Nesting

I’ve spent most of today organizing Mollie’s room.  Half organizing, half nesting, half sorting and prepping hand-me downs for a consignment sale.  Yes.  That’s three halves.  That’s how busy I’ve been.

I think, perhaps, for the adoptive mother, nesting is integral to the adoption process.  Even more so for the international adoptive parent with a photo of a child a world away.  With a biological pregnancy, a woman nests as she imagines her family growing.  She envisions the snuggle time as she selects bedding, imagines the click clack of tiny church shoes in the foyer as she hangs smocked dresses on small pink hangers.  These dreams are coupled with the inner kicks and nudges she feels as her little one grows safely inside her.

I nest not only because I dream of our family in the future, but because I long to be close to Charles and Mollie.  To feel the nudge and flutter of them growing.  I long to know they are safe and warm.  To hear their heartbeats or see them flicker on a screen.

I don’t even know if they’ve eaten today.  I chuckle at the irony that I’ve hemmed and hawed at the pros and cons of putting Mollie in a crib versus putting her straight into a twin.  But y’all, right now they are most likely sleeping on the floor.  Perhaps even a dirt floor. I will literally have to teach my three year old son to use a pillow. Does it really matter that he will be on the bottom bunk?  

I stay up every night until midnight to pray.  Not because I’m super spiritual.  But because at midnight on the east coast it is 7am in Lumbumbashi.  And in that quiet darkness, I feel as though they are right here.  I close my eyes and if I lay still enough (and Sloan isn’t snoring too loudly), it’s almost as though I can hear them waking up.  Charlie all grumpy and wanting to go back to sleep and Molls bright eyed and bushy tailed, playing in the satin sheets I’ve bought for her.

I pray for their days.  I pray that they will eat more than once.  I pray for clean water.  I pray they’ll receive the care packages we’ve sent.  I pray that they’ll get to eat meat this week.  I pray that their foster mother will be loving and kind.  I pray that they will be told Jesus loves them and that their parents are coming for them.  I pray that God will introduce us to them in their dreams so that we won’t be strangers when we first meet.  I pray that God will bind up their memories of the Congo in a tender place so that when they’re ready to remember, it won’t be lost.  That they’ll always remember what their first mother smelled like.  That I will know how to foster a love of their country, but that I won’t force it upon them.  I pray that I will be patient with them and they with me.  I pray for Henry and Grace to understand that for awhile, we will need to focus just on Charles and Mollie.  I pray for them to share, be kind, and to be patient with them as they learn English.  I pray that Charlie and Mollie learn English quickly.  

So as we gear up to fundraise some more, know this:  yes, yes, we certainly would like to invite you to join us on our adoption journey.  And we are expecting God to go before us and provide financially for this adoption.  But each tshirt sold, wreath wrapped, frame painted is how I tell my children I love them.  It’s my proverbial pregnant tummy rub; it’s all I got.  

For now.

My son, the little monk

In as much as there is an eternal disco party surrounding Grace, there is an abundant gentleness about Henry. He is kind and uniquely tender. Sometimes I worry that when he goes off to school next year he will get made fun of because of it. The mother in me worries he will get beaten up for telling some kid to stop making fun of another child. But then there is another part of me, the sister in Christ, that is in awe to see the Spirit of God at work in my dear son's heart.

Today we headed off to Target to buy baking soda to bake the "Thanks for letting me sleep in until 9:30" cookies. On our way, we had to pull to the side of the road to let an ambulance and fire truck pass. With no prodding from me, Henry chirped, "Mom, we need to pray for the ambulance workers! And for the people they are going to help." So my 5 yr old led us in intercessory prayer for strangers.

Later in the day, I loaded some new books on tape for him to listen to at night onto his IPod, including the entirety of The Jesus Storybook Bible. He usually listens to Dr. Suess and then I turn it off before I go to bed. But as I tucked him in bed and propped his IPod into his speaker, he said, "Mom, can I listen to the Bible as I fall asleep?"

"Sure honey," I replied.

"But please don't turn it off. Let it play all night long. Because the Bible is God's word and I want to hear Him all night long. Even in my dreams."

Oh, to long to hear God's voice speaking to me at all times.

Thank you Jesus for a son and brother who points me to you. Continue to bear fruit in his little life. Give me the strength to stand back and let him be bold for your sake.

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. 

Thanks for your continued prayers

I cannot express to you how much y'all's emails, texts, and FB messages have meant to me.  To know that our boy is being prayed for around the clock.   This is good because the picture we have of him from over the weekend is just so sad to see.  His head has been shaved (typical in an orphanage to prevent lice), his clothes are filthy and falling off his body, and because they don't use diapers, his pants are split so the orphans can just relieve themselves whenever they need to unfettered.  He is still my precious boy, I just desperately want to cuddle him and let him know I have diapers and Oreos in my purse. 

I cannot post any pictures of Charlie.  But I can post a picture my buddy Laura posted on my FB wall.  J'adore.

Lost in Translation

Sometimes there is more than just the Pacific Ocean between us and our boy. 

For example, our son's diagnosis on his referral isn't even a medical term in the United States.  We think we might know what they are attempting to say, but even that is cryptic because his actual medical information doesn't even match up with that.  For example, let's say your child was diagnosed with asthma.  You would expect to see things like "wheezing, shortness of breath, and crackling lungs" on her chart.  But what if your daughter's dx was clearly stated as asthma but the file read "breathing normal, no signs of wheezing, oxygen levels normal"? 

What we do know is that he is delayed in his motor development and possibly speech.  Profoundly by Chinese standards.  Within norms by US standards.  And considering that he has been institutionalized his entire life, we are not surprised.

But also there are just some things that us Americans say and value that are a far cry from the way it is done in China.  I think sometimes I forget my son is in a Communist country.  For example, on his referral there is a section that tells us he can pick up a pill with his fingers.  I understand this is a measure of his dexterity, but can you not have my son playing with pills? 

We had the opportunity to recently ask questions of his caregivers.  I asked if he was able to play peek a boo or does he look for things hidden by his caregivers.  Basically, I was wondering if he had learn object permanence, a typical question at a 12 month check up.  They responded that their caregivers do not hide things from their children.

 I did ask what his favorite foods were.  Apparently he and Gracie are kindred spirits already as his favorite foods are bread and cookies.   (Note to self:  find out if the sell Oreos and graham crackers in China.) 

I also asked what his favorite toys or books were.  They responded as they were unsure as he has not been exposed to these things. 

Y'all, we gotta get my boy home.  Forget about praying for funds, let's pray for his paperwork to move along swiftly.  We've got to get a Thomas book in our boy's hands STAT. 

A Real {holy} conversation

I debated about posting this.

It is simultaneously a private matter and something I want to shout from the rooftops.  But I am posting this not for you dear reader, but for my son.  I want to give permanency and weight to the conversation that happened while kneeling next to his sister’s bed.  Because in addition to this blog being a place for me to write, vent, and just be, it is also the closest thing to a baby book that my kids are going to get.  (Much to the dismay of my mother.)  

So readers, my prayer is that this installment of a real conversation blesses you.  I pray you stand alongside me and marvel at God’s work in my family.

****

We were reading our bible story, as we do every night.  The story was Jesus’ ascension.  We’ve read it countless times.  Henry’s bible—Sally Lloyd-Jones’ the Jesus Storybook Bible—poses the question at the end of the story—“‘How can Jesus be with us and leave at the same time?’ they (the disciples) wondered.”    

The story ended and we were about to move on to Curious George and the Puppies when Henry asked, “Mom, how CAN Jesus be with us when he is also in heaven?”  

“Well,” I said, trying to reach back into my semesters of Systematic Theology and distill them into something for an almost 5 year old, “it is true that Jesus is alive in Heaven seated at the right hand of the Father.  But it is also true that Jesus is here with us as well because of the Holy Spirit.”  As I type this, I humbly confess that what I said was true and correct but also that it doesn’t really clarify the issue.  To be clear, I’m not quite certain of all the logistics.  Thankfully, Henry helped me.

“Are you talking about how Jesus lives in your heart and in heaven?”

“Yes!  That is exactly what I meant to say.  Jesus lives in heaven and in my heart.”  

He placed his small hand awkwardly on my chest and then leaned his head in whispering, “Jesus, Jesus.”   He sat up.  “Is Jesus in my heart?”

I cleared my throat.  “Well, have you asked him to be?  Jesus knocks and knocks on the door of everyone’s heart, but he isn’t rude.  So he only barges in if he is invited.”  

“Oh.”  He cocked his head to the side and bit his lip.  “I don’t think I’ve asked him into my heart.  How do you do that?”

Tears welled up my eyes.  “Well, you pray.  You say something like, “Hey Jesus!  I know that my heart is broken and I can’t fix it.  I sin and need you to rescue me.  Will you come live in my heart?” 

He sat upright.  He was very serious.  Or as serious as you can be when it is April and you are in your Christmas pajamas and your little sister is telling Jesus themed knock-knock jokes as she hurls herself off her rocking chair over and over again because Mommy is otherwise engaged.

“Ok,” he said, “I want to pray just what you said.  But we should kneel and say Dear Jesus and not Hey Jesus.”

“Okay, you pray to Jesus however you want.  He loves to hear your voice.”  So I knelt next to my son and listened to him pray the sweetest prayer.  The prayer his Daddy and I have been praying to hear for over 5 years.  

“Dear Jesus, I need you.  Sometimes I sin and am selfish and don’t obey Mommy and Daddy.  Will you come live in my heart and save me?  Amen.”  

Then he looked at me, BEAMING, and said, “Give me a high five, Mommy.  Jesus is in my heart!”

High fives, indeed, my son who is now my brother.  High fives, indeed.

A scholar's parrot

This past Sunday, Sloan and I spoke in a Sunday School class about the Orphan Care ministry at our church.  And like most times I speak about how God has worked in my life, it ends up different than I expect.  Invariably, I expect to really bless people.  I expect to go in and cause tears and have people stand up and shout, “Blessed are you amongst women!  Hallelujah!”

Ahem.

This has yet to happen.  Instead, what usually happens is I cry, Sloan says a few things and then people end up blessing me. 

This Sunday was no different. 

Sloan and I spoke at the beginning of the class and then stayed for the lesson.  

They were first discussing what is our primary question we all have for God.  And we all pretty much agreed that is was simple—we want help.  We want to be fixed.  We want all of our suffering to stop. 

Then we went to Scripture and read from Mark 9:14-17.  This would be the section of your Bible probably titled “Jesus Heals a Boy with an Unclean Spirit”.   

To paraphrase…Jesus and some of his disciples have just been on a mountain and done the whole transfiguration thing.  Then they rejoin the disciples and there is a crowd.  The disciples have been trying to heal a boy to no avail.  So there is some arguing about their legitimacy and power.  And then there’s the Dad of the boy, probably wishing everyone would stop pushing in and just let him get his boy some help.  Jesus swoops in and says “How long am I to bear with you?  Bring him to me” and finds that the boy is mute and has what we would probably diagnose as epilepsy.  He’s always had it and it has caused him other injuries.  And then the Dad says, “If you can do anything, have compassion on us!”  And I love this part…Jesus says “IF?  All things are possible for the one who believes.”  And then we have what is easily my most favorite prayer in the Bible “Lord!  I believe!  Help my unbelief!” So Jesus speaks to the unclean Spirit and heals the boy.  But to be sure, at first everyone thinks that the boy is dead.  The healing looks like death.  Seriously, Scripture says the boy looks like a corpse.  But then Jesus takes the boy’s hand and helps him up.

I think in the past I thought the whole “Lord I believe, help my unbelief!” prayer just sort of hung out on its own in Scripture.  I never saw that it was the beleaguered prayer of a Special Needs Dad.  This broke me.

It also broke me that what Jesus considers healing may look like death to me.  Frankly, I don’t really like that.  But there ya go.  That’s Easter.  There can be no Jesus taking my hand and helping me rise if at first things don’t die.  There’s no getting to Easter morning if we don’t walk through the agony of the cross.

And there is the dang rub.  I just want a basket of peeps, peeps.  Not the agony. 

And then, because the Sunday School teacher really wanted to hone in on my own self-worship and unbelief and the fact that what I really want God to be is a Grandpa who gives me everything I want—he gave us the following poem to discuss in small groups:

All this flashy rhetoric about loving you.

I never had a selfless thought since I was born.

I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through;

I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, reassurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,

I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin;

I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek—

But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

-C.S. Lewis

Father God, I believe!  Help my unbelief.  Break me free from my prison of self.  I confess I desire the world to revolve around me: Such a short orbit.  Enter in.  Call out my unclean spirit.  And just when I’m certain that I am dead, take my hand again and tell me to rise.