And we came home. Eighteen hours on a plane and our son left the life that was and entered the life that is to come. And the grieving began again. Smells. Sounds. Faces. Language. It's all so totally different and we took it away from him. During the day he's exhilarated by new playmates, wide open spaces, and toys which do all sorts of bewildering things. He's exploring and interacting and experimenting. But when the lights dim and sleep comes, the sorrowful, guttural cries of mourning begin again with no end in sight. 12:30 up. 4:00 am up. He calls for his foster mother by name and she doesn't come. He won't come into my arms or be consoled by me because I'm not the mother he wants. I was prepared for this, but it still hurts. It makes me feel less than because a mother can always soothe her child, can't she? And I do feel like he's my child. He reaches for Brent in this tug-of-war between I want you and I don't want you. We just let him cry hoping that he'll gradually purge the sadness and allow us to fill him up with new love. Hoping.
There's so much to relate to in this little boy. On the outside, he looks in tact--like any other child. You have to look hard for the subtle crack that runs through him. But it's there because his pain is a result of The Fall. There would be no orphans without the sin of the world, right? His pain might be different from yours and mine, but we're all damaged by The Fall carrying a multitude of wounds and scars from a life removed from perfection. He doesn't know he's been rescued and I live daily like I haven't been. Oh, how I search for lasting comfort in things that can't provide it. I'm looking into Will's sad black eyes and saying, "I'm here." He doesn't hear it and right now he doesn't want to. He pushes against it with an alarming strength of will. Similarly, my Savior stands before me offering the same acceptance despite my ugliness, yearning to give me rest and I turn my head in child-like defiance seeking to rest in my own self. When will we both just collapse into the arms of peace?
When the world feels like it's gone just a little bit crazy, you have to focus on what you know to be true. Everything in me is hating these early days when I feel like I'm auditioning for Will's trust. How can I morph myself in to what he wants? I can't. I don't know what it is that he wants or needs, but I do know that his being in our family is right. That's about the only thing that I am certain of right now and it's enough for me to keep going. I can come back to this truth when I'm tired and crying. I can come back to this truth when the children are wondering what we've done to our family. I can come back to this truth when it feels like we've been derailed and taken hostage by a screaming two-year old ball of pain. The other truth I cling to is that the Lord equips those he calls. He told us to do this and so he will lead. Personally, I'd like the direct route through the forest to the clearing where I'll find unicorns and dancing fairies. We never like to suffer. I despise rawness and vulnerability and weakness and desperation...but God loves it in me. He created me to need. To need him. He just wants to hear me say it. I'm saying it now.
Father-
I need you, Lord. I can't do this without you because I'm cracked and broken, unsure and wandering. Hold me like the orphan that I was before you came into my life and owned me. Steady me with the strong hand of a Father lavishly loving his daughter. Begin to remake me and close up the cracks. Be my balm. Help me to want you. Help me to turn to you and fall into the arms that wait for me. Safe arms. The arms that opened wide for me on the cross now fall around my shoulders in a tight embrace. Stay close and when I call your name, come running like the dependable parent that you are. Meet my needs in ways that astound me because your resources are limitless. Pour your power into me so that I might raise a family reflective of your glory. Be my everything.
I ask humbly in your name,
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment