Change of the Tide

While on our honeymoon in Bermuda, Sloan bought me a silver and gold necklace.  It looks a bit like a horseshoe.  It is hands down my favorite piece of jewelry and if Gracie hadn't ripped it off my neck and broke last fall, I'd be wearing it now.  (Note to self:  remember that it is in your coin purse and take it to the jewelers to get fixed.  Stat.)

I love it because it hits my chest just between my collar bones.  I picked it because I loved its shape and simplicity. And today, as I reflect on the past 72 hours, it means even more.    Because inscribed on the back of it is the following quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The lowest ebb is the change of the tide."

The dust is settling.  Slowly.  I spent today researching countries and agencies we qualify for.  We have an approved homestudy that can be adapted for other programs.  And I'd like to say that if we follow the path that I believe God is setting before us, we will be switching agencies but it is NOT because we've been displeased with our current agency.  They were as shocked as we were by Chin@'s decision.  Their hearts are broken too.  I spoke with our local case worker today and we grieved together.  And she is eager to see what God has for us.

Moreover, God did something unexpected.  At the beginning of the month, we filed our i800a immigration paperwork for China.  The fee attached to this was just shy of 1k.  I was fully expecting to hear that we would just have to eat that.  The kids were settled and I called USCIS.  The gentleman on the line was less than helpful.  Apparently, I would need to write a letter to repeal our application and then write another letter requesting a refund which he had never heard of anyone being granted.  As he was about to give me the specifics of what I needed to do, Gracie had a full on meltdown.  Like beating her brother with a giant light saber because she needed a refill of milk in her sippy cup and then just a few extra minutes of screaming at the top of her lungs.  I told the gentleman, "I'm sorry, I have to go.  My two year old is driving me insane."  Click.  I hung up and then snapped at Gracie, "NO MILK FOR YOU.  I'm done."  And then I proceeded to leave my house and collapse in tears on our front porch.

After I finished my little pity party, I came in and put on the TV for the kids then headed upstairs to call USCIS back.  This time I got a woman.  When I told her our situation, she took a deep breath and said, "Oh, I am so so sorry."  I told her how we might switch to another convention country or perhaps a more likely scenario was a non-Hague country which would require another immigration form entirely. 

Enter screaming Gracie.  The woman on the line lamented that a mom on the phone was always a magnet to misbehaving children.  I found a lollipop, threw into the hallway and promptly shut the door after Grace.  (Yes, I know.  You are marveling in my awesome parenting skills.) 

When I came back to the line, the woman told me she had just found our file.  It had not even been processed.  She had spoken with her supervisor and it was fine with him if she just kept it on her desk until we made a decision as to what to do.  She could hold the file until Tuesday of next week.  And if we needed to switch countries, all they would need is an ammended homestudy (which our case worker is prepared to do for us).  THERE WOULD BE NO FEE TO CHANGE.  EVEN TO CHANGE IMMIGRATION FORMS!

Y'all.  This is huge.  For once, I'm thankful for Grace's temper.  So we have the weekend to decide.  Yes, that's a short turn around.  But we've had to narrow our countries based upon eligibility requirements, numbers of waiting children that meet our parameters, and length of required travel time  and number of trips and we are pretty much left with one country. 

And wouldn't ya know I'd receive in the mail today a shower invite to celebrate the upcoming adoption of a little girl from this very same country?!?  So if my buddy Sarah's daughter could keep an eye out for Charlie, that'd be great.  And if she could save a snuggle for him too, that would just be peachy keen.

Perhaps he's with Carmen Sandiego...

We had a conference call today with our agency.  Chin@ is saying no.  Definitively.  Were our agency to make more of a ruckus on our behalf would be to put in jeopardy the adoptions of many other people.  

Oddly, we both were at peace when we learned of the decision.  I think Sloan and I were both surprised at that.  Not that we haven’t and aren’t grieving, just that we have been here before, the giving of our hearts to a child that was not to be ours and that has turned out perfectly. 

Whenever I’ve spoken to folks going through the domestic adoption process, people always ask me if I regret getting blankets monogrammed and going whole hog for Emma Sloan.  I suspect the same could be said of our hearts getting set on little J.  But “all in” is the only way I know how to love.  I’ve said it before, when the roof caves in, it doesn’t matter if your hopes have built a rancher or a high rise, you are still standing in rubble.  So build a freakin' high rise.  

Pain hurts.  Sad things are sad.  And my brother and King Jesus has taught me that loves always bears pain for the sake of a greater glory.  I suspect that once we finally hold and kiss our son we will remember this pain as the agony of labor and shout from the rooftops about the goodness and faithfulness of God.

For God is at work.  

This afternoon, I took the picture of J off of our mantle and sat the kids down in our family room.  I said, “Henry and Grace, I need to tell you something sad.  This little boy is not our Charlie.  He is not your little brother.”  

Henry eyes got glassy and he trembled as he asked, “Who is he?”  I told him his name and said that our Charlie did not live in China.  Through tears Henry replied, “Well where is Charlie?”

I said, “Henry, I do not know.”

And my darling son said, “Well we need to ask Jesus to find him.  He could be anywhere!”

“Yes,” I said, the words sinking in.  “He. Could. Be. Anywhere.”

At present, we are sitting still and trusting that God will show us where in the world our son is.  We are investigating every avenue available to us.  Perhaps he is in Asia, perhaps Africa, perhaps he is in the foster system here in the States.  We don’t know.  So in some respects, this grief also brings with it some excitement.

If you had asked me on Monday if I would be this together when I heard the news, I would’ve laughed at you.  I cried so much on Monday that I had to use Afrin just to breathe.  But God in his wisdom sent Sloan on a business trip so that both of us only had Him to process the news with. 

He has been and will continue to be faithful to us.  

For those of you who have donated to our adoption fund, we fully understand if you want your money back.  I will say that most of the monies we have paid will be transferable to whatever program we do pursue.  Our homestudy is complete and will be reworked for another program.  Once we determine what direction we see God leading us, we will get our case worker to change things up as it was written with the Chin@ program in mind.  I can tell you that our family is NOT complete.  There is at least one more Phillips somewhere out there.  

And we. will. find. him.

Please also join us in continuing to pray for J.  He is such a great little guy.  His diagnosis is so much scarier on paper than we suspect it actually is.  He will always hold a unique place in our hearts.  While he is not our son, we pray that he will find his forever family soon.  

Thank you for your emails, calls, texts, and messages.  I especially appreciate the few friends who’ve said, “Hey, if you need to just call someone and scream obscenities, call me.  And if you need booze, I’m there for you too.”  You ladies speak my love language. And for those of you who've cried alongside me and over the phone, thank you. 

This rock will become a monument to grace

I had two miscarriages before I got pregnant with Henry.  When I made it to the 12 week mark, we finally exhaled.  We’d made it out of that “iffy” time of the first trimester safely.  Certainly it would be smooth sailing from there on out, right?

I was 14 weeks pregnant when after bathing the kids for whom I nannied, I noticed my pants were soaked.  I figured the kids splashing had gotten me and moved on.  But upon hanging up their towels, I saw that I was covered in blood.  Like my socks were wet.  My face went pale, I stumbled into the office of the dad.  I stuttered, “Umm…”  He took one look at me and said, “Go.  Go now.  I’ll call Sloan.”  

I drove to my doctor’s in a daze.  Within minutes I was in the ultrasound room, exhaling as I saw the tiny birdlike creature that was Henry safe and sound.  I had placenta previa and was put on modified bedrest.  At 18 weeks, it became apparent I had a weak cervix and was put on shots to help reduce my chances of preterm labor.  At 23 weeks and a day, I was 4 cm dialated and admitted to the hospital.  

We spoke with countless doctors covering all of our options.  If Henry was to be born this early, there would certainly be complications.  Words like “viability” and “quality of life” were tossed around.  Unbeknownst to me, our perinatologist asked Sloan in the event of an emergency whom was he supposed to save.  Both, he said.  You save them both.

At 34 weeks and a day, Henry arrived.  6 weeks early and not without some feeding difficulties, but within two weeks he was home safe and sound.

During Grace’s adoption, we were initially placed with a little girl whom we named Emma Sloan.  We’d met the birthmother and our little daughter.  I hired painters and had loads of dresses and bibs quickly monogrammed, Emma Sloan.  I’d begun to tell Henry about his new little sister Emma.  Heck, I’d even changed my facebook photo. But then, 8 days after Emma had been born, I received the most difficult call I’ve ever received.  In the commonwealth of Virginia, a birthmother has 10 days to reinstate her parental rights, and this is what Emma’s mom had done.  I literally fell to the floor in my kitchen like some bad Lifetime movie.

But then our case worker began telling us about M.  You see, my family had been this girl’s first choice, but we’d been unavailable.  Our case worker didn’t want to pressure us and certainly was not expecting an answer right away, but would we consider a placement with M?  Quickly, assuredly, I said No.  I just wanted to grieve.  I wanted to pack up all my teeny tiny pink things, set them on fire, and then throw myself a pity party.  I knew God had promised good to me, but this was NOT good.

I mean, we didn’t even start our adoption journey having our profile being open to all races!  We’d begun, like most other well meaning white people, being certain that if we were called to adopt across racial lines we’d know.  And we didn’t know, so we filled out that our profile should only be shown to Caucasian birthmothers.  We said we didn’t want to confuse Henry, were uncertain about our parents’ response, and were unfamiliar with cultural customs.  We said we didn’t want to have to be the poster family for adoption and go give speeches about it in churches.  (Ahem.)

And then, out of nowhere, I was putting our son to bed, praying the Lord’s Prayer, and I got stuck.  God’s word pierced my heart.  I began crying because I could not speak the words “On earth as it is in Heaven”.  It suddenly dawned on me that I had been called to adopt transracially…I’d just let that call go to voicemail.  

And thankfully, Jesus came for me.  He pursued my heart.  He showed me my sin was interfering with the grace he was so desperately trying to give me.  We soon switched our profile to include all races.

Which is a good thing, because that day in the kitchen, I saw firsthand how little that stuff matters.  Seeing me collapse, Sloan took the phone.  Our case worker told him all about M.  That her doctors had stated they would not allow the birthmother to parent the child, but Bethany could not find a family willing to accept this placement.

Sloan pragmatically told the case worker, “Let us pray.  Let us grieve.  But don’t rule us out just yet.  We will call you on Monday.”  I remember looking at him thinking, “What are you doing?  I don’t need to pray about this.”  Fortunately, I was too busy sobbing uncontrollably on the couch to voice this.  Sloan sat next to me and held me.  And through my tears, I heard that ridiculous pursuing love of Jesus speaking to me through my husband.  Sloan said, “For whatever reason, Emma was not our daughter.  I believe this girl is.  I’m afraid too, but we cannot allow our sin to get in the way of what God is doing.  Let’s do this.  Let’s love this girl.  Let’s be the ones to tell her that Jesus has not left her an orphan.”

We called the case worker back immediately.  After all, she was a baby without a Mommy and I was a Mommy without a baby.

This moment, this tender caress and soft conversation in my family room, is the dime upon which our marriage, our lives, and our relationships with Jesus turned.  It was like meeting Sloan for the first time and once again falling head over heels in love.  It was also the first time I understood that trusting Jesus didn’t mean I had to understand His plans.  Or even not be afraid of His plans. It simply meant that I had to take Him at His word—that He, not my child, not my spouse, not even our family’s health, was my security.  That it was the Risen Christ upon whom I was to hang my hopes and that this child was part of the good work prepared in advance for me.  

And so we chose to love her and through God’s mercy, our resolve turned into genuine joy.  Within hours of saying yes to baby M, we were talking to NICU nurses.  They told us of the great pain she was in.  That she was unable to settle down enough to eat or sleep.  That at this point, she was failing to thrive, and were we really certain we wanted her?  Livid, I told the nurse this wasn’t the SPCA, but my daughter she was talking about.  The first time I held that sweet child, she quieted.  She took 5 ounces of formula and drifted off to sleep as her Daddy whispered in her ear, “We are here for you, my sweet.  Jesus loves you.  Jesus is fighting for you, you needn’t fight anymore.”  

This is why we named her Grace.  Because despite all of my own sin, my hemming and hawing and excellent excuse making, God kept pursuing us, entreating us to trust Him, and to receive His good gift to us.   Despite our grief at the loss of Emma, we found true, deeply rooted joy.  And from the first time I held her, I was smitten.  

So it should not have been such a shock to me to learn this morning that there would be roadblocks in the pursuit of our third child.  On June 2^nd, we submitted our Letter of Intent to pursue the adoption of Charlie.  These typically get approved within a week.  Having not heard anything in awhile, I began to worry.  We returned home from vacation to a cryptic voicemail from our agency.  

I immediately began coming up with worst case scenarios.  Chin@ was going to deny our letter of intent.  They were not only going to deny our accepting the referral of Charlie, but were even going to say we couldn’t adopt from Chin@ at all.  Sloan assured me that this wouldn’t happen.  I snapped at him, “I need you to feed my crazy for just a minute.”  He laughed and said, “I will not.  That boy is our son.  End of story.”  

But then I realized that actually, the worst case scenario would NOT be if Chin@ rejected us, but if something happened to that little boy whose picture is on our mantle and is forever embossed on my heart.  Something that prohibited him from being adopted by anybody.

So to some degree, I was relieved this morning when I spoke to our case worker.  That little boy is fine.  But yes, there are some pretty major roadblocks to our adoption of any child from Chin@.  To the point that our agency is sending a worker to Chin@ to advocate on our behalf in person. 

So at this point, it is as it has always been, in Jesus’ hands.  And he is for us.

A friend this morning reminded me of when Jacob thought he was alone, sad and using a rock for a pillow and then bam!  Jacob had a dream of God coming to him on a ladder and Jacob knew that he was not alone.  Nor are we.  God is here with us in our pain.  He has not been blindsided by this.  While the roadblock may be so big it can be seen from space, it is but a speck to him.  So like Jacob, we are confident that this rocky pillow will become a stone in a monument to God’s grace to us.  

Are we heartbroken?  Yes.

Are we frightened?  Yes.

Are we without hope?  NO.  My prayer is the same as it was that first night we found out Emma was not ours.   

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief.

From October 31, 2009

Dear Lord,

I thought I'd already fought Goliath.  Remind me that it was You who felled my giants and You are eager to do it again.  And again.

Apparently, You are not done forming Your image in me.  Give me the strength to be rescued by You.  Help me to stop splashing about in my own strength.  Give me the faith the drown in You.  Thank you that it matters not if I can hold onto You.  YOU WILL NOT LET ME GO.

Help me to not believe the lie that I am alone in this.  Grant me the faith to trust You as I step out in faith once again. 

You say You are the lifter of my head.  Lift it. 

I want to see Your face.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come.  'Tis grace that's brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.

Yard Sale: Part Deaux

The pictures I posted last week did not do the amount of items we had for sale justice.  Our living room, dining room, and front porch were stacked to the ceiling.  Not figuratively; literally.  In the week leading up to the sale, between 3 and 4 people showed up each day to drop items off.  Sometimes it was just a bag or two, but most times it was an entire trunk full.  (All the more reason I still long for a minivan, they can haul a lot of stuff!)  Sometimes people priced items, sometimes not.  Last Thursday I went to the grocery store with a 50 cent price tag affixed to my right breast while my left one was labeled “Not for Sale.”  I was pricing items in my dreams.  

And like every party I’ve ever thrown, I began to worry that no one was going to show up and all of this stuff was going to be left at my house.  So I made 10 two sided signs and plastered our neighborhood, and Lucks and Courthouse Roads.  I posted updates to Craigslist and various Yard Sale websites.  

People also loaned me their card tables.  Friday night, before going to bed early, we set out thirteen folding tables of various sizes.  They were joined by the three sets of wire shelving from my attic as well.  There was literally so much stuff that Sloan and I knew that if we did not have a schematic of where all of the stuff would be located, we would be lost.

Having gone to bed at 9, I awoke at 4am.  My goal was to get everything off the porch and house by the time my friends showed up around 6.  I figured we could sort things then.  I had half of the porch cleared before Sloan joined me around 4:30.  He helped me finish the porch and then began emptying the house onto the now clear porch while I began to do an initial sort or the items.  We were still emptying the house by the time our first helper arrived around 6:15.

As we sorted, my friends began snagging items they wanted and making piles for themselves in my now empty living room.  It will shock no one who knows her to learn that Rebecca Perry wins the "most things bought at our yard sale" award.  We began to get worried when by 7 no early birds had shown up.  But by 7:30, things were hopping.

We made over $500 before the yard sale “officially” opened up at 8am.  

From then on it really is all just a haze for me.  I was wearing my yard sale vest (Sloan’s old fishing vest with about a gagillion pockets.)  I had a pocket for ones, a pocket for fives and tens, and a pocket for larger bills.  I was the sole checkout lady.  At times there were lines.   

Because I was so busy I didn’t take any pictures, but here is one Sloan snagged with his phone.  Behind him was all of the furniture, hardware, and lawn equipment.  

It started to thin out around noon.  Which was good.  Because I wasn’t counting calories and I had an entire #12 Beach Club no mayo from Jimmy John’s to eat.  To be honest, Sloan and I were craving lunch around 10.  

By about 1:30, we were telling people they could fill a bag for $5.  By two, more friends showed up to help us bag and box and get things ready for the charity to pick it up.  

All told, we were completely D.O.N.E done with the sale by 4pm.  For those of you counting, that is a full 12 hours on my feet in my driveway.  I will certainly count this as labor pains.  I started popping 800mg of Motrin and could barely walk the next morning.  I’m just now beginning to return to “normal”.  But this labor was a lot more fun because I was surrounded by people who love me and my family so well.  

And it may or may not have ended with me in my kitchen throwing singles in the air while Sloan shouted “Baby, make it rain!”

Yard Sale: Part One

I know you are all on the edge of your seats just wanting to hear how the yard sale went.  You probably had a hard time going to sleep Saturday night just for lack of closure.  (I, having woken up at 4 am, did not.)  So I’ll spare you the suspense of the whole series and say up front that it was a HUGE success.  We made over $2500.  I’d give you a more specific number, but I keep getting emails from friends saying, “Hey, I put a check for $30 in the mail to you today.”

So first and foremost, I will use this first post to thank all of the folks who made the sale a reality.  It’s insane how many peeps helped out. (And forgive me if you contributed and I forgot to list you.  I'm still pretty tired...)

The following folks contributed items for our yard sale:  my parents, Sloan’s parents, my sister, the West End Presbyterian preschool yard sale, St. Mark’s Preschool, Jason and Abbe Voigt, Trish Elsmore, Nancy Dunn, Karen Chippendale, Jenn Warren, Kristen Riley, Sarah and Max Doerfler, Jack and Dolly Carroll, Paige Hannon,  Sara Gretz, Jill and Darin Smith, Brice Bowman, Heather Jarvis, Ann and Davison Long, Ali and Bob Shenk, Ali’s mom, Ali’s friend Jill, Jessie Tucker, Becky Hartman (who I met on FB because she has two adopted girls with the same diagnosis as Charlie and the first time we met was her dropping off oodles of toys for our yard sale!), Mrs. Kain (a teacher at Henry’s preschool), Tracy Scoggins’s parents, Casey Zollinhofer, Amanda Krieger, Kristine and Steve Bakos (Kristine gets extra credit for being 39 weeks pregnant and driving stuff to my house and then being one day shy of her due date and sending her husband to the preview sale), Kate Zachry, and the adorable Henry and Gracie Phillips.

I have to give Henry and Grace props.  I told them we needed to get rid of all of the toys that lit up and made noise because they would be overwhelming to Charlie.  Henry spearheaded the round up effort bringing me noisy trains, oinking hammers, whistling flashlights, blinking car garages, and he even offered up his DS his grandparents gave him for his 5^th birthday!  I hugged my loving boy and told him that he didn’t need to give up his DS for his little brother. 

The following peeps helped me get the word out about the sale on their blogs, facebook walls, MOPS groups, and places of business:  Tracy Scoggins, Ali Shenk, Amanda Krieger, Lisa Nelson, Shannon Reppard, Biff Pusey, Christa Spencer, Abbe Voigt, Katie Greene, Melissa Newsome, Kirsten Corbett, Erin Lucero, Jenny Brock, Sarah Morin, Ali Fogarty, Katharine Schloven, Heather Jarvis, Karen Chippendale, Jessie Tucker, Sarah Doerfler, Josh Rineholtz (whom I don’t even know!), and Merry Harrison.

A shout out to the ENTIRE Fogarty family for coming to our sale and setting up a Lemonade stand which was fantastic as it was pushing 85 by noon.  Those Fogarty boys sold $35 dollars worth of lemonade.  That’s 70 cups of lemonade! 

And I also need to give some shout outs to the peeps who gave me arms on the big day:  my nephew Caleb for spending the night and watching our kids, my handsome husband who woke up at 4 am with me, Jenny Brock for showing up at 6 with coffee and donuts, Melissa Mann for showing up at 6:30 with a cooler full of soda for the volunteers to drink and to sell, Rebecca Perry and Ann Long for literally walking to help at 6am and even bringing  cookies that the lovely Katherine Schloven made for our volunteers (and perhaps Gracie ate one or two or seven), the entire Fogarty clan—Ali, EJ, Owen, Mason, and Ryan, Jenn Warren, Kaylee Ann Schwarz, Tracy Scoggins and Abbe Voigt. 

BIG FAT SHOUT OUT TO MELISSA MANN FOR STAYING THE ENTIRE FREAKING TIME!!!! Seriously, Melissa was haggling and selling like a pro.  And every time the pockets in my Yard Sale vest got fat, Melissa came and snagged it, took the money inside, counted it and made sure it was safe.  If you can snag yourself a friend like Melissa Mann, a woman who gives of herself so completely and will text back and forth with you non-stop, I highly suggest it.      

And I would be remiss if I didn’t also give a holler to Pastor Wade Runge of Mountain Movers Ministries and M3 Thrift for coming to pick up the sales’ leftovers.  The proceeds of this month’s sales at M3 Thrift will go to raise money for JB Watkins Elementary School’s new playground and Pastor Runge also wants to discuss helping us out with our adoption.  So folks, shop at M3 Thrift.  (But please don’t but the bike chariot that I saw posted on their FB page, because I’m hoping to get that to tote around my kiddos when Charlie gets here and I can’t use the gym’s childcare!) 

I’ll go into more details of the sale later this week.   It was crazy.  God is pretty much just showing off. 

Slumber My Darling

I’ve been so busy with paperwork and busywork and pricing and sorting that I haven’t really had or taken the time to actually consider why we are doing this giant yard sale very much.  Or, I am cognizant of its purpose—to bring Charlie home—but I haven’t really sat with his absence very much.  When someone asks me how many kids I have I say three, but it is still foreign to me.  

This afternoon, while sorting and pricing the mountain of items that were cascading out of my home and down my stoop into my yard, our babysitter showed up and offered to take the kids to the park.  So I was alone in the house.  Knowing I was beyond stressed and that my own home was making me itchy from all the disorder, I pulled up the Yo Yo Ma station on Pandora. 

Folks, Yo Yo Ma is the antidote to stress.  Or maybe it’s just the cello.  Something about its low aching timbre grips my soul.  It is simultaneously melancholy and joyful; it is the music of the human condition.  I mentioned this on facebook and peeps began sharing their mutual love of Yo Yo Ma and the cello.  And then my friend Angie sent me this link: 

Something inside me broke.  Or maybe the song just wiggled loose the right pebble in the wall I’d built up around the agony of waiting for Charlie thereby letting a flood of ache pool around me.  

I am writing this through tears.  Not misty tears, but full on I am now congested and puffy eyed and out of breath tears.  My son is not in my arms.  Someone else will put him down tonight.  Will they kiss his head and tell him he is loved?  Will they rock him to sleep if he lets out a cry?  Will they stroke his hair until it is shiny and stuck to his forehead? 

I am his mother and he is not near.  He is unaware that while he is crowded in a room with a dozen other sick and waiting little boys, his mother is crying out for him in a language he has never heard. 

My darling Charlie, though your surroundings do not show it, know this: you are no longer an orphan, but a son.  Though I am not near you now, I am coming for you.  Soon—but not soon enough.