Is It Safe Yet?

Push, pull. Fast, slow. Hurry up, now wait. Our adoption journey has been such a mixed bag of feelings, actions, decisions, worries,... the list goes on. So now that we're actually coming close to when we believe we may be traveling to go pick up the 2 boys that we've been carrying in our hearts and prayers since February and April of last year, I'm once again hit with the decision of whether or not to take the gamble, once again, of hope. Do I let myself truly go there? And if so, how quickly? Do I ease into hope? Or do I allow the flood-gates to finally open up?

When is it ever truly safe?
Is there a safe?

June of last year we had our 1st baby shower. We then thought we were only a couple months from traveling to get our boys. Sadness and embarrassment are some of what we felt when it turned out to not be the case. This journey has left multiple scars and wounds upon our hearts. Not just having to deal with the disappointments in our own hearts, but having to explain it to others who don't understand the process, when we don't entirely understand it ourselves. Why the setbacks, why the  long-waiting? Sometimes there are answers, sometimes there just aren't. That's just how it goes when dealing with a 3rd world adoption. We chose the Congo because it's one of the worst places on earth, and we've felt it in every step.

So as we're getting closer to the end, of what we're thinking, hoping, planning is the end, my heart is mixed. Do I fully hope? Or do I protect my heart? How much can one take before the offense grows too thick to recover? Too thick to hide in public conversations anymore.

It is hard. Please do not ask. I'm tired of listing excuses, tired of explaining, tired of hearing sympathetic condolences. Please just pray.

I am a mommy who misses her children. I've held them every day in my heart. Dreamed about them, prayed for them, talked about them, and have planned for them. I am ready to hold them. To finally have them. It is time.

This One's for MY Mommy

This morning is not a typical one. Here I sit at my kitchen table, a freshly brewed cup of coffee sitting to my left, window blinds open beckoning nature in. The rest of the house is sleeping. It's just me, my thoughts, and my God who promises to never leave me. This is beauty.

I wish this was common, but for someone like me who loves staying in the warmth of her bed all morning, this is a huge step, a miracle in itself. This is generally the intension for every Saturday morning, an early start to the day filled with quiet, sunrises, prayer and a little reading. It's the hope for every Christian woman, endorsed by countless sermons and lectures about the importance of "morning quiet-times". But for my personality type, it just hasn't always worked. I've settled for evenings.

Yet this morning, is different. I feel alive! Funny how something so small, a tiny goal reached, can impact a moral. Could it have been the all-to-familiar and practiced prayer of last night, eyes freshly closed for my night's travels, for God to please make me wake up in the morning and to not hit that snooze button ten times first? Did He finally hear me? Or had I just finally had enough of missing His grandious entry of the sun into our horizon each morning? Whatever it was, all things lined up, and I am a grateful, blessed woman this morning.

As I was pouring the fine granules of coffee into the pot this morning, I couldn't help but to think of my mother. She has installed and deposited so many wonderful loves into me, and morning coffee is one of the sweetest, I believe, to her heart. She IS mornings. Mornings with snuggly bath robes, sleepy eyes, a slight raspiness in the voice from a night of resting, the sound of the coffee pot gargling in the background, a journal or favorite book. And if there's a porch to sit on to watch morning's glory, that's even better. My mother lives for this time. So when I can actually partake of this cup, I can't help but think of her. Long after she's gone, I'll still be thinking of her. And it makes me wonder, what kind of memories, values will my children will remember me for? But that discuss is for a different time. This blog is for my mother.

Thank you, Mom, for the woman that you are. Just being you has trickled down to me, and will in turn, trickle down to my own children. That's how legacies are made. Just shining a light, being a witness, and hoping that others will get to see a bit of it and will want some for themselves.

Because of my mom, dinner time will always be a sacred time for the family. No tv, no cell phones, no distractions. It's one of the areas I will not budge on; ask my husband. Dinner time is family time, where we engage face to face, something that has so been lost in our day and culture. Because of my mom, I love wisdom, organization, teaching. She has always been a teacher, not in occupation, but in who she is. Whether it's counseling married couples, friends, children... it seeps from her bones. Stable, strong, factual, lover of truth. I admire that in her.

So as I enjoy this morning, although rain clouds fill the sky and I've missed the sunrise that I thought I was waking up to see, I've still managed to catch a glimpse of a few of the blessings in my life. Peace in my home, food in my cabinets, comfort at my fingertips, God's provision all around. And yes, even the ever-so-alive legacy of my mother. And although she lives hundreds of miles away, I'm sure we're sharing our mornings in much the same way.

I love you, Mom.