Let's be extremely honest. I have not blogged in a while -- a long while -- because I have been running away from things. Blogging - writing, really -- is one way I process stuff and therefore doing it would be facing the things I have been trying to avoid. So I have spent the last 2.4 months hiding from myself, my husband, and most especially my God.
This does not work out as well as you might expect.
What, exactly, have I been hiding from, you might ask? Adoption, I would have to answer. And no one would fault you for wondering what the heck I mean by hiding from something that all my previous writing would indicate that I have yearned for for several years. Why, then, when everything seemed in train to get the proverbial ball rolling, would I suddenly flee in the opposite direction as though pursued by rabid wolves?
Indeed.
In my arrogance, I thought I could step up and do this thing. I had a very "Go Big or Go Home" mentality. But when it came down to it, when an actual child was in front of us, when the question wasn't "will you adopt," but "will you adopt him?" I did not "go big." And part of what I've been hiding from is the realization that I am much, much weaker than I would like to admit and that as much as I would like to blithely tell everyone to "just trust God," I appear to have a long way to go in this department.
The other part of this shindig that I've run away from is God. Hiding always seems like a good idea when you are afraid you will be asked to do what you are not sure you can do. I did not want to see or hear from God, just in case He was a little too clear on what he wanted me to do.
Then there was my husband, who finally got on the bandwagon only to find a wife who quite literally lost it. That does a little number on your confidence, let me tell you, and doesn't exactly build up the confidence destroyer, either.
It all came to a head about 2 weeks ago. I had been hiding so efficiently that my husband didn't even know what was going on. For some odd reason, I got on the photolisting page of the agency we'd been working with and discovered that the little boy we'd been considering was gone. This meant he had probably been matched with someone else. I should have felt relieved.
Instead, I felt annihilated. All the failure, the spiritual duplicity, the ugly facets of my personality that I had been trying to hard not to see, burst wide open on me and I knew, without a doubt, that I had failed God utterly. With all the clarity of hindsight, I looked back over the whole situation and saw a child whose medical needs were negligible at best, who was as close to perfect as we could ask for, and who I had rejected out of fear and a pathological need to control things in my life.
Epic fail.
The dam burst one evening and I sobbed to my husband all the crap I'd been holding inside, the failure, the knowledge of my own weakness and fear, the smallness of my faith, I told him I felt like I'd failed a major test -- that God had called me and I turned away, indifferent to the plight of His children, consumed with my own selfish junk, afraid to step out in faith into what was patently not my comfort zone.
For I week I lived like this, bowed down under the weight of my failure. In the midst of this, I prayed for a second chance. I knew the child we'd been considering was lost to us, but I thought maybe in a few months we might find another child that we could commit to. I wasn't terribly hopeful -- I just hoped God wouldn't give up on us, on me.
Then, a chance peek at the photo listing again and there he was -- our boy. Back on the list for who knows what reason. A second chance? It sure feels like it.
But now I can't get my husband to even consider it -- and this may be where the real damage lies. My sin may have submarined everything. This I know: God doesn't need us to carry out His purposes. But what a privilege it would be if we could be part of them.
So here I am, in limbo again.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Gut Twister
After my prayer/letter/vent yesterday, I actually felt a certain calmness overtake me. For most of the day I felt okay -- lighter and even slightly happy. I also felt a rising confidence that we could actually pull this thing off.
Then, the email.
It was short -- an update that had recently come through, just translated, and it said essentially 2 things: 1. he is not interested in studying and 2. usually a steady temperament, but occasionally tantrums to the point of "convulsions."
I got cold all over.
The first part is just confusing. I know nothing of the expectations in a Chinese kindergarten. We are talking about a 4 year old, after all, and I have no clue whether this means he can't sit for 2 hours and copy characters or he would prefer to play, or what...? I wouldn't expect many 4 year olds to "study." But my over-thinking brain immediately began throwing up alarming possibilities: ADD? Delay? Oppositional/Defiant Disorder? Impairment? (see? I am really good at this). WHAT COULD IT MEAN? I mean, really: what a weird thing to say about a 4 year old.
The second part was frankly disturbing. The agency said the translator says the word is not the one used for seizures. So I guess that's good, but they are going to try to get some clarification on that because even the translator wasn't sure what they meant. And certainly all kids have tantrums from time to time. But again, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? Everything up to this point said "quiet child, shy child, good learner, sweet disposition, etc." Now this. And of course, no context to help fill in details. Has he been removed from the foster family? Are the tantrums as a result of a major transition? Are violent tantrums something new? Is there another trigger for this behavior?
All my peace, all my courage, blown to smithereens. Because the truth is, it could mean something, or it could mean nothing. And I am VERY uncomfortable with ambiguity. I like surety, accuracy, definitive statements, verified facts.
Not much of that here. We're operating off about 8 minutes of video and one written report dated nearly 2 years ago. And of course, the update. That's all we have on which to base our decision. My stomach has been in a knot since yesterday evening.
The truth is, I don't know how this will play out. And I am on tenterhooks. Undertake, Lord. Your servant is weak and I can't see my hand before my face. I need you, your insight, your assurance, your guidance. I really really really can't do this alone.
Intervene, Lord Jesus. Be a light in this situation so that we know what to do.
Then, the email.
It was short -- an update that had recently come through, just translated, and it said essentially 2 things: 1. he is not interested in studying and 2. usually a steady temperament, but occasionally tantrums to the point of "convulsions."
I got cold all over.
The first part is just confusing. I know nothing of the expectations in a Chinese kindergarten. We are talking about a 4 year old, after all, and I have no clue whether this means he can't sit for 2 hours and copy characters or he would prefer to play, or what...? I wouldn't expect many 4 year olds to "study." But my over-thinking brain immediately began throwing up alarming possibilities: ADD? Delay? Oppositional/Defiant Disorder? Impairment? (see? I am really good at this). WHAT COULD IT MEAN? I mean, really: what a weird thing to say about a 4 year old.
The second part was frankly disturbing. The agency said the translator says the word is not the one used for seizures. So I guess that's good, but they are going to try to get some clarification on that because even the translator wasn't sure what they meant. And certainly all kids have tantrums from time to time. But again, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? Everything up to this point said "quiet child, shy child, good learner, sweet disposition, etc." Now this. And of course, no context to help fill in details. Has he been removed from the foster family? Are the tantrums as a result of a major transition? Are violent tantrums something new? Is there another trigger for this behavior?
All my peace, all my courage, blown to smithereens. Because the truth is, it could mean something, or it could mean nothing. And I am VERY uncomfortable with ambiguity. I like surety, accuracy, definitive statements, verified facts.
Not much of that here. We're operating off about 8 minutes of video and one written report dated nearly 2 years ago. And of course, the update. That's all we have on which to base our decision. My stomach has been in a knot since yesterday evening.
The truth is, I don't know how this will play out. And I am on tenterhooks. Undertake, Lord. Your servant is weak and I can't see my hand before my face. I need you, your insight, your assurance, your guidance. I really really really can't do this alone.
Intervene, Lord Jesus. Be a light in this situation so that we know what to do.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Wrestling, Part Deux
Irony: You pray about adopting a little person for literally years and when your husband finally comes around, gets so on-board with the idea that he is looking for a local instructor so he can learn Chinese to communicate with his new son, and you suddenly fall prey to a huge, paralyzing case of the I-Can'ts.
Oh yes. I did. Please understand, God, that I don't like being this way. I hate this over-developed Fight-or-Flight response that I seem to have, the one that makes it almost impossible to sleep at night, the one that is giving me both heartburn and diarrhea (TMI? sorry.) The one that makes me feel like I can't quite breathe right and may break into a bout of hyperventilation at any moment. The one that has driven me to the treadmill every day for the last 9 days in a desperate attempt to simply exercise myself into some kind of Zen.
God, you know my heart is in the right place. I so want to do this, but ACTUALLY DOING IT is looming very huge right now. I can't even explain why I am suddenly wracked with fear. Here, though, are some of the highlights:
Conflict. I cringe in the face of conflict. Loud voices and unhappy people make me want to curl up in a ball. This is not my invariable response, but it is in my repertoire. God, I am most afraid of how our children will react. I am most afraid of how our son will react since he is most likely the one getting a roommate and he can have an explosive temper and he is the one most like me -- not at all down with change. He is often deeply suspicious of anything different or new. As am I.
Change. Oh Lord, I fear change. If I sit down and lay it out I can sort of see how it would be overcomeable, but change of this magnitude frightens me. I can't form a picture in my head of how it will all be, once the ship has sailed. How will our family dynamic be altered? And you know, Lord, that this is not just an adoption thing. I went through this every time I discovered I was pregnant and every time I brought home a new baby. And some of those changes were cataclysmic. How I envied people who just gave birth and went right back to their normal lives with barely a hiccup. Why did/does it always have to be like an F5 tornado for me? I am afraid of this blowing-apart of our family and the corresponding era of reconstruction which can (and has) taken upwards of a year to complete. I am afraid of being in flux for so long, of that devastating disequilibrium.
Conspicuousness. We are going to look different, this I know. Mostly I am okay with this, but I am having bizarre flashbacks to high school where I simultaneously and somewhat desperately wanted both the spotlight and complete invisibility. I am fearful of how I will handle the looks, the inevitable questions, the possibly-not-intentionally-rude comments. I am somewhat fearful of how I will handle a child who has (as yet) no history with us. Those nights when I tell my children about their baby years will not include him -- I don't know anything about how he liked his first taste of baby food, or what silly things he might have done in the middle of a store, or how potty training went for him. What will I say? How can I help him be all right with that vacuum?
Lord, last night I felt you were talking to me through Ephesians. You spoke of reconciliation, of creating one heavenly family in the church, of breaking down walls that separate people. I so much want to move forward here, God. I want to be obedient. I want to be joyfully obedient. I badly need your peace, and with your peace, some courage. And joy too, Father, would not come amiss, but I will settle for peace and courage and be content to wait for joy.
And then there's this: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9
I do not want to suffer from depraved indifference. There's a little boy -- a baby, really -- in China who needs us. He needs a mama and a daddy. He needs people to pray for him, to bring him to Jesus, to train him up in the way he should go. Who will go, if not us? Lord I am claiming Joshua 1:9: be with us here. Be obviously with us here, because your servant is weak and small and fearful. Because I think you have designed this whole thing to underscore the fact that I cannot do this life alone, though I certainly act sometimes like I can. Well now, I totally can't and I am falling at your feet every day, every hour, to tell you I need courage, I need peace. I need you.
Amen.
Oh yes. I did. Please understand, God, that I don't like being this way. I hate this over-developed Fight-or-Flight response that I seem to have, the one that makes it almost impossible to sleep at night, the one that is giving me both heartburn and diarrhea (TMI? sorry.) The one that makes me feel like I can't quite breathe right and may break into a bout of hyperventilation at any moment. The one that has driven me to the treadmill every day for the last 9 days in a desperate attempt to simply exercise myself into some kind of Zen.
God, you know my heart is in the right place. I so want to do this, but ACTUALLY DOING IT is looming very huge right now. I can't even explain why I am suddenly wracked with fear. Here, though, are some of the highlights:
Conflict. I cringe in the face of conflict. Loud voices and unhappy people make me want to curl up in a ball. This is not my invariable response, but it is in my repertoire. God, I am most afraid of how our children will react. I am most afraid of how our son will react since he is most likely the one getting a roommate and he can have an explosive temper and he is the one most like me -- not at all down with change. He is often deeply suspicious of anything different or new. As am I.
Change. Oh Lord, I fear change. If I sit down and lay it out I can sort of see how it would be overcomeable, but change of this magnitude frightens me. I can't form a picture in my head of how it will all be, once the ship has sailed. How will our family dynamic be altered? And you know, Lord, that this is not just an adoption thing. I went through this every time I discovered I was pregnant and every time I brought home a new baby. And some of those changes were cataclysmic. How I envied people who just gave birth and went right back to their normal lives with barely a hiccup. Why did/does it always have to be like an F5 tornado for me? I am afraid of this blowing-apart of our family and the corresponding era of reconstruction which can (and has) taken upwards of a year to complete. I am afraid of being in flux for so long, of that devastating disequilibrium.
Conspicuousness. We are going to look different, this I know. Mostly I am okay with this, but I am having bizarre flashbacks to high school where I simultaneously and somewhat desperately wanted both the spotlight and complete invisibility. I am fearful of how I will handle the looks, the inevitable questions, the possibly-not-intentionally-rude comments. I am somewhat fearful of how I will handle a child who has (as yet) no history with us. Those nights when I tell my children about their baby years will not include him -- I don't know anything about how he liked his first taste of baby food, or what silly things he might have done in the middle of a store, or how potty training went for him. What will I say? How can I help him be all right with that vacuum?
Lord, last night I felt you were talking to me through Ephesians. You spoke of reconciliation, of creating one heavenly family in the church, of breaking down walls that separate people. I so much want to move forward here, God. I want to be obedient. I want to be joyfully obedient. I badly need your peace, and with your peace, some courage. And joy too, Father, would not come amiss, but I will settle for peace and courage and be content to wait for joy.
And then there's this: "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9
I do not want to suffer from depraved indifference. There's a little boy -- a baby, really -- in China who needs us. He needs a mama and a daddy. He needs people to pray for him, to bring him to Jesus, to train him up in the way he should go. Who will go, if not us? Lord I am claiming Joshua 1:9: be with us here. Be obviously with us here, because your servant is weak and small and fearful. Because I think you have designed this whole thing to underscore the fact that I cannot do this life alone, though I certainly act sometimes like I can. Well now, I totally can't and I am falling at your feet every day, every hour, to tell you I need courage, I need peace. I need you.
Amen.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
In the Balance
Reviewing some files this past week. Children's files. Actual people. I do not know why this feels so weird, but it does. Looking at kids' histories and pictures, weighing needs and potentialities, trying to get a feel for the long term.
But these aren't used cars, they're kids. This is part of the process, no matter how you approach it. At some point, someone is going to make you nail down what you are willing to deal with. What you believe you are capable of handling. And this part, to me anyway, is ugly.
Not, let me be clear, because of the kids. The kids inspire nothing in me but compassion. A tearing, anxious compassion that wants to sweep them all into my embrace and volunteer to raise everyone, Every. Last. One.
The ugly part is what this process exposes in me. It lays bare all my pettiness, my insecurities, the things that pollute my heart. The part of me that wonders if I can handle a child with a very visible need, a need that may never be totally fixable. Club feet are ugly, but fixable to the point that you'd never know they were there. Heart conditions are often fixable, the scar hidden unless you go to the pool, where I have it on good authority that a truly wicked scar is not actually a handicap. But what about the more obvious things? Missing fingers? Limbs? A pronounced limp? I don't know. I am trying to feel this out, imagine myself with a child like this. Imagine being even more conspicuous as a family than we would be anyway with an Asian child.
I am unsure. Not rejecting outright, you understand, just unsure. And anxious.
It's just that I have always taken my children's physical health for granted. I have never wondered whether they would be able to play any sport they felt like trying. Never worried that others might make fun of them for the way they walk. Never contemplated the stares, the possibly rude and intrusive questions or comments that might arise. Never ever, not once, had to consider how I would help my child cope with all these things.
And now I am being called to do this. And it is hard.
And the craven, cowardly part of me wants to bury my head in the sand and say "no way, God. This...this is more than I can do. I am not actually this big of a person. Look at me, Lord!...I am very shallow and small and weak. I don't tolerate embarassment well, I mostly like people to not notice me, I have a deeply private streak in me that really resents intrusion. I am not the one for this job."
But if I'm not the one for this job, then who is?
And let me add this little tidbit: two nights ago these children invaded my dreams. And in my dream I was chasing a child. Not just any child, but one of the little boys we are considering. One who is so darling, and yet whose needs cause some anxiety (see? -- more anxiety. It's a theme). In the dream, he was walking along the sidewalk and he turned and this deep, booming voice (not my voice) said "He's perfect." And some other part of me, the watching part, agreed -- "perfect."
Whaddaya think? Voice of God? Might be. I don't discount these things lightly.
But these aren't used cars, they're kids. This is part of the process, no matter how you approach it. At some point, someone is going to make you nail down what you are willing to deal with. What you believe you are capable of handling. And this part, to me anyway, is ugly.
Not, let me be clear, because of the kids. The kids inspire nothing in me but compassion. A tearing, anxious compassion that wants to sweep them all into my embrace and volunteer to raise everyone, Every. Last. One.
The ugly part is what this process exposes in me. It lays bare all my pettiness, my insecurities, the things that pollute my heart. The part of me that wonders if I can handle a child with a very visible need, a need that may never be totally fixable. Club feet are ugly, but fixable to the point that you'd never know they were there. Heart conditions are often fixable, the scar hidden unless you go to the pool, where I have it on good authority that a truly wicked scar is not actually a handicap. But what about the more obvious things? Missing fingers? Limbs? A pronounced limp? I don't know. I am trying to feel this out, imagine myself with a child like this. Imagine being even more conspicuous as a family than we would be anyway with an Asian child.
I am unsure. Not rejecting outright, you understand, just unsure. And anxious.
It's just that I have always taken my children's physical health for granted. I have never wondered whether they would be able to play any sport they felt like trying. Never worried that others might make fun of them for the way they walk. Never contemplated the stares, the possibly rude and intrusive questions or comments that might arise. Never ever, not once, had to consider how I would help my child cope with all these things.
And now I am being called to do this. And it is hard.
And the craven, cowardly part of me wants to bury my head in the sand and say "no way, God. This...this is more than I can do. I am not actually this big of a person. Look at me, Lord!...I am very shallow and small and weak. I don't tolerate embarassment well, I mostly like people to not notice me, I have a deeply private streak in me that really resents intrusion. I am not the one for this job."
But if I'm not the one for this job, then who is?
And let me add this little tidbit: two nights ago these children invaded my dreams. And in my dream I was chasing a child. Not just any child, but one of the little boys we are considering. One who is so darling, and yet whose needs cause some anxiety (see? -- more anxiety. It's a theme). In the dream, he was walking along the sidewalk and he turned and this deep, booming voice (not my voice) said "He's perfect." And some other part of me, the watching part, agreed -- "perfect."
Whaddaya think? Voice of God? Might be. I don't discount these things lightly.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Full Plate
The musical is over and I thought my week would relax a bit, but the crazy, hot mess that is my life continues to steamroll ahead, dragging me along with it.
Gack. I am so tired of feeling one step behind myself.
All conversations with my better half are on the fly. A maximum of 5 minutes, sometimes quite intense but always very short, is what we've been reduced to. He managed to pick a fight with me at bedtime last night, so that took care of any pillow talk.
Stony silence ensued.
I hate it when we are like this. I always feel like part of me has been severed, or has ceased functioning. Like having an arm you can see, but can't get to work. I suppose this is a good trait if you're going to be in a marriage, this very low tolerance for disharmony.
Ultimately, I think this is what Satan wants -- discord in the body, any part of the body. It all contributes to breakdown, to misunderstanding, to entropy. We get so bogged down in our petty crap, we stop moving forward, stop praying, stop looking out and turn our eyes on our own junk which is naturally so much more important than anyone else's critical issues.
And I move so slowly anyway, for heaven's sake. I'm not what you'd call a barnburner. I have to think, and meditate, and consider, and rethink. So today I am even slower than my normal slow crawl.
Unfortunately, today has a lot of demands that are going to require a little more zip than "slow crawl."
Sigh.
Gack. I am so tired of feeling one step behind myself.
All conversations with my better half are on the fly. A maximum of 5 minutes, sometimes quite intense but always very short, is what we've been reduced to. He managed to pick a fight with me at bedtime last night, so that took care of any pillow talk.
Stony silence ensued.
I hate it when we are like this. I always feel like part of me has been severed, or has ceased functioning. Like having an arm you can see, but can't get to work. I suppose this is a good trait if you're going to be in a marriage, this very low tolerance for disharmony.
Ultimately, I think this is what Satan wants -- discord in the body, any part of the body. It all contributes to breakdown, to misunderstanding, to entropy. We get so bogged down in our petty crap, we stop moving forward, stop praying, stop looking out and turn our eyes on our own junk which is naturally so much more important than anyone else's critical issues.
And I move so slowly anyway, for heaven's sake. I'm not what you'd call a barnburner. I have to think, and meditate, and consider, and rethink. So today I am even slower than my normal slow crawl.
Unfortunately, today has a lot of demands that are going to require a little more zip than "slow crawl."
Sigh.
Friday, April 13, 2012
A Night and a Day
Bad night, really. Fell asleep but woke up 1.5 hours later and couldn't turn off the brain. Staggered downstairs to have my mild panic attack without disturbing Tim. Staggered back upstairs an hour later, sure that I could now rest, and spent the next half hour telling myself to relax everytime my shoulders tensed up. Finally asleep by 2 or so. Tim woke me at 5:40 for who knows what reason. Awake another 1/2 hour. Maggie bounced in at 7. Even with a LARGE cup of coffee, I still feel a little groggy.
Weather is not helping today -- it's so cloudy, even with all the lights on it feels a little like I'm underwater. So much to do, more errands to run, places to go. No desire to go anywhere at all. No time to TALK with my husband, just talk. Am seriously thinking of hiring a babysitter for Saturday night so I can have time alone with Tim.
Some kind of virus is messing with me, but not enough for me to curl up in bed and be truly sick. Just enough to make everything more of an effort than usual. And to make frequent swallowing both necessary and unpleasant. Really trying to get on top of the cleaning, but just found out that my dad co-opted my husband's time tomorrow (cleaning day) and the really awful trouble spots (which are his) will probably not get cleaned.
Troubled in a vague way by the multitude of undone projects around the house. From where I sit, I can see two of them. Three more (mostly painting) are waiting for completion upstairs. Bleah. Stunning what an absence of sun and a lousy night's sleep will do to me. I think a little more coffee is in order, but this is always a deal with the devil. I will feel better for a little while, but the crash will be spectacular.
Is it wrong to want to just curl up with a book and ignore everything?
Weather is not helping today -- it's so cloudy, even with all the lights on it feels a little like I'm underwater. So much to do, more errands to run, places to go. No desire to go anywhere at all. No time to TALK with my husband, just talk. Am seriously thinking of hiring a babysitter for Saturday night so I can have time alone with Tim.
Some kind of virus is messing with me, but not enough for me to curl up in bed and be truly sick. Just enough to make everything more of an effort than usual. And to make frequent swallowing both necessary and unpleasant. Really trying to get on top of the cleaning, but just found out that my dad co-opted my husband's time tomorrow (cleaning day) and the really awful trouble spots (which are his) will probably not get cleaned.
Troubled in a vague way by the multitude of undone projects around the house. From where I sit, I can see two of them. Three more (mostly painting) are waiting for completion upstairs. Bleah. Stunning what an absence of sun and a lousy night's sleep will do to me. I think a little more coffee is in order, but this is always a deal with the devil. I will feel better for a little while, but the crash will be spectacular.
Is it wrong to want to just curl up with a book and ignore everything?
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Swamped
I am drowning in kids' activities this month. This week alone, I have 7 separate scheduled activities for my children. If you add in allergy shots and a costume fitting which positively must take place, the total rises to 9. We have had one day -- one short, blessed evening -- with no activities. That was yesterday. Today I fully anticipate some sort of implosion around 6 pm. That will be my head, caving in from all the pressure of trying to be 3 places at once.
In the midst of all this chaos -- and let me tell you, next week is looking even hairier than this one -- we are trying to pull our heads together to get this adoption ball rolling. But there is hardly a spare minute in the day to really talk about it, so I am faced with the prospect of acting unilaterally or not acting at all.
I am finding it hard (understatement) to make these decisions by myself. The two biggies we have to deal with immediately are a) which agency? and b) which special needs?
These are not small issues.
The agency decision is tough -- it's hard to get a 'feel' for an agency over the Internet or even in phone conversation with someone. I've read surveys, haunted web groups, stalked various adopter's blogs, but I still don't feel a pull toward any particular agency. Since this is kind of fundamental to the process, we kind of need to get on it. Tim is of no help in this area at all. His response? "You've done the research, just make a decision."
Um, what?
The second big deal is going through the list of special needs we would be willing to consider. This is just daunting. There's really no other word for it. It's one thing to look at kids and another thing to look at labels. Labels are way scarier. And while it's responsible to Google these things to get a bead on what they are, the information that throws up ranges from nerve-wracking to earth-shattering, in about equal measure. It all boils down to this: nearly every need could be no big deal or a Very Big Deal Indeed. It all depends. So confronting this list of needs is a mind blower. My knee-jerk reaction is "none of them -- they're all more than I can cope with." I think about things like how well I would deal with a lot of needles and blood and procedures. Could I handle surgeries? Is it in me to deal with something long-term -- maybe forever-long-term? I just don't know.
This is where the rubber meets the road. Because living for Christ means I have to die to me. And my secret identity? -- is Much Afraid. Much Afraid doesn't think she can do anything. She has a very narrow range of what she feels she can handle and she is so busy burying her head in the sand that she can't see her savior's hand held out to her, beckoning her into the wider world (or rather, she is pretending not to see it). All Much Afraid ever wanted was to be married, to be a mom, to have a house and a little garden. She would have these things and live happily ever after, the end. But then Jesus started messing with her heart. He was so subtle about it -- a news story way back in the early '90s about abandoned babies in China; a flyer in a church bulletin about adoption in 2000; a little difficulty getting pregnant with #1 -- just enough to make adopting a definite option; a Steven Curtis Chapman concert in 2005; a giant billboard right on the way to preschool where she had to see it every single day for 8 months; sobering statistics that floated in from who-knows-where about children alone, in need of families; a little boy's face on a waiting child list a few years ago; the desperate need for families for boys just because they're boys. And now she's here, unable to turn away from the reality that is the orphan crisis, knowing that this is the path to take, but shaking in her shoes nonetheless.
The thing is, Much Afraid is still fearful. She is mostly fearful of making a mistake, especially as she begins this whole process. What if I choose the wrong agency? What if we say yes to a need that's more than we can handle? What if we are referred a child and we don't like him? (don't judge -- just keepin' it real). What if ....what if...what if. What if God doesn't show up? What if He drops the ball on this one and we are left hanging out to dry?
Let's let God work, my husband says. Let's do this and let him bless us in ways we would never see if we didn't step out in faith. Let's go, and let him undertake.
What this means, really, is take a step. Letting go, right now, means taking a step forward. Don't sit still, don't hide, don't choke, don't throw it into reverse. Go forward. The hand is held out to you. Take it.
Just take it.
In the midst of all this chaos -- and let me tell you, next week is looking even hairier than this one -- we are trying to pull our heads together to get this adoption ball rolling. But there is hardly a spare minute in the day to really talk about it, so I am faced with the prospect of acting unilaterally or not acting at all.
I am finding it hard (understatement) to make these decisions by myself. The two biggies we have to deal with immediately are a) which agency? and b) which special needs?
These are not small issues.
The agency decision is tough -- it's hard to get a 'feel' for an agency over the Internet or even in phone conversation with someone. I've read surveys, haunted web groups, stalked various adopter's blogs, but I still don't feel a pull toward any particular agency. Since this is kind of fundamental to the process, we kind of need to get on it. Tim is of no help in this area at all. His response? "You've done the research, just make a decision."
Um, what?
The second big deal is going through the list of special needs we would be willing to consider. This is just daunting. There's really no other word for it. It's one thing to look at kids and another thing to look at labels. Labels are way scarier. And while it's responsible to Google these things to get a bead on what they are, the information that throws up ranges from nerve-wracking to earth-shattering, in about equal measure. It all boils down to this: nearly every need could be no big deal or a Very Big Deal Indeed. It all depends. So confronting this list of needs is a mind blower. My knee-jerk reaction is "none of them -- they're all more than I can cope with." I think about things like how well I would deal with a lot of needles and blood and procedures. Could I handle surgeries? Is it in me to deal with something long-term -- maybe forever-long-term? I just don't know.
This is where the rubber meets the road. Because living for Christ means I have to die to me. And my secret identity? -- is Much Afraid. Much Afraid doesn't think she can do anything. She has a very narrow range of what she feels she can handle and she is so busy burying her head in the sand that she can't see her savior's hand held out to her, beckoning her into the wider world (or rather, she is pretending not to see it). All Much Afraid ever wanted was to be married, to be a mom, to have a house and a little garden. She would have these things and live happily ever after, the end. But then Jesus started messing with her heart. He was so subtle about it -- a news story way back in the early '90s about abandoned babies in China; a flyer in a church bulletin about adoption in 2000; a little difficulty getting pregnant with #1 -- just enough to make adopting a definite option; a Steven Curtis Chapman concert in 2005; a giant billboard right on the way to preschool where she had to see it every single day for 8 months; sobering statistics that floated in from who-knows-where about children alone, in need of families; a little boy's face on a waiting child list a few years ago; the desperate need for families for boys just because they're boys. And now she's here, unable to turn away from the reality that is the orphan crisis, knowing that this is the path to take, but shaking in her shoes nonetheless.
The thing is, Much Afraid is still fearful. She is mostly fearful of making a mistake, especially as she begins this whole process. What if I choose the wrong agency? What if we say yes to a need that's more than we can handle? What if we are referred a child and we don't like him? (don't judge -- just keepin' it real). What if ....what if...what if. What if God doesn't show up? What if He drops the ball on this one and we are left hanging out to dry?
Let's let God work, my husband says. Let's do this and let him bless us in ways we would never see if we didn't step out in faith. Let's go, and let him undertake.
What this means, really, is take a step. Letting go, right now, means taking a step forward. Don't sit still, don't hide, don't choke, don't throw it into reverse. Go forward. The hand is held out to you. Take it.
Just take it.
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