Lately, I have been crying a lot. But this isn't a bad thing.
Last night as we sat down to schedule our next round of payments and processing with the adoption, Tom and I had a very hard conversation: We are scared and frustrated to move forward because we don't know what is going to happen. We are about to make a huge payment. It is hard to invest all of your time, emotion, and money (lots of it) when you don't have any control or clue over the end result. Tom said it might be easier if we knew who our kids are and had the faces and names to hold onto and an idea of what our family would look like on the other side of all these difficult things. It became very clear as our fears were discussed that we live in a world that has minimized the risk and cost of having faith. We are called to stake everything on uncertain end circumstances-- all because we are trusting in a certain God. We pretend like we are in control of most areas of our lives. Now that we are faced with this risk that is so costly, our faith is really put into action. Do we really believe this is what God has called us to? And if so, do we trust Him with the end result that we cannot see? Even if it turns out differently than we ever thought? Every time we have one of these hard talks, I cry-- not out of sadness or fear, but because the love God has given me for our kids breaks my heart. My heart breaks because I am not with them-- because perhaps they are wondering where we are and what is taking so long. Because I cannot be there to protect them and provide for them. And because I cannot yet tell them that they belong and have a purpose. All of these pains in turn, teach me how God's heart breaks for us. In the midst of all of this, I am learning how costly it is for God to love us unconditionally. How much it hurts, but how beautifully and joyfully sacrificial it is. How much He wants us to know we belong, we have a purpose, and we are loved.
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Nothing about adoption is comfortable. Nothing.
It is tedious, detailed, painstakingly slow. It is costly in so many ways-- literally, emotionally, consuming time and energy. All of this surrounds us now-- not to mention that at the end of this process, we get to begin an even more complicated process-- the adventure of raising children. While I haven't experienced this yet, I can only imagine that the costs we are currently feeling will be exponentially increased. At the end of these days, I get to have a full night's sleep and an hour of silently curling up with whatever book I happen to be reading. I know this is a luxury that will disappear when when we bring children home. When our kids finally come home, it won't be just me and Tom (two somewhat well-adjusted adults in our own culture) trying to navigate the newness of a our family and all the emotional entanglements and changes that will come. We will also have our children who will be dealing with far, far weightier adjustments of culture shock, new authority figures, and a family (and at a developmentally critical time). I have no disillusionments about how much comfort I am choosing to forgo. The world tells us to seek our own comfort, but that isn't why we are here. We are here to be poured out-- not to get to the end of the race and say, "Well, God, I made myself as comfortable as possible." As a runner, I have finished too many distance races where I looked back and wondered if I could have pushed myself harder. Where I examined each leg of my race, each mile, and saw times where I pulled back-- rested. Costly seconds wasted. Time that cannot be regained or rewritten. Limited and urgent. Our lives-- each phase, each season, a leg of a race. I don't want to look back at any part of it and see that I withheld any effort or strength or giving because I was preserving myself. Preserving my time, my energy, my emotions, my comfort. This is one reason that I gladly and joyfully walk this path with Tom-- adoption (and really, all parenthood) is a pouring out of absolutely everything that we have. It is a laying down of our lives for others. |
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