The after...

*reposted from the original facebook post

The after. A diagnosis. B-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma.

Isaac is tucked into my bed right now after this whirlwind of a day. There are still many questions and I think I am largely running on adrenaline and faith. Somehow, I am still raising a hallelujah in the middle of this storm. Right now, this diagnosis brings a calm where there once felt chaotic unknown. And it lays a path in front of us that lifts the fog a tiny bit.

The results of two of the tests that they ran on the initial biopsy showed b-cell lymphoma. The oncologist told us we basically had a 0% chance of it being anything else. Clear results? Thank you Lord. She is also hopeful that, because his labs have looked so good and he has zero other symptoms, that it likely isn’t heavy in his bone marrow. As she told me what they found, she repeated over and over and over, “this is a very treatable cancer.” She said based on what they find, we expect over a 90% cure rate. Cure. As in never coming back. Let it be, Lord. This is the most common form of childhood cancer and there is so much research that has paved the way for the path ahead of us. For that, I am thankful.

The future looks like a PET scan tomorrow. We are claiming health on the rest of his body. Praying that his heart and internal organs will remain untouched. A stage 1 diagnosis is what we want.

On Tuesday, Isaac will go into surgery. It will be a lot all at once. A spinal tap, a bone marrow test, a biopsy to remove one lymph node for further testing, and a port installed for chemotherapy. This information will help us know how far the cancer has progressed.

Out of all of this, I’m struggling with chemotherapy. I never imagined such a poison coursing through my child’s body. Let what evil intended for harm, do good, though. The Lord can use it. I’ve always been very naturally minded and am passionate about nutritional healing. I intend to do as much research as I can to support Isaac on this journey. I already have a list of alkaline anti-cancer smoothies that we will be trying. Our whole family will have to be in on this change though. Because we’re in it together.

It is clear to me that the Lord has gone before us. I met with my counselor this morning… an appointment that was set weeks ago. My counselor is a former nurse who used to work at DeVos Children’s hospital. She has been a wealth of information and support. She, herself, also had lymphoma a couple of years ago. Her family knows cancer better than any family should. I’ve had this thought numerous times, but she said to me today, “Isn’t it interesting how the Lord brought you to me before any of this began?”. I cried. The Lord was already here, and he’s already in the future. I agreed with her. I’m so so thankful… while at the same time aching, wishing I didn’t need any of this.

As we were ending our appointments, the elders at our church were having a prayer meeting. We went to church and they laid hands on us and prayed healing over Isaac. We have been a part of our church for the past 10 years, and in so many ways they are family. This weekend we are still going on a house church retreat with people we’ve done life with on a weekly basis for years, some for a decade. We’re not alone.

Everyone is asking how Isaac is. I think he’s digesting the information as much as a 7-year-old can. He keeps asking which part is going to hurt the most. I think he’s sad and nervous. He probably wonders why mom is crying so much (although that’s not all that abnormal, let’s be honest.) But gosh, his sweet spirit of bravery makes me love him that much more. He tells me he talks to God as he falls asleep at night and I pray that this continues to be his comfort.

We have a long road ahead. Treatment is years long. But there is so much hope for this story. Thank you for your prayers. The waiting has ended and now the battle begins.

Suspicious.

*repost from original facebook posts

The doctor called during lunch. Not expecting any results yet, I answered expecting him to just ask how he did. But quickly, I learned that we do have results and they are not favorable. Suspicious is the word they used. I also quickly learned that when it comes to making appointments with pediatric oncologists, they just call and tell you when to be there. And life suddenly has to revolve and fit around the people who we’re entrusting to make our child well.

Isaac’s biopsy returned suspicious - his white blood cells don’t look right, and they want to do a full excision biopsy to get a better idea what they’re dealing with. To nail down a diagnosis. I asked my doctor if it could be anything but cancer at this point, and he said probably not. He can think of one instance where they got to this point and were surprised that it wasn’t. So while we don’t have a diagnosis, it feels like we do. Tomorrow he goes to a pediatric surgeon and a pediatric oncologist for more follow-up.

We told Isaac what was going on. He’s sad about more appointments, surgery. But this kid is the sweetest you’ll ever know. He smiles when he’s sad or nervous or unsure. We asked him if he knew what cancer was and explained in kid-terms that it’s possible his cells aren’t regenerating the way they’re supposed to, and while he doesn’t feel sick, it’s good to catch this before he does. We warned him that the road to get healthy cells is long and can be hard. But we’re there to the ends of the earth for him. We then called in the brothers and got them up to date. It’s so hard when life looks so very normal to be on the cusp of something very much not. Hard for a 7-year-old to understand.

All week I’ve felt like I’m in the middle of a before and after. The waiting is torturous. Before what? Cancer? Or a cancer scare? I’m feeling more like we have an answer.

But again - God hasn’t left us alone.

Jordan was supposed to be in Dallas Monday-Tuesday. His trip suddenly got switched to Tuesday, so he was able to go to the biopsy with us. Then, today, his flight kept getting delayed. Because of that delay, he was home when I got the call of the results. I was so anxious that I would be alone getting these phone calls. And now, because of the delay, he was able to cancel his trip and go with us the appointments tomorrow. I know all of this is the Lord. Not a doubt in my mind.

I feel like the Lord has given me the song “Raise a Hallelujah” all year as an anthem. It has spontaneously played in the car twice for me just this week when I didn’t select anything. The Lord. Two friends have randomly sent the song to me. The Lord. This song is filled with the spirit and was written for a boy who was brushing death as a claim to healing. And the boy was healed. I am believing that this is the Lord helping me speak life over this situation. I believe that the Lord is bringing this song to me as hope for healing.

I’m so sad. No parent wants to see this sort of message with their child’s name and picture attached to it. You don’t think of your kids life including hardships like this. But I also keep thinking of the idea of suffering producing faith. And it is my prayer that this journey will be a testimony for Isaac (and us) to bring hope to the world. I’m allowed to be sad and mad and devastated and angry and confused and all those things. I’m also allowed to have extravagant hope. It is all of it.

The before...

*repost from original facebook posts

This ask puts a pit in my stomach, but we don’t get to choose the hard in our lives. My sweet Isaac Lee needs prayer. Over the course of the last couple of months, Isaac developed a very large lymph node in his neck that grew quickly. We took him to the doctor a few times, and an ultrasound scan came up abnormal. Tomorrow morning at 8am, he is undergoing a biopsy to check for malignancy. His primary care doctor told us very frankly that he is 50/50 on the lymph node having cancer in it.

I hate it. And it is scary. But I will also say, God has made his presence so very clear. He is a great physician and the author of my (and Isaacs) life. He has shown me over and over that he loves me and he wants me. And I know he wants the same for Isaac. I also know he is a miracle-working God. So we’re praying for benign results and complete healing. But we’re also trusting his goodness and his plan no matter the results. I’m preaching to myself, because my mind doesn’t always want to believe that he loves Isaac more than I do, but he does. Right now - the biggest battle is in my mind. Second by second, choosing not to give in to the pit of “what if’s” and live in surrender. I believe that the same God who has raised people from the dead is the one who works in my life right now. I’m expectant for healing.

I was texting with a friend late into the night last night as I couldn’t sleep, trying to explain the tension of hope and fear I was feeling. She wrote, “Your body is doing exactly what it is supposed to. You cannot reason with your mind or have a body that’s wired for survival contain your love for Isaac. So the love is trying to explode out your body. In fact your love would go to the end of the earth for him to save him. And if your earthly body kept you from doing that, you’d wage war against your body to escape it… so now, when fear grips, say ‘thank you body for telling me just how far and deep and wide my love for my boy is, now thought please go take a seat over there while I breathe my next breath.’”

And so I did - I took notice of the whole jumbled mess of emotions I feel and labeled it love. I recognized that I would absolutely crawl out of my skin to save Isaac if that’s what it would take. I would take his place a million times over. And suddenly it hit me.

That is exactly what God the Father did for us. He saw us hurting… a future separated from him. And he literally crawled out of his heavenly skin to take our place. He suffered. He died. And now, because I’m made in his image, that same passion I feel for my kids first started with his passion for me. For you.

That whole mess of emotions. It’s all wrapped up in love. It’s messy, but it’s love. If there is anything 2019 taught me it is to believe that God loves me and wants me just as I am. He just keeps taking me deeper.

We expect to hear on Isaac’s results on Thursday or Friday. I’m emotionally depleted. The kids have watched far too many screens, because I feel like I’m holding my breath and right under the surface. But I know God can handle my big feelings. He made me this way. And I think he is this way. So I’m going to believe that when the feelings are bigger than I think I can handle, it is God joining me in the overwhelming love I have for my kids. And I’m going to try to let him carry some of the load. And breathe.

Rooted.

 For 2018, a word that keeps coming back to me is rooted. It seems almost odd - to have just been preaching freedom and then a word like “rooted” would suggest being tied down. Quite the opposite.

It is my hope for 2018 that being rooted means that I go deep where I am. I’m not looking to the left or the right. I have my ministry and my mission field right before me. It means contentment with what I have and where I am. And in that contentment, gratitude. Moving deeper into my marriage. Pressing deeper into my friendships. Seeking deeper still the hearts of my kids. Knowing that there is no greener grass this side of heaven. It is trusting that the Lord has me here, now, and living into that in a deep way.

Being rooted means that I am drinking things that bring me life. The roots of a tree will soak up the water and nutrients from its soil. It is knowing that Christ is the only living water. And it is knowing that I will become what I behold. So I am seeking out that which gives me life, praying that I might bear some fruit as a result.

A tree must be rooted so it can grow. And with growing comes fruit but also pruning. But I will miss all of that and simply feel dead inside if I don’t remain rooted in the soil. So I hope to grow. I welcome pruning. I don’t want to stay where I am. In that I realize, going deep where I am, surrounding myself with nutritious soil, and welcoming the pruning will bear much fruit.

To me, all of this breathes freedom rather than death. It’s not to be rigid, but rather to take hold of the life I’m given. Life is going to happen either way - whether we spend our moments with intention or not. I have spent too much time with life happening to me without the intention that I desire. I don’t say that shamefully, it is simply the lessons I’m learning. And so this year and every year, I hope to do these things and prayerfully watch the fruit the Lord brings.

At least, that is my prayer for 2018. 

2017 in a nutshell.

The end-of-year thing going around instagram is to post your top 9 most-liked photos as a depiction of your year.  Of course, as a good social media follower, I caved.  And I was delighted and not surprised at the photo it spit out.

And the photo seems fair enough. This year was marked by a sweet baby girl. A daughter, a sister. From day one we all were (and still are) smitten. Jordan and I still whisper to one another, “what a gift.” Because she is. The goodness of God brought to us through our sweet Naomi Rae. 

But these photos don’t show what is happening beyond the phone. As we all know, these social media photos only tell part of the story, and the same is true for me. I never pointed out that I had tears streaming down my face in one of those photos with my daughter. I didn’t instagram the scolding and discipline that took place between shots of our family photos. I never told the story of how my adoration for my children was deeply clouded by my postpartum depression. I didn’t take pictures of the time I was a puddle of tears on my daughter’s bedroom floor, crying as she crawled around, her brothers peeking in to make sure I was okay. I didn’t share when I would call my friends crying, simply saying, “I’m just so sad.” 

I’ve kept quiet here on social media for the past many months. At first, it was because the emotions felt like all too much. What even did I have worth saying? And then I stayed quiet, because how do you even begin tell the story of how you were humbled while still at your lowest and found deep breaths of freedom there? Because somehow, that is exactly what has happened.

I’m not where I was in many of those photos. I can only thank the Lord for his kindness in that. He gently led me to a place where I could no longer strive, I could no longer muster up strength, and I could no longer pretend to be okay. He was kind enough to bring a friend who would dive deep into this pit with me so that we could breathe deep of freedom together on the other side. He was kind enough to expose the lies I had been believing for what they were. 

I vulnerably share the pit that 2017 was, because now I look forward to 2018 holding fast to the truth that I am seen, I am known, I am understood, and I am deeply cared for and loved. Something I knew I should know in my mind, but I didn’t know in the depths of myself. But now I do, and it’s true.

And I share it, because it is also true for you.

Here’s to the beautiful hard and the deep breaths of freedom.

Thirst.

(This devotional first appeared in a series from Crossroads Bible Church.  Read the original here.)

Why, my soul, are you cast down?  Why so disturbed within me?  Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God. (Psalm 42:5)

This is one of the verses that was on repeat in my mind during my freshman year of college.  Reading this passage takes me back through a number of years and events, remembering feeling as if God put this in the Bible just for me.  We have all had months, or years, where we could relate, haven’t we?

My soul thirsts for God… my tears have been my food all day and night… why are you cast down?… why so disturbed?… why must I go about mourning?… my bones suffer mortal agony.

For me, it was broken relationships.  A devastating miscarriage.  Postpartum anxiety.  And sometimes just the reality of parenthood and marriage and life that bring me to a place of desperation and thirst for peace in my spirit.  For God.

This Psalm not only reflects the struggle in my heart so well, it brings me to a place of truth so that I can experience the peace that only God can offer.  I’m going to take a couple of minutes and unpack this Psalm, and see how it can help direct our eyes to Jesus.

First of all, I love this Psalm because it makes me feel normal. For a long time, I believed that if I felt struggle or unrest in my spirit it must have been from a lack of faith.  Or that I wasn’t spiritual enough, or I didn’t trust God enough.  I love that this Psalm allows us to go there.  It allows us to call out our true feelings without feeling like we need to stuff them or fake it.  Instead, he models how a heart in turmoil should cry out to God for help. When I read this Psalm, it gives me permission to be completely honest with God, breaking down walls and dispelling lies.  The truth is, he knows our hurts and our struggles anyway.  We are able to find deeper intimacy with God when we confess the ache in our spirits.  When we cry out to our Daddy, begging him for peace for our spirits.  This kind of vulnerability with God invites him in.  It allows him to be the God he wants to be to us.  When we become small it allows him to be made great.  It allows him to cover us.  To be our rock.  To be our savior.  To fill us with his true joy.  And that is exactly where we need to be, resting in who he is.

Not only is the man in this Psalm crying out in his pain, but he is also talking to himself, directing his eyes to God.  He says, “Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him…”  So often I get stuck in my own mind.  Ruminating about all of those things that put my mind in turmoil.  Sometimes fear, anger, sadness.  But instead of wallowing in those emotions, this Psalmist tells himself to direct his eyes to God.  This is something that does not come naturally to me, talking to myself.  It is only in recent years that I personally have focused on the self-talk that is going through my head.  I was surprised, as I paid closer attention, to discover that much of my self talk was rooted in fear or lies.  It can take considerable effort to set my mind on Christ, especially when life around me feels hard.  But that is exactly what this Psalmist does.  He tells himself, put your hope in God.  I wonder what other words could replace hope for you?  Value? Identity?  Security?  Worth?  Future?  For I will yet praise him.  The word “yet” here makes me think that this praise is a choice, despite his circumstances.  He continues to praise even with a down cast soul.  I don’t know the specific details as to why this Psalmist has a downcast spirit, but it sounds like his world around him is failing him. He is being taunted and his world is in chaos.  But he is holding his thoughts captive.  He finds his salvation in God and he knows that he is God’s.  I have to think that when I am in moments of desperation, if I were to stop and ask a few questions, my perspective would shift.  Questions such as, “Where are these thoughts coming from?”, “Are they true?”, “What does God say about me?”, “Where does my hope lie?”, and “What does scripture say about this?”

Another thing this Psalmist does is remember the goodness of the Lord.  In verse 4 and verse 6, he uses this remembrance to direct his eyes to the way God has delivered his people in the past.  Times of joy and praise.  Times of promises being fulfilled.  My soul is downcast within me; therefore I remember you…(v.6)  This remembrance acts as a response to his downcast spirit.  It is so easy, in moments of depression and anxiety to feel as if things will never change or get better.  This Psalmist calls his spirit to find relief in the God who was, and is, and is yet to be.

None of us get through this life without our own bruises and pains.  Our humanity promises this.  But in those moments of desperation and turmoil, this Psalm shows us that we do still choose where we place our hope.  Continuing to hope in the things of this world will continue to leave us dry.  Instead, we must thirst for the Lord.  Directing our thoughts to him.  Remembering his goodness.  And finding our confidence in the living Rock who will protect us and bring fill us with his true peace.

A child of God.

I had alluded many months ago that I had a story to tell.  Only, apparently I wasn’t ready.  The story wasn’t finished.  And the story, while I am a character, isn’t mine to tell.  Or, rather, it isn’t a story that the internets should indulge in.

The past year has been beautifully hard, and much of that has been my journey.  So, I will share my journey with adoption, parenting, life this past year, while still seeking to keep my kids stories their own.

I would have never said it out loud and would have rebuked any one who said that adoption is the business of rescuing.  I flew into China, fully aware of my inadequacies.  Never once thinking that I was specially equipped for the task, I often wondered if I had “heard” God right in this call.  It was a passion burning in my heart for certain, but I was terrified.

Our time in China was surreal.  Half-way across the globe, in a world so different, but still so much like mine.  Seeing a culture that was beautiful and broken just like ours.  I fell in love with the country.  And while my heart was ripped into two while we were there, I already knew that this would not be the last time I took such a trip.

Meeting our son was absolutely mind-blowing.  The months of preparing and praying over the few photos that we had and suddenly here he is, in the flesh.  It was almost hard to believe.  In case you didn’t know, our first meeting with Owen was the same time we got custody of him.  There were no visits.  No getting used to us.  No “trying it out”.  We met him, took him home, and less than 24 hours later, he was a Griffis.  Beautiful and challenging all at the same time.

Some people say that it was instant love.  They fell hard for their kids, and attached immediately, despite even being rejected by them.  I often wished this was our story, but it simply wasn’t.  This isn’t a popular or easy thing to say.  In the beginning, I felt more like a babysitter than a mother.  And I grieved this.  It broke my heart.  I felt such a strong intuition and connection with my bio kids, I felt guilty when this wasn’t instantaneous with Owen.  But, of course it wasn’t.  We didn’t know each other.  Not to mention, he was nearing two-years-old and doing all of the age appropriate testing of the boundaries, when he had probably never even had boundaries in the first place.  I felt extreme guilt about my struggle to connect with him.  I felt like my motherhood intuition was broken.  I felt the weight of our lack of history and carried it on my shoulders.  I felt like, after all this time, I wasn’t enough.

Which goes back to the rescuing.  I knew I wasn’t rescuing Owen.  I couldn’t.  But I was living my life day-in-and-day-out trying to.  Trying in my own power to make up for our lost time.  Trying in my own power to fill the gaps and forge a connection between us.  Following the rules, trying in my own power to create an environment where he could heal.

And I burnt out.  I was in bondage, completely afraid that I was screwing up our kids, because it all felt like too much.

Owen was doing well, he was attaching and seemed happy.  But emotionally, I was depleted.

I ended up deciding to give myself some grace (should be obvious, right?)  And I started begging God to fill in the gaps.  And that is when I realized that he had been all along.  That God was rescuing me through all of this.  That one more layer of my self-sufficiency was peeled down and I saw once again my pure dependence on God to do this parenting thing any justice.  And I realized that God loves loves loves my kids even more than I could.  He had protected Owen’s heart from my inadequacy and our lack of history.  He was filling the gaps and at the same time, he was mending our relationship.

Determined to find my words, I started journaling, which once again proved to be the cheapest form of therapy. Day after day I prayed for God to fill the gaps with my kids.  And I tried to find joy in them.  Look them in the eye more.  Say yes more.  Say I’m sorry.  Surrender.  Forgive.  Again and again and again.

And days and months turned into one year in May 2016.  Somewhere around that time I was talking to another China-mama and told part of this story, and as I was speaking, I realized that it was no longer my reality.  It was part of my story, but Owen and I had now built our own history.  The weight of the lack has lifted, as I’ve given that to the Lord.  I now longer even think that I will ever be enough to fill in all the gaps for any of my kids.  And I’ve found freedom.  And even more incredible, a complete and utter adoration and joy in my youngest son.  I feel like his Mama.  He feels like he’s mine.  You have no idea how good it feels to say that.

A few weeks ago in church we were singing the line,

I’m no longer a slave to fear.  I am a child of God.

And I pondered this, finding these opposing ends interesting.  I would never have thought that the antidote to fear would be finding my identity as a child of God.  But the more I thought of this, the more it made sense.  A child, when fearful, will crawl into their parents lap.  Covered, shushed, and assured by their parent.  To crawl into God’s lap in such a way feels like abiding.  It’s knowing him, knowing his promises, allowing him to cover us and our insecurities and inequities, assured that he has conquered our fear.  And it dissipates.

That visualization makes so much sense to me now.  That an identity as a child of God is the most powerful I will ever have.  I’m still learning to rest in it.  But I’m so so thankful for the journey that has lead me here and the children he has given me.

I’m thankful for the journey.  I’m thankful for the hard.  And I’m thankful for this story, because continues to form me into who I am and drive me closer to the Lord.  God didn’t stop having a heart for the orphan, or any child, once they were home with parents.  He doesn’t love me any less.  In fact, he loves to lavish his love on me and surprise me with his goodness.  I would never have known this so deeply without a pit to be brought out of.  A year full of hard and beautiful.

When we were 7 months in.

There are so many layers to this story, you see.  There is the story of a baby boy born on one side of the world, only to find home and family on the other side.  There is the story of a family of four growing to a family of five.  A story of brothers.  A story of a father and a new son.  A mother of boys.  And, my favorite, a story of a God who does great works through broken and needy people.  Surprising us.  Changing us.  Carrying us.  

Some of these stories are simply not mine to tell.  Perhaps they will be shared at some point in time, but for now, I err on the side of protecting my kids and not airing their life over the internet.  But then there is that last layer.  This is also my story.  The story of a Mama, who desperately loves adoption.  Desperately loves family.  And who learned that she is desperately dependent on God in the crevices of her heart that she didn’t even know was there.  

This is my side of our adoption story.  Kind of like a story of an ugly duckling, we must live the hard of a story like this, before we can see the beauty that comes of it.  

I really hesitate in sharing some of this.  But there is a chance that there is someone like me who will google “what do you do when adoption is hard”, and they will feel some camaraderie.  Because, you can’t say YES to something like this and it not change you.  It will.  And change, simply, is hard for most of us.  During these months, I desperately wanted someone to give me permission to admit the hard.  So, here is permission.  It is okay to be in a place that is hard.  But don’t expect to come out of the other side the same.

The months leading up to leaving for China were significantly harder than I ever expected.  Yes, waiting for Owen was hard, but in all honesty, I could barely focus on that.  I felt attacked.  I had some odd health issues (which now are likely explained by an undiagnosed autoimmune response), and I was ridden with anxiety and fear.  My symptoms lasted for about 6 weeks before they subsided.  My body felt mostly better, but my anxiety remained and my stress levels were through the roof.  We were weeks away from getting Owen.  I was excited, but was deeply afraid of leaving my other two boys for 17 days.  I was afraid of flying to China.  Of the food in China.  Of getting sick while I was there.  I was already surviving on a day-to-day basis when we were ready to leave, I hardly spent any time dreaming about our new boy and what that would mean for our family.  

So much of this is hard to say.  This isn’t how I wanted things to go.  It is very hard for me to even go back to that point in life.  Knowing that I would have to somewhat re-live this to tell this story, I’ve avoided it.  It was hard.  But you all need to know, I simply don’t have it all together.  I feel like I was probably the worst person to adopt when we did.  I was at my very weakest.  I felt literally dependent on the Lord to get me through each day.  

But he did.  It turns out dependency is the best place to be.

So, we did indeed go to China.  I flew half-way across the world and survived it.  I saw the sites, ate their food, didn’t get sick, and welcomed our sweet Owen Kang with open arms.  

And I have never been the same.  

Despite myself, I was able to take in the gorgeous country, and unexpectedly, I fell in love.  Still, I cannot imagine not going back.  A countryside so beautiful, and a people so in need of truth and light.  My heart aches for the orphans of China more today than it did when we first said YES.  Because now I have seen, and I can’t forget.

I will rely on photos to tell much of the story prior to getting Owen.  We spent time in Beijing and then traveled by train to Taiyuan, Shanxi, where we would meet our boy.  We met Owen on a Monday morning.  We had the privilege of meeting him that morning before our afternoon civil affairs appointment.  But, basically, we saw him and right away, he was ours.  He came back to the hotel with us and has not left us since.  

Thinking back at that, I’m truly amazed at how well he has handled this transition.  I say, he was so ready for family.  He has grieved and had moments of unexplained sobbing.  His poor heart probably just can’t comprehend what has just happened and where he belongs.  But, for the most part, he has attached extremely well to both Jordan and I.  He embraces his roll as a little brother, and I really think he is a genuinely happy boy.  

There were many unexpected in this journey.  We prepared as much as we could, but you can never prepare for curve balls.  We read up on getting Owen to attach well to us, and, like I said, that seemed to happen easily.  What I didn’t think about, was preparing my own heart to attach to this boy.  

My feelings of love and endearment for the boy in the photo did not immediately transfer to the boy we met in China, and to say I felt shocked and guilty about that is an understatement.  I naively assumed that if we had any trouble attaching it would be on his side, and so long as he loved us, we would emotionally bond.  However, as I now know, often times these over-the-moon-in-love feelings take time. 

Before adopting, I would always tell new moms to trust their God-given intuition.  I always felt like God gave new moms insight into what their babies need, and while books and advice were wonderful, each mom could trust that she knew what her baby really needed.  

In those early days, I basically felt like my mommy-intuition was broken.  Not only broken, but missing.  It was simply not there with Owen.  I had no clue what he needed.  I second guessed everything I did.  I panicked every time he cried (which was a lot our first few weeks home), and I was so overwhelmed by this.  I felt guilty and ashamed that my thought was what on earth have we just done?  

I felt the huge weight of our lack of history, and it grieved me.  How was I to care for this baby boy, who is now mine, but we don’t know each other at all?  Not only that, but this boy was learning how to function in a family for the first time.  And at 20 months, he was testing all the boundaries.  Much of my time was spent redirecting him as he was discovering the toilets and outlets and stovetop.  He was on the go, go, go and wanted little to do with tenderness or snuggles.  I was learning to be his Mama and he was learning how to be my son.  I see some moms handle this with grace and compassion, but I felt like we were merely surviving.  And again, I felt overwhelmed with guilt.  

I found myself on my knees.  Often.  Needing to be okay, and knowing that I simply could not do this in my own strength.  God sure loves us in our brokenness.  He loves to step into the gaps, and for us to recognize our desperate need for grace.  It has been a hard journey.  I haven’t always rested in his grace, so many times I have fought it.  But never before have I been so grateful that God is moving and healing despite me.  If loving well and parenting well this past year had been dependent on me pouring myself out on my own, I can honestly say we wouldn’t have made it.  Because I was run dry.  But despite my desperate state, I have been in awe of how God has written this story.  There is a misnomer out there that adopted kids are "rescued". I think many adoptive parents would agree with me, I'm the one being saved in all of this. 

I spent the month of August committing to journaling in my private journal every day.  I have found that when I keep quiet, the emotions bottle up until I feel I’m going to explode.  I don’t need to write for the world to read, but I do need to write.  August was such a healing month for me, as I journaled out my prayers on a daily basis.  I confessed that I felt guilty that my love story with this boy felt so different than it did with my bio boys.  But I was met with grace, and embraced that different doesn’t mean wrong.  Different is just different.  And it is different, because our story is vastly different.  I’ve never had to overcome such obstacles with Jude and Isaac.  Everything has been in our favor, including biology.  I ended that month feeling refreshed and with a perspective of grace rather than condemnation.

I am not the person I was a year ago.  I’m more tender.  More humble.  More compassionate.  Even more aware of my need of salvation, because I have been face to face with my own horrible heart.  My horrible heart that has been completely wiped clean by the blood of Jesus.  I am so thankful I was not trying to love well on my own.  I have been truly blown away at Owen’s adjustment, despite me.

I now have a sweet boy who regularly grabs his well loved blankie and begs Mama to “snuggle”.  And as I sit with this little Asian cutie in my arms, singing songs and snuggling and looking into each others eyes, I am in awe of how he came into our family and just trusted us.  He melts into me, calls me Mama, and knows I’ll meet his needs the best I can.  Things are not perfect.  There is still a lot of history that we’ll never gain back.  But 7 months of history feels so much better than it did at 1 month.  I can say I know this boy.  I am learning when to follow the book and when to chuck it.  And most of all, we are really enjoying each other.  

Love is an action long before it becomes a feeling.  But through this, I am learning that if you choose to love.  Choose the joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness and gentleness.  Choose compassion and self-surrender.  You can’t help but to surrender yourself right into that love.  

Today, I can say I love my sweet boy Owen beyond what I can express in words.  We’ve grown so much together, and without him I simply wouldn’t be the same.  I can say I am learning to trust myself as his mother and that I find more moments of joy than of overwhelmed fear and guilt. 

I have so hesitated to share this journey, at the risk of being misunderstood.  But there are some of you out there who will understand my sentiments exactly.  And you are the ones who need to hear this.  Despite yourself, you are lovable and loving.  Despite your hard and painful now, there is grace to be found. 

A favorite song of mine has the lyrics, time brings change and change takes time.  

And that has been my prayer, God, that in these moments of rough waters, that I would let you do your refining work to smooth out the edges.  Time brings change and change takes time.  I pray that the result of our difficult seasons, mine and yours, would bring more beauty on the other side.

Written December 21, 2015

Finally shared on June 19, 2019