Adoption

My caseworker sits down beside me on the couch and I never know where in the world the meeting is going to go.  Today's agenda is Pip and longterm plans - but I never know this until she pulls her haphazard binder from her overstuffed bag.

It seems that everyone who matters is fairly certain that Pip will not be going back to her parents.  And given the last year, that seems reasonable to assume.  Reasonable, at least, to a reasonable outsider.  Slightly less reasonable to me who has seen who wonky and illogical and mysterious and messed-up the system is.  But in any case, that is what we are supposed to be planning and preparing for.

So she hands me a phone number and says I am supposed to call the adoption intake worker.  I will have to ask for adoption paperwork which we need to fill out as soon as possible.  Then we will be put on a list to attend adoption classes and eventually have our home study completed.  Ya know, again.  Because that makes a lot of sense.

But the thing is, my caseworker can't answer the important questions.  What if the case doesn't go the way everyone thinks it will?  What if Pip goes back to mom and dad?  What if she goes to another family?  How do I fill out stacks of paperwork, attend training, prepare for her to be mine forever and still protect my heart in case it all takes a different direction?  How do I trust in the face of so much uncertainty?  How do I love and not lose my mind?

She screams and thrashes in her sleep at the obnoxious time of just-as-I’m-slipping-blissfully-out-of-consciousness-myself.  Eyes closed, she kicks the side of the crib, tormented.  My words do nothing to soothe her, my gentle touch just makes her writhe that much more.  So I pull her out of bed, change the scenery, distract her with a cup of milk.  She studies my face while seems to wonder what we are doing awake in the dark of night - as do I.  Minutes later her head burrows into my chest and her weight sinks into me with trust and sleepiness.  I would breathe in the smell of her, if her frizzy curls weren’t already tickling my nose.  And I am honoured to be the one holding her in as many of these moments as she needs.

Two Daughters

The cry that gets me up of the couch turns out to just be a whimper in her sleep.  I've gotten off the couch an hour into the coveted quiet of evening and tiptoed into the girls' room for nothing.  But it must be one of the very best nothings I have ever been privileged to take in.  One sleeps on her back, arms above her head and lips still parted from where the soother was released in slumber.  I smile at her peaceful perfection in the center of the white crib before turning around.  My gaze searches for the other, pushed up into the corner of her matching crib, bum in the air, blankets gathered and clutched beneath her, curls splayed in the halo of sleep.  I have two daughters.  The words still seems surreal.  I have been entrusted with these two precious, beautiful, valuable, delightful, inherently lovable souls.  May His grace fill me with wisdom and patience and strength.  May His grace overflow to them, for I know I will not ever be enough.

Papa, your grace changes diapers and paces with discontent babies.  It comforts a whimpering toddler and patiently remains present to a tantruming one.  It does laundry incessantly and prepares food ongoingly.  It makes bottles and restocks diaper bags.  It hugs and kisses.  It reads and explores and crafts.  It answers questions and finds missing shoes.  It makes soccer snack and refills water bottles.  It tucks in and tucks in again.  It isn't flowery or obscure or lofty.  It is alive and active, living and loving and mighty.  It is present and it is enough.  Enough for me, and enough for these five littles.

Heart Transplant

Every moment of anguish vacuums the joy out of the corners of my heart. Tears come or worse, they don't.  Pain gets deeper, breaths get shallower and I wish I had the words.  Any words, dammit.  

It feels empty.  But it isn't, is it?  My grief is not the absence of joy, it is the overwhelming loss of it.  The greater the joy was at the one end of the spectrum, the more encompassing the sorrow is at this end.  I want to wish away the pain, but I fear it would take with it the memories.  Maybe I can't live without either.  Because what-was was wonderful and what-is has to be.  

Truth be told, this isn't the first time I have wondered at His goodness.  Not the first time I have doubted His ways.  I didn't like it last time either or the time before, but oh my soul, did it tangle me up in my Father's love.  

Driven to my knees, sure that this time it was too much.  This time I might not see His glory again, His grace again.  How I long to be proven wrong by His faithfulness, because this time the only thing worse than being wrong is being right.  

It is hard.  Too hard, in fact.  But it is not over.  I refuse to believe this is the one situation He cannot redeem, that this is the one where He washes His hands of me and says 'you're on your own.'  

Most days I beg Him to take this burden from me.  To give me His yoke that is easy and His burden that is light.  Yet I know, in my heart of hearts, that He lets nothing go to waste in the shaping and perfecting of my faith.  I know because of the whispers.  Somedays I barely catch them as they float by on the rhythms of Your glory.  Somedays they arrest me in Your presence and I am known.  

The whispers find the cracks.  Lord, they pour and trickle and puddle in all the right corners of my heart.  And I know that this sorrow today, this is yet another fissure into which You spill Your whispers.  I know it even as I see that my words have morphed into whispers back to You.  

I don't want a heart transplant, I want to see what You do with this one You're cupping in Your hands.  

A Week Without

Day One: Her mom's joy and her dad's pride are enough to carry me through this weirdly anticlimactic day I've been dreading and waiting for for months.  I am not her momma anymore.

Day Two: Texts from her new home fill some of the emptiness in my heart.  As do the countless expressions of support and prayer from family and the reminder of the Truth on which I stand.  I am not alone anymore.

Day Three: The missing grips me and I bury my head in another novel; maybe someone else's story will hurt less than mine today.  I am not strong anymore.

Day Four: I know that only time can heal, but time is not cooperating.  It crawls lazily and nothing I do succeeds in hurrying it along.  I kick it once more anyway, because I have to try.  I am not gracious anymore.

Day Five: It aches below my ribcage but above my stomach.  How does it feel like both a mass and a vacuum all at once?  I am not whole anymore.

Day Six: I slow myself down on the outside, trying to live in each moment.  Maybe if I soak in the goodness of the precious ones around me, I won't dwell on the one who is no longer mine to hold.  It almost works.  I am not calm anymore.

Day Seven: Is it a bit better today or is it just the chocolate talking?  Either way, distractions start to distract and joys start to bring joy.  I am not absorbed anymore.

First Birthday

It's too bad I'm ready, because when I was up to my eyeballs in scrubbing toilets, doing dishes, and sweeping floors, I was just busily preparing for my baby's first birthday party.  Now the house is neat and tidy and my heart has time to unravel into a selfish mess.  Every milestone is a reminder of the ones I will never see.  Every smile a countdown to the last.  This celebration just points to all the years of parties I will never be invited to.  Because I can love her like she's mine, but she's firstly someone else's.  It's not us or them.  It's them and then, if need be, us.  This daily lesson in being second is more like having my heart trampled on than I would like to admit.  And it colours every moment, making it more difficult and more necessary than ever to behold His glory.

Incongruent

Papa, the glory of the trees seems incongruent with the grief of my days.  And yet you are the God of both and my head knows that you are good in all of it.  Grant me the grace today, to be sure of what I hope for and certain of what I do not see.  And may I find my glory not in the finite plans I make, nor the fickle reality that is right now, but in the knowing of my infinite, glorious, unfathomable God.

Impossibly Slow

My heart decelerates to an impossibly slow rate, each beat exaggeratedly dragging on and allowing my mind far too much time for far too many thoughts.  The first isn't even fully formed before the second knocks it down and the third clambers desperately over them both.  My head is working out the completely irrelevant logistics of what clothes to pack, what toys to send, and how the move-out date fits into our schedule, so that it doesn't have to focus on how exactly I will hand one of my own over to her own and walk away.  The incurably long lulls between each protracted, plodding pulse move time in the most twisted of slo-motion movies.  I watch myself read and reread the email and marvel that I am not crying, not shaking, not panicking.  You can do this, I tell myself.  I hear myself saying that I'm so glad the agency has no absolutes; so glad everything is case-by-case.  A few short months ago, on paper and by the numbers, this was never 'supposed' to end this way.  But how great for H that she has earned the right to parent.  How wonderful for Little Pip to be able to be back with her mom, her dad, her brother, her grandparents, her heritage, her family, her home.  There are more words coming out of my mouth about the wisdom of the powers that be and of the One to Whom Power Belongs.  But the thought that clambers desperately over all the others, is the one I cannot say aloud: I love her deeply and I don't know that I can want what's best for her more than I want what's best for me.  Tonight my grief outweighs her joy.  May she forgive my selfish soul.

Grief

It sweeps over me in the oddest of places and I wonder what they think of the lady with the stroller, crying in the line for pancakes.  It's awkward and inconsiderate in its timing and refuses to be contained to the corners of my day and my life in which is would be more appropriate or at least less inconvenient.  But please don't try to take this grief from me.  Sure, it hinders my joy.  Certainly, it dampens my carefree spirit.  But, oh, does it shield me from arrogance and ignorance!  It shapes my words with gentleness and opens my eyes with empathy.  It makes my soul bleed compassion and acceptance.  I know it makes you uncomfortable that I can't talk about this without tearing up, but please please don't take this grief from me.  It is what I need to be what she needs.

Catch-22

The trick about it all, is that I need to love you as my child, which doesn't sound that tricky.  But loving you as my child means that I can't imagine a day without you, while I work towards a life without you.  Because they say what's best for you is to learn to love and trust me for now, so that you can learn to love and trust your mom and dad forever, when they are ready.  And this all sounds very reasonable until that moment when I do love you and I realize that I am hoping and praying and working towards something that will break my heart into a million pieces.  Because, Lord help me, I love you as my child.

Beauty for Ashes

Peace snuck up on me as She snuggled in for her bottle and The Three lounged around us on the couch in various stages of planes/rockets/landing pads construction.  You said, "See?  See how full your heart can be?  This is of me."  And from the seed of peace was born a fragile sprout of joy.

My heart wavers, but my feet stand solidly upon this confession: You bestow a crown of beauty for these ashes, joy for this mourning, and praise for this despair.  You are Redeemer and this grief is not the one grief you cannot redeem.

I will not be shaken.  May my heart join me up here on this Rock so that we may sing for joy.

Joy

Choosing joy because You are big enough to bring it forth from these ashes.  Choosing joy because it is only I who cannot see the ending You hold confidently in Your hands.  Choosing joy because she deserves a momma who delights in her.  Choosing joy because I will not colour her world with my grief.  Choosing joy because it is the weapon of the overcomer.  Choosing joy because You rejoice over me with singing.  In the very choosing of joy, I recognize the ever-present grief that this life embodies, but I refuse to give it the power.  This day I will live joyfully.

Bedtime

Sweaty neck curls your dark hair

Rhythmic sucking slows as breathing deepens

Eyes gaze out the glass until they glass over

Pink pajamas crease against mine 

All is right in this moment 

Except that the wrong heartbeat is lulling you to sleep

I wouldn't have it any other way

And yet I desperately would

Pip

I feel you
though your hair escapes my touch
I see you
only in the periphery
vanishing when I try to focus
You live in my dreams of night and day
my moments of distraction
my deep hopeful corners
my reflexes and instincts

But you don't live at the table for supper
in the backseat of the van
or amongst the cars that drive across the carpet

Yet

Four

"I have four," he said.

"Me too," I replied, feeling foolish the moment the words left my lips.

Because I don't, and yet Four lives always in the shadows on the edge of my daily chaos.  More real than I give it credit for.

Vague

All evening the incomplete thoughts were just below the surface.  Each the beginning of a question that never fully formed.  Each more of a vague nagging than a concrete feeling.  If the questions would have been finished, there would not have been any answers.  If the feelings would have been labelled, there would have been only the same wondering hope as their source.

I don't know who you are, how you will come into our lives, or when to expect you.  I don't logically even know that you are real.  But my heart sure says you are and I miss you.

Luke 1:34

In the waiting, there are so many questions.  I can list off the reasons why I know this is my calling.  But the list of how's is even longer.  How will Bernie and I ever be of one mind?  How do I wait?  How long will I have to wait?  How will I know when it is time?  How will it start?  How should I approach it?  How can I prepare?  How will we afford it?  How do I stay passionate for the long haul?  How do I overcome the doubts?  How do I cling to a vision that is not concrete?

Mary's words echo through my mind as I wait and wonder, "But how will this be?"

God of all passions, gifts, and dreams
God of my specific calling
Misunderstood God
God of Mystery
I don't want to question or doubt or undermine You
Lord I believe, help me overcome my unbelief

Barefoot and Pajama-Clad

The way your cries woke me in the middle of the night, yet I came up empty in my search for you.  The way my heart longs to comfort you, but I find my self barefoot and pajama-clad in the hallway, wondering why I am out of bed.  The way I hesitate to share this haunting, only taking a deep breath to say words when I know my friend can listen compassionately at that moment.

This is close to my heart.  You are close to my heart.

Hallowed Haunting

you are in the silent cry
that calls when everyone is sleeping

you are in the instinct to look over my shoulder
when I can see all three up ahead

you are in the noiseless thump
that beckons from an empty room

you are in the headcount
that comes up eerily short

signs of you are in my heart
in my house
in my past
in my passion
in my dreams
in my being
in my prayers
in my hopes

there is nothing tangible
claiming you are near
or even coming
but this hallowed haunting
has me living in hopeful anticipation
of one day holding you
not just in my heart
but in my arms