My Electronic “Creative Memory”

I struggle with a constant stream of guilt around this one topic: documenting the cute things my children say and do.

I have empty baby books sitting on my desk and already more files than I can count full of pictures waiting to be uploaded to the site from which I order prints. And I’ve gained a whole new understanding why, as child #2 in my family, my baby book was actually more of a storage space in the form of a book for loose clippings, birthday messages from neighbors I don’t remember and report cards. (In fact, some of those report cards were my younger brother’s–another casualty of parents who fell prey to living family life in such a way that left no time for memorializing it. I think he got a small envelope with his birth certificate as his baby book.)

I think if we scratched beneath the surface of Creative Memories, we’d find it’s actually an association of insomniacs who came together to find something they could do in the wee hours of the night when the rest of us sleep. I mean, who has time for cute borders and spunky fonts?

So my default is this blog, which I hope to one day print for each of my children.

Language acquisition is going really well. So much so, that before I know it, the cute little idiosyncrasies of my Ethio-American children will be long forgotten. So here’s my latest attempt to assuage my own guilt for being so wrapped up in life that I don’t have time to print it out on pretty paper with borders and stamp it up:

• While we were in Nashville for the wedding, I had to share a bed with Eden. The girl lives to cuddle. She takes advantage of any and all opportunities to bury her head in my neck or Nate’s chest and a night where she got to actually share a bed with mommy was enough to send her spinning for days. So, I started calling her my bunk mate (we have nicknames for everything around here). And after we returned at at night, instead of  the “big cuddle” I’d referred to in the past, I’d say “wanna be my bunk mate, Eden?” to queue up her favorite before-bed cuddle time. Well, tonight, she said in proper English as I was getting ready to leave the room: “Excuse me, Mommy, I would like a bunk mate please?” Good thing I’m not teaching ESL for a living.

(Before you start thinking that Eden is the only cute one around here, I will say that at four she is the one who says cute things while her brother, just beginning to put together phrases, is the *doer* of all that is cute. If I can come up with words to describe what the kid looks like when he plays the keyboard, I will do so in the next post.)

• Just this morning Nate left for work in a blazer and khaki’s, not the usual my-clients-are-spread-out-all-over-and-never-see-me-in-person work attire. I said to the children, “Daddy looks hot” just before he left. Late afternoon, Eden said in the back seat out of the blue: “Mommy, Daddy is a hottie.” Now, you’d think she must of heard it from me, but I can guarantee you that wasn’t something I’d said. This simply represents that she is catching on so quickly that she can conjugate the word “hot.”
• And my favorite today reminded me that God is moving in my children … beyond what we teach them or show them. Eden has been battling some health issues, one of which has kept her from being able to handle milk. When we went to pick up our milk today (yes, we own a share of a cow — another story for another day), here’s the conversation we had:

Eden: Are we getting Caleb’s milk, Mommy?

Me: Yep. And one day soon it will be your milk too.

Eden: Mommy, my belly is better. Eden can drink milk too.

Me: Oh really, Eden, when did your belly get better?

Eden: At the prayer meeting.

Me: Hmmm…what happened at the prayer meeting?

Eden: God healed my belly, Mommy. Eden is allllll better.

Now, I should say that we do pray with and for our kids when they feel sick. We lay hands on them and ask for Jesus to heal them. We want them to grow up knowing and believing that God is the source of all healing. And, frankly, we believe that He likes it when we seek Him for things as small as belly aches or soar throats. With that said, the most recent weekly prayer meetings we’d been to … the children danced and sang, twirled and played … but they didn’t have anyone pray out loud for their physical healing. There was nothing that happened that would have prompted this line of thinking in Eden, but for God Himself.

There is a beautiful work of God happening at the International House of Prayer in Kansas City that, as I watch each night, is reminding me that God desires to heal the broken. Me, you, my children. Our bodies, our hearts, our messed up lives. All of us.

And praise God that in our home it’s starting with my little girl.

My bunkmate.

Homecoming

I realized just before we left yesterday that the children may have been thinking that Katya was coming home with us last night. Woops!

Guess it’s good that they are prepared for our family to grow in an instant …

Here are a few pics of the beautiful homecoming for our friends:

Katya and mommy after a long flight:

Katya seeing her dad again after coming through customs:

The Finley Family, reunited (poor Katya looks exhausted). If you have a heart for adoption, but are wondering if you have room for one more –this photo is compelling evidence that you do :

And I think this is my favorite. Not because it includes my children, but because for a year+ we have been praying with the Finley’s (and others in our Wednesday night prayer meeting) for God to bring Eden, Caleb & Katya home. Here are my little American veterans as Katya walked through the doors … yet unknown to them: the bond which unites them to her. That’ll come…

Encounter

This afternoon as I was listening to the CD we put the children to bed listening to through the baby monitor, my mind was brought back to our first days with them in Ethiopia.

Some of the sweetest moments of that week — that was a bit more chaotic than I’d like to remember — were at night after they were asleep. We all shared a room. Eden was on the bottom bunk and Caleb in a pack-n-play. Nate and I would put our heads together and debrief in hushed tones, hoping to not wake them. This children’s worship CD would fill our conversation breaks as we whispered like giddy children. God’s presence was thick. Joy was evaporating off our skin like the effects of rain on hot pavement.

We knew He was near. His presence was unavoidable.

Part of why I’ve been so drawn to adoption is because I have tasted the father-heart of God more, through this process, than almost anything else in my life — from the moment God first dropped it into my mind. Maybe this sounds selfish: we set out to rescue these two because, by doing so, we encountered God. Instead of seeing it basically as self-serving, I believe that God made me for encounter–just like this. He wired me to not just “intellectually assent” to this relationship we have — me and God — but to hunger … to thirst … for His breaking through into my daily life.

I mean we all want this, right? We memorialize stories where we had even a touch of the supernatural. Whether it was a piece of scripture that was sent to us by a friend–at the exact moment we needed it, a “chance” encounter with the person who introduced us to our next job, or even the lyrics of an old song that came across our radio which spoke exactly to where we were at that moment. We want to believe that God intersects the natural. That the ordinary really can be infused with the holy.

But the enemy of encounter is disbelief. And skepticism can so easily trump the childlike wonder that first drew many of us to God (or is drawing us now).

(All of this has been heavy on my brain as God has recently been using expressions of His power to break into my life-full-of-sippy-cups-and-legos. More on this later ..)

Tonight we are plopping the kids into the car for a 4-hour round-trip homecoming celebration. Katya – Kateryna – is finally returning to her home–via an arduous run by her parents through the Ukrainian government’s hamster wheel. All day long, as I’ve anticipated our trip, I’ve been choking back tears. In part because tonight we’re invited into the birthing room. We get to watch as God sets one of His lonely children into a family (Psalm 68:6). We get to see His promise in scripture fulfilled. And in part because my expectations are high. I know I will encounter Him. Adoption is heavy on His heart and He is doing a unique move in these days. And I’m going to drink deep tonight!

I’m finding lately that my hunger for God might very well take me to great lengths to find Him. It’s beginning to supersede my sense of what is practical.

So, 4 hours in the car with two larger-than-life toddlers … it’s nothing, compared to what we’re about to see.

(We have one extra seat in between their carseats that would fit a very small person with a high tolerance for noise and saliva –  drop me a comment if you want to come )

Smitten

The children had their first experience at a wedding this weekend. They were awe struck with the bride (Martha was beautiful!) and tore up the dance floor afterward. In their short lifespan, it could possibly have been their most favorite night yet.

While we were in Tennessee for the wedding, a dear friend took these photos below.

(If you’ve looked at other photos on our blog and are wondering if this is their only outfit …the answer seems to be yes).

When Can We Do It Again?

I’ve been holding it together for just about 4 months now. All that comes with raising two toddlers has taken precedence over absorbing what’s happened in our home. It’s had to. Survival-mode, as I’ve called it.

Overnight we’ve gone from long sits in the sauna, long soaks in the bath, long runs, long evenings to just sit and chat, long times sitting before the Lord … to military showers, early alarms, quick jaunts to dinner after the kids are asleep and the babysitter arrives, and bursts of prayer throughout our day.

The transition has required all of my mental, emotional and physical energy. While my legs haven’t hit more than 5 miles on the road, my calves are often sore from running up and down the stairs all day.

We have a new kind of normal.

In 5 days it will have been 4 months since we first wrapped our arms around Eden and Caleb and, but for the distinct differences in our family appearance, you’d never know it.

Now that I am sinking into a schedule and carving out the necessary time to process the loss of my Dad and the birth-into-our-home of these children, the gravity of God’s work is weighing heavy on my chest.

At night she continues to ask for one-more-big cuddle and he wakes up from his nap, only to be pacified by wrapping his legs around my waist and his arms around my neck. They’re wired for affection from mommy. Who could have given this to them? Did they learn this longing from being in our home … or were they waiting, hungry for cuddles and kisses, before we got them?

Then my mind goes to other places … Eden was severely malnourished when she arrived at the orphanage. Could she have made it much longer? Caleb was admitted to the hospital for a 3-week stay just after he arrived at the orphanage. Would he have survived in the great, big “out there” in this condition? Oh, God, what if they weren’t taken to the orphanage?

And then I think about us.

What if we had conceived a biological child just before beginning this adoption process? What if we had chosen the route of fertility treatments — instead of adoption (a tough decision that took months to wade through)? What if we had zipped through the process, as planned, and had received a referral for different children?

I’m living at the intersection of the divine and the ordinary. I’m cleaning up spills, doing countless loads of laundry and kissing ouchies … of children who–six months ago–had a bleak existence.

The secular world wants to look at me and Nate and say “wow, you did GOOD. what a marvelous thing you’ve done for these children.” And they do. I hear it almost weekly. And I cringe.

I have yet to come up with a brief response that illustrates the gravity of God’s work. We did NOTHING, but cry out to God out of our own (possibly selfish?) longing for a family, and for more of Him, and for His Spirit’s leading in our lives. And He cracked open His divinity and gave us a taste. And just this little sip is about enough to knock me over. Every day. When she says “mommy, stay here?” more times than I can count or he gives an unsolicited sloppy kiss followed by “I love you Mommy” I sometimes can’t breathe.

God, you let us play a part in saving them. You would have done it anyways — in one way or another. But you married our prayers–frayed around the edges–with their need.

Many have said adoption is addicting. And now I know why. I tell Nate that, at the moment, I am a dangerous woman. Because any hint I’ve had of a child in need, an orphan, tends to linger in my mind.

Where did this come from? When I was a kid, I never dreamed about being a mommy. And when I started to conceptualize married life, I would envision a family that was spaced-out in such a way that would interrupt my life and my dreams the least. Motherhood and me just didn’t seem to fit together. It seemed more of a necessary evil than something I’d actually enjoy.

Now, here I am, asking God, like a little child, when can we do it again?

This post feels like 20 others I’ve written, but I just can’t get over it. This is my testimony. The depth of the riches in God. The power of His Spirit to weave our lives with theirs. The intricate details that only He could maneuver. The beauty of aligning ourselves with Him. The sweetness of His redemption. The vigor of following Him. The reckless abandon it calls forth from me.

Eden’s Ethiopia

I keep hearing about families who have adopted older children whose children are now beginning to tell them about their home life and experiences in Ethiopia. I figured Eden, being 4, might have some recollection of her life even just 6 months ago. Now that she’s grasping more of the language, I thought it appropriate to start asking her about Ethiopia.

Well, I didn’t factor in that her 4 year old imagination is rampant and that any sort of leading question on my part could likely turn into an event in her mind. It seems that my peppering has only opened up a whole new fictitious playground for Eden.

Whoops.

Since I started asking her about Ethiopia — even just simple questions like “where did you sleep in Ethiopia?” and “what did you eat in Ethiopia?” — I’ve seen that whatever Ethiopia was to her before has now become the place where all little girls’ dreams come true.

I have since learned from Eden that, in her 3 1/2 short years in Africa, she carried a baby in her belly (that she then breast fed), owned her own home, drove a car (her own), and had a cell phone just like mommy’s.

Tonight at dinner she said: “Mommy, Eden had quesadillas in Ethiopia.”

I might think she was referring to injera (a bread frequently served as the base of Ethiopian meals) if I didn’t already realize the damage my line of questioning had done to this impressionable little mind.

Unfortunately I may have squelched all opportunities to learn the real truth about Eden’s Ethiopia.

While other parents may field their child’s incessant requests to go to Disney World or the closest amusement park, I will watch as my child pines away for her experience in a nation she barely survived. All because she owned her own pink cell phone there … and probably because she isn’t allowed to touch mommy’s here.

Give ‘Em What They Want

This blogging thing is mostly selfish.

For much of my life I’ve wanted to have some sort of crazy artistic expression of what’s inside of me. I can’t draw to save my life and, although I’ve recently picked up finger-painting, my two year-old puts me to shame. I don’t let lack of skill prevent me from interpretative dance in my kitchen, but if I took it on the road I think I’d have about a five-year window before the children we prayed so hard to get would disown me. And, well, I’d probably lose friends too. Though invigorating for me, there’s not really a market for singing old show tunes.

So when I started this blog, I re-discovered writing. And even amidst the unforgiving schedule of being a mom, I somehow find time to write. When I write, I feel closer to God than I do most any other time of my day. I sometimes think He tells me to write.

I wouldn’t call myself a writer, I just am trying out this passion that’s been latent for some years. (Blogs are like open mic night for those of us who want an outlet for what we love. There’s a pretty low barrier to entry .)

But the only problem with allowing my newly-found passion to intersect with the world wide web, is that I am exposed. It’s sort of like standing in your skivvies before an audience of people and asking them to comment.

Well, after I published my post today, my editor (Nate) skyped me at my little getaway coffee shop to say “I think you should add some pictures to your post.”

Pictures of what? Me sitting by myself in a field, to go along with the descriptions of my encounters with God.

Of course he’s referring to the little brown people who have taken over our lives and have made both of us look way more attractive than we ever did before.

“Give them what they want,” he says.

My insecurity surfaces. Urgh …that’s right…I’ve made copies of the key to my diary.

I need pictures to make my post worth reading? I wish I just wrote always and only for the glory of God and didn’t ever think about who was reading this blog or what they might think. One day…someday, I pray.

Nate, when he reads this, will be grumpy because I’ve portrayed him as being a critic of my re-discovered hobby when in actuality he is my biggest cheerleader. He pesters me daily to write more.

So, since I couldn’t quite find pictures of the children that would fit with the last post, I will give you what you want now. Just in a different post.

Remembering

All feels right to me when my life is organized. When my desk is clean, my task list has lots of lines through it and my inbox is empty, my heart is at rest.

I’m quickly realizing that I need to scrap this strategy.

I haven’t really had to have a planning session to come up with new standards for myself, they are just sort of happening to me. How nice that is.

If all the papers on my desk haven’t piled up so much that I can’t shut the doors (it’s an armoire desk), it’s “clean.” If my inbox only has messages from two weeks ago, it’s practically empty. And if I’ve been able to pull away from the house with both kids strapped into their car seats and remembered to brush my teeth and put on deodorant …I feel like I’m going to the prom.

Every time I get dressed in anything other than my nike sweatpants and zip-up workout shirt, Eden says “mommy leaving?” And I used to judge moms who wore jumpers. Those things are a step up from my everyday duds. I’ve started to do laundry twice a week just so I can get more use out of them.

Life seems to have wrapped around my ankle and pulled me along as if I’m hitched behind a pick-up truck.

And I think I love it.

In the midst of this seeming chaos, the Lord continues to remind me that I’m caught up in a work of His doing. This life can appear frayed around the edges, but when I step back for a moment I catch my breath …and remember. And when I remember I think, “Oh, Lord …don’t ever let me forget. Let me write this story on the walls of my life, tell it to my children and my children’s children. Let them know you as holy because of this.”

So I guess as an act of remembrance, I want to go back and write some of the pieces of our story that were too raw to include while walking through them. Consider this “Part 1.”

Remembrance: Part 1

Today we had our first post-adoption meeting with our caseworker. When she asked about the children’s birth dates, I remembered.

Though not the first time I remembered, I think I absorbed it this time. What I’m about to share hasn’t even been uttered to some of my most dear of friends, but for some reason today it feels right and fitting to tell this as a piece of our story. His story.

In the Spring of 2005 I had a moment — followed by a few other moments — where God broke in. It wasn’t mystical, in fact it felt very natural. God spoke to me, not audibly but as a resounding sense in my spirit. As far as I could tell He said to me You will conceive a child this September.

Now while I believe in the voice of God speaking today, I also am wary of what I know even more intimately – my flesh. I can hear things I want to hear and my imagination at times might be just as clear as what I perceive to be the voice of God. So I asked Him for confirmation. Lord, if this is you …confirm it, not once but twice.

The details of His confirmation are extraneous to this story, but they were enough for me to believe with as much of my being as capable that Nate and I would be parents the following summer, 9 months after September of 2005. I thought He was gracious in preparing me, one who might benefit from having more than the typically allotted time to carry a baby. At that point in time we had no idea the challenges awaiting us with fertility. I’m not sure what came as expectation of the Lord and what was the expectation that most all newly marrieds have about getting pregnant. I like to believe it was more the former.

Leading up to this month, I knew that I knew that I knew that I would be pregnant. I had heard from God other times, but never this clearly and never did it carry the grace that this particular message did to spur my prayers on in faith. I wound up thanking God for what He was about to do more than even asking Him to do it. It was going to happen.

In early October I realized that what I had carried with such expectancy, didn’t happen. I was less disappointed at the prospect of not being a parent than I was at my own mis-guided expectations. I didn’t doubt God, but deeply questioned my own ability to hear. God wasn’t unfaithful, I just couldn’t hear Him correctly …I thought. More reason to exercise even more caution than I already did when hearing from the Spirit, I thought.

This month of disappointment grew into 4 years of disappointment. Insult to injury was that it wasn’t just that September that I didn’t conceive, but many fruitless Septembers, Octobers and Novembers followed.

By the grace of God I did not grow bitter. Most of my evaluations of that encounter with Him led me believing that I just didn’t hear Him right. I chalked it up to my humanity against His perfection. We’re bound to “miss” sometimes, right? But there was a very small part of me holding out hope in the mysterious God. I so wanted to one day make sense of that promise. It was a promise, I thought.

Fast forward to March of 2009. We received our referral for two children from Ethiopia after an arduous two years in the hamster wheel called adoption. One of the children was a little girl named Meskerem. We discovered that day that the name “Meskerem” meant September and our Ethiopian sources told us that with the significance Ethiopians placed on name meaning, we could be confident that this one was born in September.

At that moment, sort of grasping at straws, I thought …this had to be it. You see, I could not forget those encounters with God as they were as real to me as the grass on the ground.  I heard “you will conceive a child this September” in 2005, but really God was probably saying I would conceive a child with the name September. I didn’t hear quite right, but it was in the ballpark.

It was as if I needed to make provision either for myself and my fleshly inability to really here, or at a deeper level for God who can’t really speak today because that speaking would require hearing and the very humans He created just can’t be trusted with hearing. But He wanted me to hold out. The phrase that came to me that Spring was so clear and so specific.

Then, just after we passed court in June of 2009, we received little Meskerem’s birth date:

September 25, 2005

While a mother on one continent gave birth to a child, that same child was conceived for another mother, halfway around the world. Little Meskerem’s birth was this adoptive mom’s conception. The day she was begotten on this earth, she was destined to be mine.

Months before our referral I specifically asked that the Lord would give us confirmation that these two adopted children were ours. He knew before I asked and gave me confirmation, 4 years earlier. Prepare. Wait. It will be a long gestation, but you will give birth. Your conception lies at the hands of another mother’s birth.

And today when our caseworker asked me for Eden’s birthday, I remembered. As she asked the question, Eden was crawling from my lap to Nate’s, dress around her waist and bum in the air, just as if no time had been lost between my conception of her and her arrival into our home.

The mystery of God hinges on pain and wonder. The first a cause for greater reception of the other.

“Mommy Stay Here?”

The children are learning new words every day. Nate–gone for just 5 days on business–came back to a bevy of new expressions.

“Sho [sure]” is Caleb’s most recent response to most everything. Pretty much sums him up — ready and game for anything–and a man of few words alongside his verbose big sister.

I’m wondering if Eden’s prayers should be a litmus for what these kids are absorbing from me. Her prayers are like a linguistics parade. Does she understand that prayer is talking to God …or is this just early evidence that she’s a verbal processor like her mommy? (God help Nate.)

Tonight this is what she prayed: Jesus, thank you so much Jesus. Thank you for Daddy and Mommy. Mommy’s on the phone. Eat your salad. Timer going off. Two minutes. Six minutes. Seven minutes. Amen.”

She’s getting her numbers. Don’t you think?

Thanks to Eric Carle, my children know intimately the animals on the endangered species list. They may not know what number comes after five, but they know that Xolo starts with “X” (what the heck is a xolo anyways?). Yesterday when I was asking Eden what she was making with her play dough, she quickly responded “A bed for my boa constrictor.”

Oh, of course.

She still points to the sink and says “please turn on the water in the wash-your-hands” but yet she knows those animals–asking me if her pink shoes were the same color as a flamingo. (Maybe I should have followed the earlier advice of a speech therapist: to label everything in my house.)

Hard to believe, watching them make “smoothies” with their legos or perform mini-concerts for their bears that they’ve been on American soil for just under 4 months.

At night when Eden drills me with the same questions, in the same order … “Mommy, stay here? Mommy sleep here? Daddy sleep here? Eden and Caleb sleep and then wake up and Mommy and Daddy here? And then Mommy and Daddy and Eden and Caleb cuddle time?”…I wonder if this is like every other four-year-old, getting a grasp on their schedule, or if this line of questioning is driven by fear of more loss.

Regardless, I assure her, Eden, Mommy and Daddy will stay right here. We sleep here. Mommy isn’t leaving.

We’re just crazy about them.

Then …And Now

Every once in a while I look back at the pictures we received just after we learned of Eden and Caleb as a reminder of how far they’ve come.

Here’s from early April. At Sele Enat orphanage.

And today. On our back deck.

Happy Birthday, Caleb!

This post should more appropriately be titled “Daddy and Caleb Are Boys” as it seems that birthdays in our home have taken on a whole new meaning.

As you may have read in an earlier post, we decided to celebrate the childrens’ birthdays, which were 2 weeks apart, on one day in-between both birthdays. The combination of an entirely new concept (they don’t celebrate birthdays in Ethiopia), gaps in the language, and gifts that could/would be attached to a specific child (rather than communal) made us decide it was best to kick this first birthday year off without much tradition.

(I should also add that we were initially incorrect about *exactly* when Caleb’s birthday was. We read “6-10-07″ as June 10th…when it was actually, October 6th. Hence, this post–now not quite accurate Oh, and in that post we mention that his birthday was the same as my Mom’s…no longer true of course. But it IS the same as our sweet niece, Mimi.).

We still wanted to make the individual day special for each child — with special prayers, birthday songs and cards. We just left the presents and “cake” (e.g. banana bread) for the joint gig.

Well, the morning of Caleb’s birthday, just before we went in to wish him Happy Birthday, we learned that my father passed away. Since the child didn’t really know one day from the next anyways, we figured we wouldn’t add to his current birthday-confusion by having “mommy twying” (crying) all day be associated with his birthday. Instead, we celebrated it the next day. (I suppose all of this only adds to my grand plan to have a few birthday weeks each year, rather than just one day to celebrate me ).

Now, I can barely keep up with all the clauses and addendums we made to our birthday plan, so I can’t blame the kid for seeing birthdays as some sort of gender assertion day. Each time we said “Happy Birthday, Caleb” or sang Happy Birthday, he quickly responded “Daddy and Caleb are boys.” Maybe if he had siblings whose first language was English they would make up for the obvious gaps his parents are creating in explaining these seemingly weird traditions.

I only hope we can get our act together by Thanksgiving or Christmas.

But for now, we’ll assume this isn’t some indication of a larger schism in his thinking about life and the world.

As for my little guy, we’ve probably seen the most change in him — out of the two — since we’ve brought him home. And while I couldn’t imagine loving him more than when I first set eyes on his picture, he has certainly managed to steal more of my heart each day as he is getting more and more comfortable being in mommy’s arms.

In the Bible, God Himself describes Caleb as one who “has a different spirit in him, and has followed Me fully.” I see even the beginning seeds of this namesake in my own little Caleb–who pages through his bible with wonder and asks us many times throughout the day to “salut” (pray). His sister’s larger-than-life personality (that can tend to take up a room and then some) doesn’t threaten him …he just sits back and laughs at “goofy” (as we affectionately call her) as if to say it’s your time to shine, sis.

Amidst scores of birthday gifts (not even from us), by far his favorite birthday treat was a card that said “Happy Birthday” from my friend Erica and her daughter Madelyn, complete with childrens’ chicken-scratch. He carried it around all morning singing “da da da da” (he’s even composing music at a young age) as if he’d been given a life-size firetruck.

So, although a little late, here’s to the other of the little brown people who have rocked our world.

We love you, Caleb!

 

Love Is As Strong As Death

I’ve been knocked off my feet a bit by my father’s death. I don’t know what I was expecting to feel — or what I thought someone who lost a father at this age should feel — but this certainly wasn’t it. Whether 16 or 32, navigating life “fatherless” is as if somehow your equilibrium is off.

It’s not so much the moments of “oh, I wish I could call my dad about this” or “what would my dad say” that sting–instead it feels more like there is a crack in my foundation and I just can’t get settled. A disc has slipped  and I’m wondering if I’ll ever walk without a limp.

It’s hard to grieve with children around. In many ways, my kids are a wonderful relief. Eden has an uncanny ability of knowing just when to exert her physical humor. Like when Eden got dressed yesterday, putting both of her legs through one hole in her panties so she’s wearing her underwear like a belt and saying  “I’m ready Mommy!” as she brushed past me, bum hanging out, on her way to the sink. All to get a laugh. (We’ve taken to calling her “Goofy Hagerty” and she wears that title like a crown, reminding us almost hourly of her new name.)

And Caleb has this tender side which manifests most when “mommy is twying [crying].” He’s been calling Papa (my Dad) on his “phone” (any rectangular object he can find …well, yesterday it was a leaf) and reporting back that papa is “sleepin” and “wit Jesus” to his mommy who misses her own daddy.

While these little  interludes are sweet, they feel a little like a military shower when I’m needing a long bath.

So here I am again at this coffee shop, staring the fall colors sprinkled across the Blue Ridge, and feeling myself very muted. Wondering why the hard times in my life always seem to come during my favorite seasons.

*********

Today I found solace in the most worn part of my bible. I’m not quite sure why the Lord led me there, but I cracked open Song of Songs and for some reason read it with new eyes today. I read about a woman,–skin taut and hands tired from work in the fields and a not-so-glamorous life–who likely spent her days dreaming about living on the outside as the woman she truly felt she was on the inside. She had an extraordinary virgin youth that was bound by the mundane. Or so she thought.

Surely she’d earn the respect of those who looked through her if she could only get beyond this unremarkable life of hers. It was then that she caught a glimpse of a man who she knew could turn her world around. She couldn’t get enough. She studied him – his eyes, his hair, his complexion. And she worshiped him, despite the fact that he was out of her league. He wasn’t her kind. This only fueled her desire.

How could she not desire him? He saw her in her most raw form and he loved her anyways. Somewhere beneath her sun-wrinkled skin, his eyes got lost in the beauty of her youth. Even more invigorating to her was that this seeming pillar of strength was susceptible to love. He was moved by her. Was it even possible to add to what already seemed so perfect, so sovereign?

How on earth could this touch my heart right now?

If you haven’t put it together yet, I don’t see this as just a love story about a lover and her beloved. This little 8 chapter book has me in tears, yet again, reminded of the love of the Father. My Father. My beloved.

At a time where I most identify (however slightly) with the plight of the orphan, the fatherless, I need to curl back up in the pages of truth.

He loves me.

And my weak (and at the moment very drained) love moves Him.

When we first brought the children home, Nate kept saying we needed to figure out a way to distinguish the word “love” as we so often use it in everyday language from what we were frequently telling the children: “I love you, Caleb.” At the same time that they were learning “Mommy loves me” they were learning that Mommy also loves tea and fresh flowers and Eden’s dress. We were constrained by our language.

I think we did the same thing that God spoke of through the author of Song of Songs. I would hold Caleb at night as he was learning the names for new features on his face and say “I love Caleb’s eyes,” “I love Caleb’s smile”, “I love Caleb’s shoulders.” I wanted him to know that I was learning him …and loving him. Every part of him. Oh, if you could see the way he lights up when I say “I love your eyes. Can Mommy kiss your eyes?”

They love to be delighted in. It brings them security.

And right now, I need to be delighted in. It brings me security.

All of a sudden, a world I felt so on top of since our adoption was complete  (ok, let’s be honest, only for a few brief moments of my life have I felt this way)  has felt so insecure. I’ve felt lost. Side-swiped by my dad’s death.

But the words of the Beloved to his bride are like a balm to me. It might appear (even in my own writing above) that the Beloved awakened in his lover what had been latent, but in actuality He made her remarkable. It was only a dream of hers to break the bonds of the ordinary and have the mark on her life be one not of pain, but of beauty. But His love, breathed into her very frame, made her come alive. Not again … but for the first time.

And in the same way that Caleb’s wide-eyed smile in responding to “I love your eyes” could make my heart flip, my weak glance back when I sense His affection and security moves God. I move God.

So today I’ve taken His words as a charge to me:

Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm;

For love is as strong as death, jealousy as cruel as the grave.

It’s flames are flames of fire, a most vehement flame.

Many waters cannot quench love, nor can floods drown it.

Song of Songs 8:6-7

Is it possible that God, as it seems I’ve drunk again from the chalice of bitter, could take me even deeper into the sweet just by His very glance?

He has today. And I’m leaving this dinky little coffee shop–albeit still sad and dehydrated from crying–changed.

If you haven’t at all (or even in a long time) crack open that little eight chapter book and ask Him to awaken love.

Lord, Teach Us to Pray

This is a prayer I pray a lot, repeating what the disciples asked Jesus. And now that I am not only responsible for one, I want just as much — if not more — that my children would develop deep hearts for God and for prayer.

While it’s tempting to wait until Eden is praying for God to be glorified on the earth; or Caleb, that his homeland would be healed of poverty … well, here’s a window into our little prayer time, such as it is *now*:

With a growing vocabulary, Eden, in particular, finds our prayer time as her own occasion to soliloquize using her growing word bank (not quite the concept we’re shooting for here.)… as if to say “Jesus, look at what I’m learning!”

Last night, this was her prayer:

“Thank you so much Jesus.

Ducky flew away, Jesus.

Ducky poopy.

Jesus shinte ["pee pee"] and caca ["poo"] in the potty.

Amen.”

It seems here that she is really grasping that Jesus was not only fully God, but fully man …right?

Not exactly what I’d call storming the gates of heaven with our prayers, but certainly helping us keep it light here at Nana’s house, while we’re missing my dad.

My Dad

This morning my father passed away.

My mind is a maze of thoughts and emotions … and why am I blogging right now? Because I just have to tell someone — even if I never publish this post and it is only read by its Catalyst — of the glory of God rising higher than this seeming defeat.

Probably longer than he should of been (and certainly well beyond the stage where it was cool), my Dad was one of my chief confidants. For this reason, many of the years blend together. When we spent time after dinner sitting in the living room talking through my current emotional hurdle …was it teenage angst or real middle school drama? When was the last time he knelt beside my bed to dream with me about all the things I could do or what the future held? I seem to think it was before I left for college, yet at the same time I so vividly remember stories he told by my bedside which only a young child could appreciate. Seventeen, when I crawled into his lap after getting cut from the cheerleading squad, felt a lot like when I was ten.

My dad was so safe for me.

And that same zest he had for life was what he encouraged in me. This man–who, on a whim, hiked the entire depth of the Grand Canyon with nothing but a can of diet coke–called out of me courage and adventure. The night before I left for a backpacking trip in Europe, I slept like a baby while my father’s excitement for me prevented him from catching a wink. And his part of the trip was only the drive to the airport. When I won awards for running at ages 11, 12, and 13 my dad talked to me about being a college athlete. This not because he aspired to boast of his child’s acclaim; my dad just constantly infused into me that there were no limits. I can still hear him saying (because he said it so often) You can do anything, Sara.

He loved my zeal … even if he didn’t always understand its object. One of the challenges in our relationship was when I began to actively pursue a relationship with Jesus. My dad grew up in the church, but had a period of time in college and beyond where he began to question whether Jesus was who said He was. Little vignettes come back to me of conversations we had over the years. Through it all he honored and respected my ever-growing faith.

He loved to dialogue about things he knew a lot about and things he knew nothing about. My dad would pass up some of his favorites–Jeopardy or a hand of cards–to sit at the table and deliberate. And on faith, we did. Over many years, we did.

The constant theme of my dad’s discourse was “I want more faith, but I just can’t get it”…however, something changed after his cancer diagnosis this past December. While I want to protect the privacy of some of my most cherished conversations, I will say this one thing. My dad was not too proud nor too convinced of his own theory, to, at age 62, recalibrate. I humbly watched as my father, truly my hero, took a figurative bow and asked Jesus to come into His life.

Whether he knew it our not, my dad launched me into my relationship with God. It wasn’t hard for me to get my arms around a Heavenly Father with love enough to endure death. My father here on earth had already made it seem true. At 15, when I asked Jesus into my life, it was only natural to sit before Him in the same  safety which I had with my own dad.

And after all these years, I’ve arrived at a day where my father is living out the reality that our life here on this earth is really just a blip–and when all is stripped away, He is all we have.

When people die, we tend to memorialize them as if they somehow touched some sort of perfection on this side. Well, my dad didn’t come without flaws and (like many children I suspect) I regret that at times I carried a microscope to them. My hero was human. But I praise God that as the weeks and months leading up to this day have unfolded, what fills my mind is such a deep fondness for my father.

He was a great man.

And He was created by a great God.

So I’m finding myself wishing again that I could go back to Saturday mornings mixed with the smell of sweat and scrambled eggs as my dad and his best friend John chewed the cud after a tennis match. I want to crawl into bed and close my eyes while he tells me a story about a land far far away. Oh, if I could have one more sunset ride on a raft with my dad in the ocean …

And while his life and death could appear to be yet another strike against this little heart of mine (that will not cease to believe that God is the God of the supernatural, the miraculous), I see this as as a piece of the mystery that will be unfolded at the end of the age.

When I see my dad again.

In victory.

Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed– in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.

1Corinthians 15:51-52

“One More Big Cuddle, Mommy!”

Each morning, after the children wake up, among a few other daily traditions, we have what we call “the big cuddle.” What started as a sweet excuse to wrap our arms around our little ones has become an elbow-jabbing, hair-grabbing, saliva-dripping heap that ends with something similar to a team huddle. It’s not really a violent thing–it’s just that they simply leave aside all sense of personal safety to get a closer grip on daddy or mommy’s neck and wrap their little brown legs around our waists.

We love it.

I didn’t know it was possible for these children to get more affectionate, yet it seems each week their cuddle-capacity is growing.

And my favorite time of the day is after nap time. They wake up at different intervals (well, I’m not sure if Eden even naps. Each day, when I go in to get her, she is lying in her bed wide-eyed as if she hadn’t moved for the last hour.), so I get a good 1/2-hour with her before Caleb comes out of hibernation. When he finally wakes up, he’s just content to sit in the rocking chair with me, rest his arms on my shoulders and his head on my chest and, well … sweat (he does that a lot).

Eden has taken to saying this phrase both before and after her naps: “Mommy, one mowr big cuddle.” The words are barely out of her mouth before she’s got her arms in a grid-lock around me and her head is smooshed as close as she can get it to my neck. This little peanut says that about 6 times a day. I melt every time.

Sometimes I am overcome with emotion as I wonder if she holds me so tight because of a fear that I might leave or die. Other times it seems like she is making up for lost time. Going possibly as long as 2 years (after Caleb was born) without the embrace of a mother could feel like eons to a child. That’s half of her life.

The story of how Eden and Caleb arrived at the orphanage is something we’ve more recently decided not to disclose. When they were just a “referral” to us, it was easier to share the details, however sparse, of their relinquishment/ abandonment. Now that I am living the reality of a story which I will someday need to tell, unpack, and process with these two little ones, I am realizing it is highly personal. I’m slowly learning to say “that’s something we’re saving for our children when it’s time to tell them” when I’m so often asked what happened to their parents.

I have the utmost respect for Eden and Caleb’s birth-parents and the hardships they must have endured attempting to raise their children in the conditions where they lived. Even if just for a short time. But, now that they’ve been under our roof for just over two months, I admit I forget we adopted them. They’re just ours, like they’ve been there from birth.

We will work on “lifebooks” with our children, that tell the story of how they came to be adopted. We will talk about what we know (however little) of their birth parents and we will likely visit their birthplace with them. Even now, Nate and I have been praying that God would heal any wounds this whole process has inflicted on them and one day, when it surfaces, we’ll pray with them through this hurt and pain. We will honor their birth and heritage. But not to a greater degree than their adoption.

While birthing a child is holy, the act of adoption was written into our DNA. I’ve heard a thousand times that I was “adopted by God,” through Jesus Christ. Me, a Gentile, was offered the blessing and promise of an Israelite through my relationship with Jesus. I was grafted into the family of God.

I could recite those words in my sleep. They are truth.

But as I feel her little racing heartbeat against my chest for the sixth big cuddle of the day, or as I stare into his eyes as he runs his fingers over my eyebrows and names each of the features on my face with such wonder, the whole thing is so real. They have shed their old life. Yes, it is a part of them. And if there was no sin in the world it would still be their final inheritance. But it’s just a trace. They are new.

I know now why we gave them new names.

And if the God of the universe could create in my womb a child who is the genetic combination of me and Nate, could He not do this very thing–create a child with a make-up that so clearly fits our family–in another’s womb?

I don’t believe that what happened to Eden and Caleb’s parents and how their lives unfolded was “God’s best” for them or even His desire for their destiny. I am caught breathless, however, at the notion that He could produce a glorious victory over the enemy through this adoption. This alongside such seeming defeat and death.

At times I feel like I am anomaly. I believe in modern-day miracles and healing and the power of prayer, yet I live in a body that hasn’t (yet) been healed of infertility. These two little brown people are my banner. When I feel the heavy reproach of a womb that has not yet been opened or hear people speak of the “curse” of infertility, I now have a tangible reminder of what was–for a long time–only a concept, which God had burned on my heart in the secret.

He wins. Every time.

The outcome isn’t quite how my simple mind would have wanted to craft it. But in the still, small quiet hours in a little coffee shop with a view of the Blue Ridge mountains, His Spirit hovers over me with this truth:

Death you have no sting.

Happy Birthday Eden!

Birthdays aren’t celebrated much in Ethiopia. Our childrens’ first experience with a birthday was mine a few weeks ago. Thanks to these little eager beavers (trying their hand at any bit of language they can remember) I heard “Happy Birthday, Mommy” for multiple weeks.

So … this morning, when I woke Eden up to tell her it was her birthday, you can imagine the confusion. She kept saying “Happy Birthday, Mommy.” No, Eden, it’s YOUR birthday. Throughout the morning as we reminded Eden that it was her birthday, Caleb would retort “Caleb and Daddy are boys. Mommy and Eden are girls.” Hmmm … not quite sure what “birthday” was triggering for him.

Because Caleb’s birthday is just around the corner–and their language hasn’t come along enough for us to really explain why one would be getting gifts and the other not–we’ve decided, this year, to set aside tomorrow as our family’s day to celebrate both of their birthdays. It’s dawning on me, though, that this may cause even more confusion. Today was “Happy Birthday Eden” and tomorrow brings gifts and lots of their “favorites” for both … and then in a few weeks it will be “Happy Birthday Caleb.”

Maybe Caleb is on the right track–sticking with simple concepts … “Mommy and Eden are girls and Daddy and Caleb are boys.”

In the meantime, I can’t help but honor this little spitfire who has totally lit up our lives and the God that somehow brought this one, so clearly fit to be a Hagerty, from halfway around the world into our home.

Happy Birthday, Eden. We’re so glad God made you.

Everyday Life

I should be planning what I’m going to cook this week (can you believe it, the first week I’ve had to cook since we brought these children home … thanks to some wonderful friends!!) but instead I diverge.

Just want to give a few snapshots into daily life post-adoption. In general life here with them feels very natural. She’s a cuddler with an adult-sized sense of humor, and he is a total lover with an inordinate amount of saliva (the combination of these two traits makes for lots of laundry). They both have grown an inch and a half since we’ve gotten them home (!)–and that doesn’t include hair height .

He’s a few ounces shy of 30 lbs — up from 22 lbs in March when he arrived at the orphanage. We celebrated when she crossed over to 23 lbs — up from 17 lbs when she arrived at the orphanage. Sometimes we wonder if we’re doing damage by weighing them every other day and marking the wall for their height every 3.

The children are losing their Amharic(main Ethiopian dialect)/Sidamigna(their regional dialect) rapidly. This is a bit sad–yet we’re welcoming it, as it means they’re using English more and more. We used to love hearing them chatter back and forth in one of their languages on the monitor in the mornings after they woke up, but have found their more recent dialogue (now all English) is somewhat repetitive as a result of their limited vocabulary.

I’m pretty convinced the brother-sister relationship continues to grow in depth even though most all of their heart-to-hearts go something like this:

“Caleb, excuse me.” - Eden

“Yes, Eden.” - Caleb

“Brown bear, brown bear what do you see?” – Eden

“Thank you.” - Caleb

“You’re welcome.” -Eden

“What’s this?” – Caleb

“Brown bear, brown bear what do you see?” -Eden

They certainly aren’t shy in attempting their English, and Eden (especially) takes every opportunity to “engage” in conversation. We’re never quite sure what she’s intending to say. I’m not sure if she was prewired to be an easy-laugher or has just become that way because mommy and daddy’s response to her soliloquies is so often laughter, and she hates to miss a party.

The other day her prayer went something like this: “Dear Jesus. Thank you so much Jesus. I love you so much Jesus. Daddy workin’. Eat lunch. Caleb don’t do that. Amen.”

Caleb followed suit tonight with this prayer: “Jesus, I love you so much. Jesus thank you so much. Eat lunch. What is this? Nana and Glandpa. Amen.”

We’re grooming them to be speech writers.

They still are very content playing with the most basic things and we’re happy to keep it this way–as it seems their little imaginations are working on overdrive. She took a “bath” in a canvas storage bin (yep, she’s small) just after using it to “make” injera and he has spent hours building the legos as tall as he is (or taller — if mom gets out the stool) and then, of course, knocking them down. His only hindrance in this enterprise is when Eden uses his legos as a feeding trough for her farm animal puppets or for “buna”(coffee) in her Ethiopian coffee ceremony.

They still point at the paintings on their wall and say Ee-ti-opia and dance by shrugging their shoulders in the traditional Ethiopian way. This, of course, is intermingled with princess costumes and memorized recitations of “Snuggle Puppy” and “God of Wonders.”

We’ve got quite the cross cultural experience going on here … and we love it.

Taking the Bronze

Every September 2nd I have felt like it was just yesterday that Nate and I got married.

This year, on the eve of our bronze anniversary, I just can’t believe it has only been eight years. I look back at the people we were that day and think only God could have known that we would be such a great fit now (and that it would take several years for us to hit a stride ).

While I’m hoping he hasn’t gotten me a bronze pendant and am not quite sure what else comes in bronze that I could get excited about, I will say that I LOVE that this is our bronze anniversary. We made it on the medal stand, but not without room for improvement. We have much to celebrate, but have only just begun the real training.

Tonight as I was putting lotion on the children (a must for little brown people — I have been told) I said to Eden as she was squealing, dancing, laughing (the child loves “lotion-time”), “Mommy loves Eden.” She looked back at me and said “Daddy loves Mommy.”

Fitting.

I had no idea it would take us eight years to start this family — this insta-family. Yet I can’t imagine us any other way.

6 Weeks As A Family

As a part of our bedtime routine each night, we hold them and give them a bottle. May seem a little unnecessary for an almost 2 and 4 year old … but it’s something we decided to build-in to help with bonding. And it has.

I get a lump in my throat just about every other night as I look in their eyes and think about them being anywhere but here. I know that at some point I will need to deal with the reality of their past…but for right now–beyond praying as God leads us for specific implications of their past on their current lives– it’s not the time. Any parent can relate to shuddering at the thought of their child experiencing abnormal pain. My children have faced more loss (and likely seen more tragedy) in their few years on this earth than I have in 31.

I often wonder if they can understand the transition that’s happening around them. I can honestly say that my kids are two of the happiest children I know. I just have to get on camera the squeals they let out when they hear the garage door opening … signaling daddy’s return from work. Every song is an opportunity for a dance party, and the things we take for granted–like puppy dogs, sprinklers and trees–are like the end of a treasure hunt. As I type, I’m sure this is true for most all kids, but I still wonder if our children’s delight in life is inversely proportional to the depravity they came from.

Overall, the past 6 weeks have felt more like years … in a very rich way. I can’t believe we only just first held them July 10th. God has done something marvelous in both us and them, and it’s as if we never weren’t a family. While I know we will have many bumps ahead and certainly wouldn’t say we’re out of the woods in terms of the initial transition, I also am fairly convinced that God can overcome anything.

There can be a stigma about adoption, as if somehow these children are tainted … forever. The American dream is to have the healthy child and the family-without-issues and adoption seems to fight that gravity. Laced in the conversations about children who are adopted is the assumption that their personalities and character are permanently imprinted and adoptive parents should hope they don’t get a bad one. Better to adopt them younger, people say, as it’s less likely they will have been scarred for life.

As I look at our experience thus far I wouldn’t say it’s been so positive because we got beautiful, healthy, happy children–in fact, our children have medical issues I choose not to go into on this blog. We’ve been on our faces much since they’ve returned asking God to heal remnants of their past which have surfaced in their behavior. But the predominant theme is that there isn’t any hurdle He can’t overcome.

It’s a lie to believe a child — any child — is past the point of redemption.There is no stain He can’t remove.

How big is our God.

Just last week I felt prompted to pray that Eden would grow tall. Her severe malnourishment has left her off the charts in weight and height. At the pool a little boy heard me telling my almost-four-year-old that she needed to share her boat with her brother and he said “Why are you talking to that baby like that? Babies can’t understand things like that.”

By the looks of her you might very well think she is a baby. Yet I believe God is going to make her a sign and a wonder for Him. A representation of His glory. (As if He hasn’t done so already!). And so I have prayed that she would grow tall. Not because I’m afraid of having a short child or a child that doesn’t look normal, but because in the moments I have to engage with God in the midst of my day full of play-dough and building blocks, He has told me to believe He would do the impossible in my children and that the real miracles have only just begun.

I thought bringing them home was the picture of redemption.

Turns out it was only the foreshadowing.

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words

Every time I try to compose a post I’m either interrupted by the end of nap time or just stuck without words to explain the overwhelming gift Eden and Caleb have been to our lives.

I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with this blog as it was intended as a baby-book of sorts that my children could look back to see the great mystery of God as demonstrated in their homecoming.

In the meantime — as I wait on the next steps for this little diary — I’ll give you a glimpse into all the “firsts” that are happening around the Hagerty home. Hard to believe these kids were ever anywhere but here … yet the subtle lingerings of their earlier life keep us reminded that they’ve all along been His.

First trip to pick peaches.

Caleb was much more into the pursuit.

And Eden reaped the benefits of his hard work.

First 11 hour car trip.

Ten hours into our trip the child is still laughing.

There isn’t a song that Eden doesn’t know.

First trip to the beach …and all that comes with it.

Thank you, oh…thank you Lord. You are so faithful.

Contrast

Life at home continues, and the joy just grows.

I’ll leave longer commentary to my wife, but I thought that it would be interesting to share the photos we were given when we accepted our referral…and show you a few of more recent times.

It’s quite a contrast. Here was our post when we received our referral.

And here’s the photo (which we weren’t then allowed to share) Eden Meskerem Hagerty in mid-March, when she had just arrived at the orphanage…

And this was the picture of Caleb Asnake Hagerty, taken at the same time…

We were initially pretty concerned about their health, based on the medical reports we also received. Caleb seemed very likely to have hydrocephalus (he doesn’t–just a large cranium ), and Eden was severely malnourished and underweight at 17 pounds (age 3 1/2). They’ve since been gaining weight (she’s up to about 23 pounds, and he’s still larger at about 26 pounds). Their health is still a concern–though smaller, as we now know all that we’re dealing with–and everything is treatable and correctable.

And now…some pics from the last few weeks at home:

We really do put clothes on these kids…promise!

My wife convinced me to get a new camera…so there will be many more to come in the future!

The Rescue

The first night we had the children in the guest home — the day we met them — Nate and I went to sleep saying “parenting is so much easier than we thought.” Yes, you can laugh. We were totally green, yet one day of having these two follow us around repeating everything  we said and did and sleeping at the moment their heads hit the pillows (probably out of fear) made us feel like experts.

We quickly learned the next morning that this day one wasn’t quite a foreshadowing of what was to come. (And we had five other families at the guest home staying with us who got to watch our ugly object lessons … how’s that for a reminder that you really have no clue what you’re doing ).

Since then we have had a pretty steady flow of ups and downs. A few good days are sure to be followed by days like the past two we’ve had. The good days have prompted emails to the woman who handles “waiting children” at our adoption agency and the not-so-good remind me that these  “little brown people” (as we affectionately refer to them from time to time) who have invaded our lives have hearts that are still in need of deep rescue. And it won’t happen overnight.

It reminds me of my recovery from a heat stroke I had last year. On the day after I had it, I would have thought that I could run the 1/2-marathon I’d been training for. Had I actually done so, my very survival may have been threatened. A week or two after … I felt fine–as if my body was ready to get back on the road like I’d been training before–but I was told the recovery time couldn’t be gauged by outward signs.

With the kids, I’d look at Eden prancing around our house in a ballet tutu and princess gloves and think she was like any other 3 1/2 year old. Watching Caleb build a pyramid out of wooden train cars at the library does the same thing. Yet there are glimmers which the Lord gives us into their past that remind us both that the rescue has only just begun.

Yesterday, when I took the children to a doctor’s appointment, the woman at the registration desk asked me if I was Eden’s guardian. If you only knew, I thought. Sure, I am her guardian and I shouldn’t expect that seeing a white woman with two black children would lead one to conclude that I am their mother. But the question made me realize that I don’t even think twice about Eden and Caleb being mine.

She has my zest and he has Nate’s love for adventure. They love to pray, like we do, and have comfortably made our first floor a dance hall (certainly not the first time these rooms have seen spontaneous dancing. ) Eden’s already into shoes … (One of the first phrases she said that wasn’t an echo of me was “I love these shoes.” Unfortunately she was talking about her crocs. She’s still learning.) …  and Caleb gets more excited about cleaning up the toys than he does about actually playing with them. Ummm…no doubt they are children of ours. I know that from the beginning of time that they were destined for our family.

They just came into our arms a different way.

And I suppose every parent is on a rescue mission. It may just be that ours is a little more obvious. When Eden says “look Mommy!” expecting to get praise for demonstrating a limp or an arm deformity (as if maybe someone coerced her at some point to do this …maybe to enhance the “ask” when she begged), my eyes still flood with tears.

Their first few years of their lives are a mystery to me. (Heck, exactly how many years they had until they came to us is yet to be truly known.) I am beginning to gather pieces and will likely have more once they begin to speak English, but only God can give me the revelation to know how to pray for their little hearts. And He is. Each day I’ve been let into new secrets. It’s almost as if all those months of waiting on children we haven’t yet met were like a mere launching pad for praying for these children we don’t yet fully know.

I can’t explain the relief that comes from knowing that God not only knew them–but He made them … and although I may more easily pass as a guardian to an onlooker, Eden and Caleb were meant for this family. They fit.

It’s just that we have a lot of time and seeking the face of our God before us to heal the broken places and uncover who they were destined to be.

Oh Father, heal them from the inside out.

We Will Extol

Eden knows she’s adorable and it’s not yet trouble but, if unfettered, it could be. When she snuggles into bed her almond-shaped brown eyes just stare into mine and she gives this knowing smile–as if someone taught her how to woo (and possibly manipulate ) her parents by her affection. Last night she whispered — yes whispered — in Nate’s ear as he was putting her down to bed “I love you so much, daddy” in her little Ethiopian accent.

Caleb seems much less studied in his cuteness — nonetheless it’s there. He loves to give wet sloppy open mouthed kisses that certainly aren’t hindered by a mouth full of food. His head is slightly too large for his body which makes him quite winsome as he bobbleheads all over our house, oftentimes needing help if he’s teetered too far to one side or another.

Many times over the past week I have wondered where they would be if they weren’t here under our roof. It brings me to tears every time my mind goes there.

There is so much life in them.

How far were they from being one of the hollow-eyed children I saw on the streets in Ethiopia, begging for food while a parent or guardian stood off in the distance, hopeful that this child would win favor on their behalf? Or were they one of those children already — just removed from that by a few months in the orphanage waiting for us to arrive?

I suppose that I see this old potential destiny in the same way as that of an unborn child whose parents chose to end their life before it began. It’s unjust.  That’s not to say that life with us would always be perfect, or that the alternative would be like death. It’s just real to me now when I watch Eden dance with her arms in the air or Caleb sprint (ok, bobble) into my arms from the other room.

There is so much life in them.

Life that would otherwise have been sooo different. DNA that was meant to form a destiny that no other person could fulfill — each one unique.

And so here I am in the midst of a seemingly-mundane life. Finger paints, play dough, Lincoln Logs and dress up clothes make up much of my day. But every bit of it speaks to me of the redemption of God.

How can I ever thank Him?

He has taken these two little hearts–so full of life–and redeemed them … in my home and under my watch. And He’s taken me and Nate–so flawed and inexperienced–and given us not one, but two of the best gifts we can have this side of His eternity.

My children declare the glory of God and their very squeals and giggles are a display of His splendor.

Yesterday, as I was folding laundry (something I’m getting very familiar with), I turned and saw Eden and Caleb on their knees with their heads in their hands. “Salut, mommy” Eden said as she looked up. This is the Amharic word for pray. This scene is one that happens many many times throughout the day, unprompted by mommy and daddy. In fact they’d never seen us on our knees praying when they first did this.

Although not fully cognizant, deep down I’m certain they know. He saved them for Himself. Their lives are now unto Him.

And my heart is so full of gratefulness.

Psalm 145

I will extol You, my God, O King;
And I will bless Your name forever and ever.
Every day I will bless You,
And I will praise Your name forever and ever.
Great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised;
And His greatness is unsearchable.

Kissing at the Ethiopia Guest Home

Life at Home

Can’t wait until I have the time to write about our experience since we’ve been home. In the meantime here are some shots of our little africans in their new home life.

Bath time is definitely a favorite …

Especially with our cool animal towels

Just like many of the Ethiopians we saw, our little girl likes to carry things on her head

Meal time is like a full contact sport.

This girl’s got rhythm

More Trip Photos

We’ve been able to post some other pics from the trip to Nate’s facebook account here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=90627&id=711954443&l=6c22d6e25d

Coming Home…

Some friends met us at the airport to welcome us home (the kind of friends you feel comfortable being around after a 17 hour flight). Then, they put this video together and showed it to our church on Sunday (even without us being there). People in our church have been amazing throughout this process … THANK YOU EVERGREEN!

Rubber Ducky

[written last night, but only posted now]

I’m updating our blog with what little time I have because it seems easier at the moment than returning phone calls and emails. Friends please forgive me for being so impersonal. I’m settling down to a cup of tea and about 10 minutes of bandwith before my head needs to hit the pillow.

Today was full of all sorts of meltdowns — some for very clear reasons (it’s too fun here to stop and take a nap) and others out of the blue with no linear trace. The transition is clearly very hard on these children and the language barrier and their age make it difficult to process with them. For one who doesn’t like to have anything go un-discussed, all the tears without clear resolution makes it hard for me to believe we’re making progress.

Thank God for the universal language of hugs, kisses and cuddling.

I’m still amazed that in the midst of these explosive fits, its only minutes before they are grabbing at our legs or lifting their arms in the air to be held. The advantage to her pint-size (she is supposedly almost 4 and was wearing a 9 month dress today) is that it is physically possible to hold her most of the day as she wishes. I feel like we’re catching up on lost time. Years without a mommy makes for a large cuddle capacity. And Caleb is just as hungry for dad to hold him close to his chest.

While the “ups” are amazing with these children — they are so stinkin’ delightful — I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the reality of the “downs.” The fight for these precious ones’ hearts has only just begun and we’re starting to wake up to the fact that the paperwork process until now was like a boot camp preparing us for the real battle.

With that said, I feel like I am walking on holy ground. He has given us the honor and the privilege of stewarding two lives. Although today felt like a long walk through a briar patch to find one treasured rose, I sought His wisdom more than I have most days leading up until now. Totally unequipped we are, yet having everything we need to unlock their little hearts, we have no hope for healing for our children except by Him giving new wisdom and revelation.

And so our house and our world have yet again unraveled …only this time I think we were a little more prepared and even excited. For somebody whose family crest probably says “there is a place for everything and everything in its place”, there’s something freeing about having dishes piled up near the sink, today’s clothes strewn between the bathroom and the bedroom and coffee grinds from this morning in a pile next to the remains of the powdered formula. I know this survival mode won’t last forever but while it does, I’m going to store up every memory I can.

Tonight we were searching for a lost jump drive that in a few minutes of chaos became a make-shift phone for Eden (she stole it from Caleb, who in his fascination with electronics took it out of the computer when Daddy wasn’t looking). They caught us at a weak moment where we were too distracted to say no and before we knew it the jump drive went missing. Towards the end of my search I was opening up random kitchen cupboards. Nate was quick to say “there’s no way it’s in there” just before I found a rubber ducky from the bathtub in the next cupboard I opened — sitting right beside our pots and pans. Still no jump drive but the confirmation that I wasn’t too far off in my hunt …

Life sure has changed around here.

Highlights

We’re back. I’ve blocked the flight and travel from Ethiopia home out of my mind and only have the best of thoughts about our trip and ever-forming adventures with our children. So much to say, but no time to write.

Over the next few days, we’ll post some photo highlights from our trip and maybe someday again I’ll have time to write about the great ways in which God has shown Himself to us through this adoption and these two new little tikes who are nowfamiliarizing themselves with our home.

In the meantime, we’re having lots of laughs over here as we try and figure out this parenting thing … and loving the children God has given us.

e.g. –

tonight, we stopped about nine times throughout dinner to pray … Caleb kept asking to “salut” (“pray” in Amharic) and we certainly are not going to resist his fiery little heart. And Eden is ready for a performance at any moment. Most songs begin and end with a “Woah” and have a lot of Sidamigna/Amharic jibberish in the middle. She’s just as happy to perform for a crowd as she is her doting little bro. We love them.

And those pics (preview of the photos to come)…

Me and my girl

Caleb, Nate & Dilnesaw (a new Ethiopian friend)

Caleb with one of his buddies from the orphanage (who also was adopted this week!)

We Are Coming Home … With Children in Tow

For months we have been praying for July 15th …even before we received our court date.

He blessed us with this embassy date. It came and went and we are as official as we can possibly be.

We still haven’t quite mastered the language barrier, but we are now ones whose ears perk up when we hear “Mommy” or “Daddy” from across the room. They have learned those two words, “I love you” and “Ok.”

The children are absolutely delightful. We are having some incredible highs here along with a few not-so-great lows as the children walk through this transition. . . but nothing beyond what we might have expected. We are both overwhelmed by the tenderness of God to invite us into the ring with these two little ones.

We prayed for joy for her for quite some time …and I can’t come up with a better word to describe her than joyful. She squeals, dances and sings about 75% of her awake time (the other 25% just might be making me gray early). We prayed for peace and attachment for him as he entered this new family …and I’ve gotten familiar with the image of this little one looking so at home in his daddy’s arms.

Tomorrow at this time we will be at the airport, celebrating our indoctrination into parenthood with a 17 hour flight home. What better way to enter the fire of parenting!

We thank you all for your prayers …we know many of you have labored in prayer for this day for months and some years. And we worship, unashamedly, the God who has looked upon us with favor.

Learning Them

We continue to realize (with some added help from some experienced parents staying in the guest home with us) that we are in survival mode while we’re here. It’s sort of like bootcamp.

Although the guest home (we’d HIGHLY recommend it — Ethiopian Guest Home) is amazing, it’s still a small space for 5 families and their children.

Ethiopian adoptive families have been asked by the Joint Council on International Adoption to not take the new children out in public so as to respect the Ethiopian people and the pride they have in their country and children. So we’re here all day … with lots of helping hands around us to hold and love the kids and also comfort when we’re a little undone ourselves because we don’t quite understand the latest meltdown.

Each day — each hour — seems to be getting better. We are learning (we think ) some of the triggers that seem to cause more confusion for them — and thus more anxiety and fear. We are learning how to pray over them for the things which God reveals minute by minute. We are learning that we’re going to probably mess up multiple times in a day but they will bounce back … and that God (not us) is truly the healer of their hearts. We are learning that although a smile, hug, arms held high in the air as a request to be picked up or a shout from across the room of “Mommy!” or “Daddy!” is amazing … we’re not in this to get love back from them.

And we’re learning them.

They both like to clean (thank you, God!). Eden wiped the floor with “soft” (Amharic for “tissue”) after dinner last night and Caleb likes closing all the closet doors. Caleb is more secure in a room when dad is around and Eden loves to dress up, sing and dance. She has an explosive laugh that is contagious. They like to know when food is put on the table that they are going to get some — something as simple as giving them a piece of bread the second they sit down that they can hold themselves enables us to feed them the rest of the meal.

And they are learning too.

For the first time today they both said “baca” (finished) before finishing two full plates of food. I think they are starting to see the next meal is coming. Although we were still the last at the table, there was a lot more peace around breakfast.

Although survival mode isn’t ideal, we both have felt the presence of God so thick. We’re exhausted and emotionally drained … but so certain this is exactly where we are supposed to be.

And neither one of us have a doubt that this road we’re walking was the one He set out for us.