We are on the edge of a series of adventures.
And yet, a piece of my heart is absolutely, unequivocally terrified! Deep-down, shaking-at-the-roots, want-to-sob terror. Because in the last 17 months of research, planning, working, training, fundraising, dialoguing, networking, watching, learning, and waiting, I have been inundated with some harsh truths about adoption. They all boil down to this simple formula:
One of the best days of our life is going to be one of the worst of hers.
She doesn’t know that it is a good beginning for her. She doesn’t know that she is getting what older orphans in China dream about. She doesn’t know that she will now have a mother and a father and two sisters and a brother. And grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. She doesn’t know that the medical care available to her in America is going to give her so many opportunities. She doesn’t know that she will have a hope and a future.
All she will know in that moment is loss. Deep, profound, terrifying loss.
My terror is her terror.
I am terrified for her pain. She will be so scared and so sad. I will desperately want to comfort her, but I know as a mother that not all kids are comforted the same way. And I won’t know how to comfort her in those first moments. I will fall back on logic and practicality and experience and (let’s be honest) some good ol’ fashioned processed sugar. But I won’t yet know the reality of who she is and that will limit me. I am terrified of that limit.
And what will follow are days, weeks, months, even years where I will get to help her learn to trust me and to work on overcoming some of that pain. Not all of it. Because some of that pain will never leave. Some of that pain will be a part of her forever.
And in my most honest moments, I am terrified of how hard it might be to convince this darling little girl how much I love her. To step outside of myself and be the mother that she needs me to a be, the mother that I have never yet had to be: a mother to a little girl who has already lost a mama and a country.
I am being this honest because I don’t want to be naive about the journey that we are on or about how, in many ways, the efforts of the last year are only a drop in the bucket. I also want to be able to look back in 3 months or 3 years and be able to see how far we have come. How God has sustained us in the midst of the pain. Because He promises us that: sustenance. Not an escape from the pain but a directed path through the middle of it. He has led us this far, and one step at a time, I will continue to follow.
- Our first international flight.
- Our first time off this continent.
- Our first adoption.
- Our first time flying (12 hours!) with a toddler.
- Our first time as a family of 6.
And yet, a piece of my heart is absolutely, unequivocally terrified! Deep-down, shaking-at-the-roots, want-to-sob terror. Because in the last 17 months of research, planning, working, training, fundraising, dialoguing, networking, watching, learning, and waiting, I have been inundated with some harsh truths about adoption. They all boil down to this simple formula:
One of the best days of our life is going to be one of the worst of hers.
She doesn’t know that it is a good beginning for her. She doesn’t know that she is getting what older orphans in China dream about. She doesn’t know that she will now have a mother and a father and two sisters and a brother. And grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. She doesn’t know that the medical care available to her in America is going to give her so many opportunities. She doesn’t know that she will have a hope and a future.
All she will know in that moment is loss. Deep, profound, terrifying loss.
My terror is her terror.
I am terrified for her pain. She will be so scared and so sad. I will desperately want to comfort her, but I know as a mother that not all kids are comforted the same way. And I won’t know how to comfort her in those first moments. I will fall back on logic and practicality and experience and (let’s be honest) some good ol’ fashioned processed sugar. But I won’t yet know the reality of who she is and that will limit me. I am terrified of that limit.
And what will follow are days, weeks, months, even years where I will get to help her learn to trust me and to work on overcoming some of that pain. Not all of it. Because some of that pain will never leave. Some of that pain will be a part of her forever.
And in my most honest moments, I am terrified of how hard it might be to convince this darling little girl how much I love her. To step outside of myself and be the mother that she needs me to a be, the mother that I have never yet had to be: a mother to a little girl who has already lost a mama and a country.
I am being this honest because I don’t want to be naive about the journey that we are on or about how, in many ways, the efforts of the last year are only a drop in the bucket. I also want to be able to look back in 3 months or 3 years and be able to see how far we have come. How God has sustained us in the midst of the pain. Because He promises us that: sustenance. Not an escape from the pain but a directed path through the middle of it. He has led us this far, and one step at a time, I will continue to follow.
Beautiful truth. Thanks for sharing your heart Amanda.
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