It was one of my favorite days of the year - Secret Church. A time when a group of believers come together to study God's Word for 6 (okay, 7) hours on a Friday night.
I don't think we did school that day. I'm sure I was too excited to sit still for that long. I'm still such a child in so many ways.
The main thing that needed to happen that day was a nap.
I may act like a child a lot of the time, but this body knows what's up. In order to stay up until 3 am (we eat after) I was going to need a nap.
As I snuggled down ready to rest, I got a text. As I reached for my phone, I squelched down the irritation.
Nap. I wanted a nap.
My irritation melted away when I saw who sent the text. My friend who gets all passes. Everything stops for her.
She said, "Can you meet me at the park? Now?"
All thoughts of a nap flew from my head as I unfolded myself from my cocoon. I gathered the kids and scooped up my keys, pressing down the worry that was welling up in me.
She didn't ask for much. Rarely did she step out of her own self to ask for anything. Frustrating as it was at times, I had grown accustomed to asking what she needed, knowing that she would always be reluctant to ask.
We sat across from each other at a picnic table. The cold November wind whipped around us. I still remember its rub on my face and the chill it sent down my spine. I can still hear the kids laughing and yelling across the playground. I looked across the table at the face I loved and cared about so much. I forced myself to be still and wait.
"I need to tell you something," she started.
"Are you pregnant?" I burst out. I couldn't help it.
She laughed the laugh that I love, but had so seldom heard in the previous 7 months. Her eyes sparkled and I reveled in the beauty of her happiness. She's always beautiful, but I had grown accustomed to seeing sadness coloring the beauty. I studied the absence of the grief, the lightness, the shine, committing it to memory, selfishly to help in the next moment when the grief would return.
It's hard to grieve.
It's also hard to watch someone you love grieve.
Not as hard, but hard still.
She said, still laughing, "No!"
Her laugh quieted and her eyes held mine. I shifted a bit on the hard, cold bench.
"Then what?" I thought. I forced myself to be still.
She's calm. Quiet. Thoughtful. Reserved. Patient. Gentle. Qualities that I feel so deficient in. I forced myself to wait - "Be like her. Wait." I said it to myself. Reminded myself.
Her eyes held mine as she slid something across the table to me. It had been in her hand the entire time, in her hap. She'd been holding it. Clutching it, probably.
I peeled my eyes from her face and dropped my gaze.
Looking back at me was the most beautiful pair of chocolate brown eyes. The breath left me and tears sprang to my eyes. The most adorable girl. She looked so much like her oldest son.
Your daughter.
I don't know if I said it or thought it.
I struggled to breathe and a thousand thoughts flooded my head at the same time. I looked up and just shook my head, blinking back the tears.
There were tears in her eyes too. Never would she ever shed a tear that didn't honor her lost daughter. Ever. But these tears had intermingled with them tears of happiness. Again her beauty flooded me.
A mom, stepping out of her grief to rescue a child from the other side of the world. Pushing away everything within her and everything that the world would say that said, "no."
Because He adopted us. Because she loved Him. Because she had His heart. Because she would do what was right even if the world said no, and even if something in her said no too.
I watched her work harder than I've ever seen anyone work the next months. Raising her children, raising money, grieving her lost daughter, maintaining a house, a marriage, friendships, laughing, crying, determined. Stoic.
They decided to adopt a son too. The precious girl's best friend at the orphanage.
She worked even harder. Pushed herself past the point of exhaustion.
In the midst of a tornado, she was working on a fundraiser.
I was in awe. Inspired. Encouraged. Blessed.
She inspired others to adopt. To take up the cause. To help. To care.
I climbed back in the van that chilly November day to head home. The thought of a nap was far from me now. As I thanked God for all that had happened, I felt it. It whirled up in me and I begged God to suppressed it. I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to ask God why. I didn't want to think again about myself. And the desire I had. Or the desire He had given me. I simply didn't want to go there. I just wanted to feel happiness for my sweet friend.
A constant, selfish battle that rages in me, constantly screaming what about me?
And I hate it.
I looked at the face of another sweet friend as we had a much different conversation. A conversation about longing. Desiring until the physical pain almost overwhelmed the emotional pain.
"Is it like a miscarriage?" she asked. "Is that what this feels like?"
I felt the pain on her face. I carried it with me constantly.
"No," I answered. "That's something God gave and then took away. This is a desire that is constantly unfulfilled. It's like infertility."
She nodded.
What a blessing. That this selfish longing and desire has a community of people that understand far beyond the spoken word.
She gets it.
"It can render you a helpless friend. A bad friend. You have to be careful," I added more for my benefit than hers.
My desire can rob me of joy for my friends. The desire can even lead to jealously. Animosity. Division. Distance.
I battle that too.
I will rejoice in the beauty of adoption. I will thank the Lord for my friends that have and will adopt. I will pray for those traveling the arduous road of getting these children home. I will pray for those who are struggling under the weight of the children they worked so hard to bring home only to realize that was the easy part of the battle. I will step outside of myself and rejoice, celebrate and pray. I will. I will trust Him.
I wil trust Him as I celebrate adoption.
I'll never forget that beautiful November day when I got to witness the beauty of adoption.
I don't think we did school that day. I'm sure I was too excited to sit still for that long. I'm still such a child in so many ways.
The main thing that needed to happen that day was a nap.
I may act like a child a lot of the time, but this body knows what's up. In order to stay up until 3 am (we eat after) I was going to need a nap.
As I snuggled down ready to rest, I got a text. As I reached for my phone, I squelched down the irritation.
Nap. I wanted a nap.
My irritation melted away when I saw who sent the text. My friend who gets all passes. Everything stops for her.
She said, "Can you meet me at the park? Now?"
All thoughts of a nap flew from my head as I unfolded myself from my cocoon. I gathered the kids and scooped up my keys, pressing down the worry that was welling up in me.
She didn't ask for much. Rarely did she step out of her own self to ask for anything. Frustrating as it was at times, I had grown accustomed to asking what she needed, knowing that she would always be reluctant to ask.
We sat across from each other at a picnic table. The cold November wind whipped around us. I still remember its rub on my face and the chill it sent down my spine. I can still hear the kids laughing and yelling across the playground. I looked across the table at the face I loved and cared about so much. I forced myself to be still and wait.
"I need to tell you something," she started.
"Are you pregnant?" I burst out. I couldn't help it.
She laughed the laugh that I love, but had so seldom heard in the previous 7 months. Her eyes sparkled and I reveled in the beauty of her happiness. She's always beautiful, but I had grown accustomed to seeing sadness coloring the beauty. I studied the absence of the grief, the lightness, the shine, committing it to memory, selfishly to help in the next moment when the grief would return.
It's hard to grieve.
It's also hard to watch someone you love grieve.
Not as hard, but hard still.
She said, still laughing, "No!"
Her laugh quieted and her eyes held mine. I shifted a bit on the hard, cold bench.
"Then what?" I thought. I forced myself to be still.
She's calm. Quiet. Thoughtful. Reserved. Patient. Gentle. Qualities that I feel so deficient in. I forced myself to wait - "Be like her. Wait." I said it to myself. Reminded myself.
Her eyes held mine as she slid something across the table to me. It had been in her hand the entire time, in her hap. She'd been holding it. Clutching it, probably.
I peeled my eyes from her face and dropped my gaze.
Looking back at me was the most beautiful pair of chocolate brown eyes. The breath left me and tears sprang to my eyes. The most adorable girl. She looked so much like her oldest son.
Your daughter.
I don't know if I said it or thought it.
I struggled to breathe and a thousand thoughts flooded my head at the same time. I looked up and just shook my head, blinking back the tears.
There were tears in her eyes too. Never would she ever shed a tear that didn't honor her lost daughter. Ever. But these tears had intermingled with them tears of happiness. Again her beauty flooded me.
A mom, stepping out of her grief to rescue a child from the other side of the world. Pushing away everything within her and everything that the world would say that said, "no."
Because He adopted us. Because she loved Him. Because she had His heart. Because she would do what was right even if the world said no, and even if something in her said no too.
I watched her work harder than I've ever seen anyone work the next months. Raising her children, raising money, grieving her lost daughter, maintaining a house, a marriage, friendships, laughing, crying, determined. Stoic.
They decided to adopt a son too. The precious girl's best friend at the orphanage.
She worked even harder. Pushed herself past the point of exhaustion.
In the midst of a tornado, she was working on a fundraiser.
I was in awe. Inspired. Encouraged. Blessed.
She inspired others to adopt. To take up the cause. To help. To care.
I climbed back in the van that chilly November day to head home. The thought of a nap was far from me now. As I thanked God for all that had happened, I felt it. It whirled up in me and I begged God to suppressed it. I didn't want to feel it. I didn't want to be selfish. I didn't want to ask God why. I didn't want to think again about myself. And the desire I had. Or the desire He had given me. I simply didn't want to go there. I just wanted to feel happiness for my sweet friend.
A constant, selfish battle that rages in me, constantly screaming what about me?
And I hate it.
I looked at the face of another sweet friend as we had a much different conversation. A conversation about longing. Desiring until the physical pain almost overwhelmed the emotional pain.
"Is it like a miscarriage?" she asked. "Is that what this feels like?"
I felt the pain on her face. I carried it with me constantly.
"No," I answered. "That's something God gave and then took away. This is a desire that is constantly unfulfilled. It's like infertility."
She nodded.
What a blessing. That this selfish longing and desire has a community of people that understand far beyond the spoken word.
She gets it.
"It can render you a helpless friend. A bad friend. You have to be careful," I added more for my benefit than hers.
My desire can rob me of joy for my friends. The desire can even lead to jealously. Animosity. Division. Distance.
I battle that too.
I will rejoice in the beauty of adoption. I will thank the Lord for my friends that have and will adopt. I will pray for those traveling the arduous road of getting these children home. I will pray for those who are struggling under the weight of the children they worked so hard to bring home only to realize that was the easy part of the battle. I will step outside of myself and rejoice, celebrate and pray. I will. I will trust Him.
I wil trust Him as I celebrate adoption.
I'll never forget that beautiful November day when I got to witness the beauty of adoption.
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