Tuesday the 25th

March 25^th

Today was supposed to be my Consecration day. 

I imagine that it still is.  Normally I consecrate in December.  But I decided to do it again to keep me focused on God’s sovereignty, keep my spirit focused on trust and faith and peace this Lent.  It is so great to have to have daily readings, written my one of the most knowledgeable saints, to remind you where your weaknesses are, where your spirit should be, and how to lead a life that glorifies Christ.

Last night, I did what needed to be done.  I talked to lawyers, I talked to my adoption counselor, I talked to Paul.  I prayed. I sat numb.  I stared at the ceiling.  I watched Benny with his sweet smile, sleeping like an angel.  I packed all of his things, and anything that I thought could make his or Jane’s life easier – laundry detergent, shampoos, soaps, school supplies, clothes of mine that would fit her.  I budgeted out money from what I have left to get her through a month or two.  I packed his breathing machine and rote out instructions for Jane on how to give him breathing treatments when he needs them – children’s Tylenol and advil to keep his fever down so that he does not seize.  I put the pictures of the kids that had been on the wall, in the front pocket of his suitcase.

As I started to pack his toys, he started to whimper in his sleep.  I stared at the book in my hand – the Dr. Seuss one that Paul bought, “Are you my mother?”  I scoffed at the irony.  I am your mother here in Uganda, but apparently not in the United States.  I packed his drum and his football. 

I know better than to get angry.  Angry means that I am rebelling against the Will of God.  A person who trusts in the Lord is accepting – not without emotion, but not rebelling which is the action based on distrust – the root of anger.  I want to hate the embassy woman. But I know all too well who plants that seed.

This is Lent, and the cross that has been given to me is getting heavier and heavier.  I know He will sustain me but I have faith in Him, not in myself.  How do I go home?  What do I do?  For almost 3 years, this adoption has been my whole focus – hours of researching, grant writing, paperwork, book reading, mentally preparing for another child, physically preparing for another child, preparing the children, the car, shopping for his needs, worrying about his conditions.

And now I will go home and wait for Lord.  My favorite Lenten song plays in the head, “Wait for the Lord, the end is near.”  I do not see an end.  Tomorrow was supposed to be my end.  I was supposed to boarding a plane tomorrow with him and an exit visa.  My end was HERE.  But really, my end is just beginning.

Paul held a family conference around the table, and told the kids.  They were upset, worried for Benny, wondering about the next steps.  Matt was mad because I promised not to leave him again for awhile.  Now I could be leaving any time after around 2 months.  I felt so much pain for them and their worry and confusion.  They worried that maybe they prayed too much for me to come home, and now I am but without Benny.

I have considered staying here, but my embassy told me to go home, that it would take a long time, and there is nothing for me to do here but sit and wait.  If I stayed and Nairobi said no, then I spent another two months bonding with a child that I leave forever.  Right now, at The Terrace we have hit a bonding “wall” because the waiters are young men who have fun playing with him, that let him goof off, wander around the kitchen and do stuff that would never happen in the US.  Which is more damaging? Coming and going and coming back, or him bonding with the wrong people, or me staying with him, going to the village and bonding more and then abandoning him when Nairobi says no? 

And to make matters worse, I spend almost $100US dollars every day that I am here, more when Paul was here, and it has been 6 weeks.  I make up the cost of the flight home in 18 days.  So then I can start focusing on saving that money for this new lawyer we will have to pay who deals with Nairobi cases.  Apparently she is skilled and she can guide us and the paperwork through.

Nobody has the answers, nobody can decide for me or tell me the road with the least guilt, damage, pain, peril or cost.  I accept that as well.  How heavy would a cross be if you could see the road that you were on, the twists and turns and wicked hard speed bumps?  Had God told me, when He said that I would be leaving the week of the 25^th that I would leave without Michael, would I have gone at all?  No, because I lacked trust and faith.  So He showed me what He knew I needed, and led me on my way.

Now I begin another day, completely blind, and forced by faith to trust that when Nairobi tells me their decisions or gives me a list of demands, that I can fulfill them, that I will have the right resources in place to fly back, that I will be able to handle whatever comes.  And the fact of the matter is, I will not be able to handle tomorrow, but God will handle it for me. 

Tomorrow, Father Michael will come with Jane in the Land Cruiser to get Michael and all of his stuff and the gifts for the other people that are dear to my heart.  I will kiss this sweet angel, and put him back into the hands, from which he came to me, and I will put all of my trust in the Lord because my new reality requires nothing but that.

My new reality……when the IOM doctor told me that children here who have asthma die in the village, he was preparing me for a reality.  And when the old man sitting next to me yesterday told me that his son got malaria and had a high fever, and had a seizure, and it “cooked his brain” and he is now 48 and barely there, he was preparing me for a reality.  And when I stumbled across the blog of a mom who has been waiting for 9 months in the US for her child’s visa, she was preparing me for a reality. 

This reality is something that Michael must have realized too, on some level.  He whined all night long, wanted me to hold him, fussed every time I moved, whined when I put him down.  He was the same way this morning until I bribed him with waffles and syrup.  He threw his fruit bowl across the table, crawled into my lap and did a fake whine cry thing.  He sat on the bed holding his bear saying, “Mom mom mom mom,” almost like a song.  Kids sense their parents emotions and stresses, and although my stress level is very low, my heart ache is not, my guilt is not.  He normally takes his nap on the bed, and he demands that my hand and arm rest on his stomach.  I normally pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet, and he holds the cross on the beads while my fingers slide the beads around.  He has broken 3 rosaries this way, so I have resorted to the Byzantine Jesus beads that I bought from my dad’s church in Sacramento – apparently unbreakable.  Today he fussed the whole way through the DMC but was asleep halfway through the rosary – tired of fighting the weariness that rests in the air around us.  My resignation to this new reality is complete.

He spent the afternoon, with the rain outside, sitting on the bed next to me watching Tarzan, his feet on my leg, his arm wrapped around me. He keeps grabbing my hand, trying to hold it while I type. Every few minutes he whines, and grabs my arm back.  I could sit like this forever, just the way that I sit on the couch with Anna and Matt – baby loving is awesome.  I had never paid attention to Tarzan, but out of my daze I heard Phil Collins singing away, the refrain, “No matter what may come…. this day…forever, You’ll be in my heart, now and forever….”  I choked. Prophetic.  He has been watching this all week, and I just realized that it was probably God preparing me for leaving, giving me a song to hum on the plane, sweet words to whisper in his ear when I say good bye to him.  Nothing is an accident, nothing is devoid of meaning.  I watch for signs, looks for symbols, the Holy Spirit is alive everywhere.

Our room now consists of a pile of clothes, a garbage can, and 4 packed suitcases.  It feels more like a morgue, or like sitting on death row-waiting for my sentence to be carried out. 

I try not to imagine being dropped off at the airport – an experience that I have prayed for over the past few weeks.  I imagined us waving to Linda, holding hands, marching to the ticket counter, itineraries in hand, Benny with his brand new Thomas train backpack on.  The backpack that I filled with crayons, color book, cars, dinosaurs, all new toys to play with was for our 24 hour trek home.  Now it will serve as entertainment for him during the long weeks ahead. 

Meanwhile, the last few weeks at home have been getting harder and easier at the same time.  The child that I figured would be the most upset and the most affected, Kolbe, because of his sweet sensitive soul, brought home two really bad grades last week – in spelling and vocab, which is completely unfounded. I can hear it is in his voice when he talks to me – he is sad and frustrated.  He is the one that writes letters to God and he addresses them and puts a stamp on the envelopes and drops them in the mailbox.  He is still a snuggy bear.  I try to encourage him, but he gets mad when I call and it is so late my time – “Mom, maybe you should not call us, I want to talk to you, but I worry about you not sleeping,” even though I did not say a word about it.

The rest of my kids talk less and less.  “I am tired of you always telling me to pray mommy, I pray so much and you are still not coming home,” says Anna.  “Mom, I pray a chaplet every day, I am not sure that I can pray any more than that.  Surely God has made up His mind about what He wants to have happen,” says Gabe.  I try to be an example of strength, but I always fail.  They sense my weakness, even without my crying or whining or complaining.  No matter how much I reassure them, they are getting tired of me being gone.

Every time I stop focusing on God, I can hear the little voices in the background.  “This will never work.  You will never leave, your children do not miss you, the planes will be booked, you will be separated and have to bribe people to relinquish seats, your husband hates you for leaving him with all of these children, something will happen and you will be delayed after you get your plane tickets…”  I try to put on this strong face, smile at all the people who stay for a day or two here at the Terrace but I am jealous when they get to leave. The little voices provide a constant chant of everything that could go wrong, the voices threaten to throw me into despair.  And even at the worst of times, I never imagined leaving without him.  But leave I will...tomorrow.  I will will sing in his ear, and kiss his head, and make promises to be back.  Only the Lord knows what is in store, and it is my job to thank Him, and sing His praises, and glorify Him in the joys and in the sorrows.  Sing I will.