of-a-teenager thinks, "I don't want her to feel left out, however, or to be the ONLY ONE without new dance shoes. Just buy the shoes." (Full disclosure, that was actually father-of-a-teenager's thinking. He's such a good dad!)

So we tell Sam her coach dance teacher wants the team to buy new shoes. She says, "Why? My other shoes are still good. I don't need new shoes. Why can't we put that money toward the adoption?"

HALLELUJAH! That's my girl right there. She said that, she really, really, did! She can shop with the best of them, but she does not WANT new dance shoes!

So I email the dance teacher and ask if Sam can use her shoes from last year. Teacher replies, "Yes she can but she will not be allowed to dress for the A team should she make it."

Now, perhaps this is less complicated than I'm making it. But for some reason I have gone all Sybil on this and my different personalities can't agree on how to respond.

Busy Working Mom Personality: Okay, no new shoes, check. Now, who's doing carpool today?

Dance Mom Personality: A team? Seriously? She has a shot at A team? Is she that  good? She must be that good. Wow. I had no idea. But, when I really think about it, of course she's that good. She is my child. I'd better buy the shoes, just to show that I am behind her 100% and will do whatever it takes and...wow, maybe Juilliard is next. Then the New York Ballet. Then she'll buy me a new house.

Radical Christian Personality: Are you kidding? Say she DOES make the A team (which is unlikely because she'll probably be on a mission trip the day of tryouts), then you're telling me she can't dance if she doesn't have the right kind of shoes? How can anyone call themselves a Christian dance team and place more importance on shoes than they do on orphans? (Insert self-righteous head bob.)

Avoid Confrontation Personality: Just shut up and buy the shoes. There are worse things.

I know I can get all weird about money, an issue I attribute directly to my mom and her apoplectic fit when my brother took her credit card and bought a $150 pair of Jordans (ah, the 80's). And I'm probably thinking too much. But I'm really trying to figure this out. I do think the question stretches past shoes and into materialism, excess and consumerism, which, at least for me, can easily become an idol. Does the dance team REALLY need new gear every year? Does this really impact their success on the dance court floor? Does this impact their witness? (And if so, for good or for ill?) This issue of simplicity versus materialism and where-is-the-balance? is something God is trying to work out in me. But I don't know all the answers. So I'm seeking wise counsel.

What do you think?

The Muddle in the Middle

I have a confession to make. And I apologize in advance to all my reading and writing friends who thought you knew me and will now be forced to rethink whether to admit that you've ever once asked me for editing advice.

When I read, I sometimes jump ahead to the end.

I know. I said I was sorry. I can't help it. It's a sickness.

I don't read much. A page or two at most. Just enough to make sure that the characters I've grown to know and love survive to the end. If they all get killed off, why waste the emotional energy to keep reading through all the turmoil? I just want to know that the good guy wins and the bad guy gets his. Once I've got that sorted out, then I can settle in and enjoy the ride.

So, that may explain why just now, stuck as we are in the no-there-is-still-no-news-yes-I-know-it-has-been-a-long-time MIDDLE of this adoption process I have been contemplating taking something just a wee bit stronger than Tylenol PM to get me through the night. Can a sister get a hook up? Seriously.

I so desperately want to skip ahead to the end of the story. I want to know that we will survive this journey. I want to know that Pacman* will survive this journey. My heart is literally breaking for this little boy. Abandoned. Vulnerable. Desperately needing to belong, to be loved. How long must he wait? He needs a family. We need a little boy. Seems a relatively easy plot line, right?

In novel writing, middles are notoriously difficult. They must link the call to adventure in the beginning to the resolution at the end. Middles contain all those tests and trials that are meant to build character. I love reading a good middle - the more suspense the better. (So long as I know it all turns out okay at the end.) I'm always encouraging my writing students to add more difficulties, more problems, more tension. In story, conflict equals excitement. In real life, not so much fun.

Not only are we stuck in the middle, we are stuck in a SLOW middle. I'd be getting bored if it weren't so desperately heartbreaking. Just when I think I can't slog through another day of waiting, guess what? Another day of waiting. "Pace of story too slow." "Needs some action." I was hoping for a hi-lo adventure. Instead I fear we've landed in a Victorian epic. A long, drawn out treatise with lots of sighs and a fair amount of whining (mine).

The middle is hard. Hard, hard, tear-my-hair-out hard.

But I will believe - even when I'm crying and whining and asking "are we there YET?" and "how much longer?" - that God has this story well in hand. He's the author. He knows this struggle through the middle, and he's right here with us. He knows about the bureaucratic red tape and the unanswered emails and the months-long delays. And what's more, He's right there in the middle with Pacman. In the quiet loneliness of nighttime at the orphanage, He is there. When Pacman watches others meet their forever families while he is left behind, God is there. When Pacman wonders if he will ever again be loved or belong, God is there. "I will never leave you nor forsake you."

Yes, God knows our middle, but even better,  God knows how it resolves. He's even given us a sneak peek at the end - "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matt 5:4); "I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you" (John 14:18); "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away" (Rev. 21:4).

The middle is hard. The end is joy-filled. The middle is slow. The end is perfectly timed. The middle is filled with turmoil. The end is redeemed.

* Not his real name. Although it is catchy.

Random Thoughts about Patience

So, waiting stinks. Of all the fruits of the Spirit, patience is, I think, the least appealing. Everybody likes love, joy, peace. Those are the apples, strawberries, oranges of Galatians 5:22-23. Yum. Patiences is like a ... a key lime. Sour and unappetizing on its own. A key lime only masquerades as a fruit. In reality it needs sugar and cream cheese to be palatable.

Or tequila.

Ambrose Bierce defined patience as: A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue. Patience is the medicine of the righteous life. You know it's good for you, but like fish oil it tastes terrible and gives you the burps.

I am well practiced at counseling others to be patient. I'm good at it, even. I have the Scriptures and the stories to emphasize the truth that "those who wait on the Lord will find new strength" (Isaiah 40:13). I believe in the theory of patience, just not the actuality of it. There's a word for that, for someone who can talk the talk but can't walk the walk. A self-righteous liar liar with a big mouth, and also probably grossly obese. Oh, yeah - hypocrite.

So, yesterday I was thinking I need to practice my patience muscle. Because I want to believe, and I want to act like I believe, that God has control of every detail of this adoption, including the timing. That God is using this time of waiting to work mightily in P's heart and mind; in my heart and mind. That one day this waiting will bear GOOD fruit (apples, strawberries and oranges.) That He KNOWS about the obstructionistic government bureacrats who are currently mucking things up and He has them well in hand. (I'm also wanting to believe that if these bureacrats don't get their act together soon, then lightning is going to fly. 'Nough said.)

Unfortunately, practicing the patience muscle is about as much fun as running laps. It's boring, it's sweaty, and it gives me a stitch in my side. So yesterday I decided I might as well start running again. (I've run approximately four times since quitting the mini-marathon training last February. What was I saying about walking the walk?) My new goal is to run every day regularly until we travel. That'll teach me, won't it? If I'm in emotional agony with the waiting, I might as well be in physical agony, too. And besides, running is GOOD for me. (And it takes care of the hippo part of hypocrite.) I LIKE the way I feel when I'm running regularly. Not DURING the actual running part, of course, but later, when I'm finished and realize I don't have to run again for 24 hours.

That's Plan A. Plan B - key limes and tequila.

Words of Advice

It has been a tough day on the adoption front. We got word that the Department of Social Welfare in country has concerns about various and assorted matters, one of which has to do with P's orphanage, and that there has been "no forward movement on families who have already received a referral."

I ache for P. Is he getting enough to eat? Is there someone who will bandage his knee when he falls? Give him a hug before bedtime? Remind him he is loved? With every day that he spends in the orphanage I worry more and more about his emotional and spiritual health. When will he come home? Will we be able to help him overcome his hurts and his grief?

In the midst of my worries, I got a letter from a child I had previously worked with in foster-to-adopt. He was placed in foster care when he was seven years old. At that time, he struggled mightily with grief for his birth mother. He fought, literally fought, attaching to his adoptive family. He desperately wanted to be loved, but he was terrified. He'd been shuttled around for so long. So many fears, so many conflicting loyalties. He loved his birth mother; he was terrified to hear her name. He wanted to love his foster-to-adopt family; but what if they left him, too? I worked for Child Protective Services for three years, and I still can't express the depth of the emotional turmoil that for so many orphans is their "normal".

Fast-forward four years. Eleven years old; his adoption has been final for two years. By every standard - emotional, social, academic, physical, spiritual - he is thriving. He wanted me to know that "school is easy, now!" and his family was a 9 99/100 (because no one is perfect!) on a scale of ten. He wrote because he'd heard we are adopting and he wanted me to share his "Words of Advice" with our son. Printed in part below (emphasis mine):

"I am also adopted and when you stay with your new family more you'll be happier than you will be at first. Find out what you like best about your new family. Mrs. Thompson is really nice. (Smile). It always feels good to know your family loves you and will take care of you and will always keep you safe. Whatever they are doing is to help you get more used to their family, and try to get more close to them... Don't be afraid of them, don't be afraid to hug them because it's not as bad as you think it is and always know that they will love you for the rest of your life. If you go to therapy don't fight to try not to go because you need it and it helps very much. It always makes me feel better and happier after I go to therapy."

I grabbed on to these words like a lifeline. Adoption, for all its wonders, involves an element of tragedy. Any story that reads, "And then the judge said you could live with us," points to a deep, dark sadness somewhere in the plot. The child is an unwitting hero on a perilous journey. Right now, somewhere in an orphanage in Lesotho, P. is on that dangerous journey. And right now the only help I can send is my prayers.

But these "Words of Advice" from an eleven-year-old helped me remember the joy and the hope that also weaves through the stories of adoption. Because someday, P. will ...always know they will love you for the rest of your life."

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose (Romans 8:28).

When Wisdom Ends...

The Bible has a lot to say about wisdom. A keyword search for "wisdom" on biblegateway.net listed 219 results. I'm a planner, and also a bit of a perfectionist, so the admonition in Luke 14:28 - 30 about estimating the cost BEFORE building has always struck a warning chord in me.

But as Trent and I delve deeper into this adoption journey, I'm also confronted with the question: Where does wisdom end and faith versus fear begin? Because from a pragmatic viewpoint, international adoption doesn't seem especially wise. Sam is 13, a great kid, and, to be honest, parenting an only child has a lot of perks. Adding another child through international adoption will create some stress: 1) financially (adoption fees plus the cost of raising and schooling another child); 2) emotionally (attachment issues and parenting in general can wreak havok in families); and, 3) physically (twenty plus hours of travel time just to GET to Lesotho, plus the threat of illness and injury along the way). It's no wonder well-meaning friends have asked, "Um, are you sure?"

So where's the line between wisdom and faith versus fear? We confront this same question about our mission trip to Tijuana. This year we promoted the mission trip to the Christian school where I work. Not a lot of takers, to be honest. What I got instead where a lot of rebukes. "Haven't you heard that Mexico is NOT SAFE?" "It is irresponsible of you to promote a service trip to MEXICO! Are you foolish?" No matter that we've been to Tijuana five years running, are in regular contact with those who live every day in Tijuana, and our critics' only knowledge of Mexico is what they've heard on the news (for those of you not familiar with Mexico and who also watch the news, Tijuana (Baja county) and Chihuahua county (where the news reports are centered) are in different parts of the country).

Sometimes we must step forward with action that seems to defy wisdom. Adoption. Mission trips. Service. Charitable giving. Heck, even venturing out in a thunderstorm to go to church. When wisdom ends, our only decision is whether we will venture forth in faith...or stay home in fear.

For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength. 1 Cor. 1:25.

Paperwork Purgatory

I refreshed my email at least five dozen times between 5 pm and 10 pm last night. Our home study social worker said she'd email the first draft of our homestudy this week. I'm trying not to be impatient, but this home study has been two months in the making (from gathering paperwork through interviews and now waiting for the write up), and until we receive the final copy, we're stuck in limbo.

I knew the waiting would prove a difficult part of the adoption journey, but I didn't realize until yesterday just how little control I have over the waiting process. At least when we were gathering documents for the home study and the dossier I felt like I was doing something - I had a plan and a purpose and a checklist. Now the plan is to wait - wait for the homestudy, wait for USCIS, wait for the agency to submit our dossier, wait for the Lesotho government, wait for our son.

It is a moment-by-moment prayer to give all timing and control to God. We commited our adoption journey to him before we even began our initial application - this little boy was His son before he will be ours, and God's plans are perfect. So we wait. And  I refresh the email on more time...

Colossians 1:12 - So that you may have great endurance and patience and joyfully giving thanks to the Father who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints.

Stepping off a cliff

Last night Trent and I completed our initial application to Americans for African Adoptions with the prayer of adopting a preschool-aged boy from Lesotho, Africa. Last week I only vaguely knew where to find Lesotho on a map, and today my heart is heavy for the Basotho people and the challenges they face. Last week Trent was uncertain and reluctant about adoption, and this week he's leading the plunge to bring home our son.

Our prayers:
1) That God will protect and care for our son. It's kind of freaking me out that I have a child so far away in Africa - without me!
2) That our son will have a heart that is eager to give and receive love.
3) That God will help us care for him once he's adopted and will help us heal physical, mental and emotional wounds.
4) That God's hand will direct the timing and all the paperwork.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
   if I settle on the far side of the sea,
¹⁰ even there your hand will guide me,
   your right hand will hold me fast. Psalm 139:9-10