These Fears of Mine
To update, we hit the 2-month mark on Sunday. Two months. Since that life-changing Facebook post. Since the email that started us spinning in this dizzying journey to bring home 5 kids from a place I have yet to travel to, so we could plant 4 girls and 1 boy in a land they've never set foot on.
I was telling a friend tonight that for all the many times I've shared our story in these two months, for all the many people that have exclaimed that those 5 faces on my phone are precious, for all of the amazement at 5 kids and the joyful well wishes for our family, for every one of those, I hope I've done a decent job at faking it. May my plastered on, upbeat, excited face convince the other person that we're trucking right along on this adventure and we've got it all together, because the inside of me....well it's a bit of mess.
In 2 months, we've redone physicals, obtained new certified copies of documentation, been fingerprinted by the FBI for the 3rd time, sold some stuff we didn't need, bought some stuff we needed, started a remodeling project which included building a storage shed, accepted some yard sale donations, cleaned out closets, worked overtime, and a few other things that I'm sure I've forgotten. If you came for a visit right this moment, my garage is in a state of transitioning to a bedroom, and every room in the remaining house has extra furniture for our new kids and/or donations for the yard sale. There are mattresses here and dressers there, plastic totes of clothes here and a baby stroller along with a baker's rack we no longer need in the kitchen. I sit in the middle of this mess that cannot be resolved until we get the space to sort it out and take a deep breath because I know, in another month this will all look different. We'll get the bedrooms sorted out and the tubs of clothes stored away until we figure out everyone's size and it'll all be fine.
But what about the five months from now? Or eight? Or this time next year?
I've squinted so hard at the horizon trying to discern the future, that my crow's feet have sprouted extra toes. I've imagined every possible scenario, both good and bad. The one where we are this fairy tale family, blended perfectly into a home full of laughter and smiles and everyone becomes bilingual and we all get along, as well as the one where every one of us ends up in therapy several times a week, there's lots of crying and throwing tantrums and my biological kids want to know why we ever did this and my ticos want to know why we ever dragged them away from Costa Rica and I'm a drooling, rocking mess in the corner of my bathroom. (I can be a bit creative when I'm left to my own imagination)
Truth be told, we'll probably end up somewhere in between. Hopefully in the middle land where there are both laughter and tears, and in the end, we find our "new normal."
When another one of my friend's was going through adoption, she didn't think she could make it either. And I can remember sharing with her the passage in Mark 9 where the man brings his son to Jesus, hoping that Jesus could heal the child. The man speaks very honestly when he says, "But if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us." Now, I love the next two interchanges. First, I always imagine a little bit of attitude when Jesus replies, "If you can! All things are possible for one who believes." But then, in a humble spirit of complete, transparent honesty, the dad cries out, "I believe, help my unbelief!"
At the time, I was fairly certain this is where my friend was at. Wanting to believe, if she could only get rid of her unbelief. At the moment, it's exactly where I am. I know God does not wish my family harm. I know He wants these children to have a family, and He is making it abundantly clear as he provides far beyond anything I could have expected that this is His plan He's carrying out. I know He is my portion and my shield, that He goes before me, that He doesn't need to squint to see what happens next, He is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, and so our family's adoption story is a book fully written and bound waiting for us to live it out.
I. Know. This.
But oh, in the middle of the night, when I am tossing and turning unable to sleep. When I find myself staring into space, chewing on what remains of my fingernails. When my stomach flips for the thousandth time over the unknown and I'm nibbling on plain toast for lunch because I can't keep down anything else. Oh, these, these are the moments when I have become like a desperate beggar, with a cry that comes from my gut, demanding some relief, and I find myself praying out loud, "I believe, help my unbelief!" Because I cannot release these fears on my own, and I cannot do this without the One who is so very much greater than anything that is in me.
And just as Christ answered the cry of a desperate father, my Father answers the cry of His desperate child.
He has given me a husband who hugs me close, so I can tuck my chin under his, and who tells me it will all be okay. He has given me friends who can make me laugh, even over all the crazy that just might become my everyday life. He has spoken to me from the pages of His Word, gentle words of comfort, reminders of who He is and that He has not given me a spirit of fear. And in case I needed to refocus on why we were doing this, I was gifted with this wonderful article by Ann Voskamp. I'll leave you with just a tiny piece of it, but you can read the whole thing here. (And, I highly recommend that you do)
We’re here to live beyond our base fears because our lives are based in Christ.
We’re here to be more than our fears or our frustrations — we’re here to be more like our Father.
And that's it exactly. I want to be more like the One who made me.
Even if it feels a little like being taken apart only to be put back together into someone who looks more like Him, may I be willing.
Blessings-C
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