I Choose You

We’re waist deep in adoption waters and things are getting real on the India front.  Our paperwork is currently being processed in their country’s court system. Now we wait for the final BIG adoption agency call: That the Indian government approves our case and family travel arrangements need to be made.  What in the actual what?!?

But, as you know, we haven’t reached this point easily.  Although adoption and pregnancy are worlds apart, the vulnerable space in our hearts regards them equally.  Another opportunity for loss. With pregnancy, unless it’s a very special situation, medical professionals tend to err towards assuming the baby will grow correctly and develop well.  Not necessarily true within the international adoption realm. Adoption agencies MUST prepare families for multiple difficult outcomes based on their child’s medical history, living situation, and access to (or lack of) appropriate interpersonal contact and connection.  Working from that baseline there obviously exists potential for lasting behavioral, medical, or developmental effects, which may or may not (hopefully won’t) come to fruition once the child is placed in a loving, attentive home environment. Regardless, the possibilities must be addressed.  And, as with most of the adoption process, it needs to be done in the most tedious, drawn out fashion imaginable.

David and I got to navigate THAT super fun phone call earlier this month.  It was Family Feud, adoption edition. Just without clapping or prizes or Steve Harvey encouraging us or really any fun at all. Okay, so actually it was less game show and more interrogation. An interrogation where someone spouts off multiple challenging scenarios concerning your daughter's health and you have to immediately respond with a detailed action plan for each. STRESS FEST. In fact, since we fairly recently LIVED THROUGH the very worst case scenario with one of our daughters, the conversation was -frankly- a little traumatic.  After about 30 minutes of this verbal onslaught, I wanted to start answering the social worker’s questions with, “We buried Margot. I think we can handle if Wren has speech delays.”  Not to be flippant, and certainly NOT to disregard the hard realities of life with a differently-abled child, but Wren is our daughter. We’ve been fighting to bring her home for an eternity, so -of course- we will also fight for whatever services and extra support she may require to succeed.  I won’t lie though-It’s daunting, moving forward with multiple unknowns. This isn’t a defeatist mindset, it’s just real. Like pulling a wagon of lit fireworks: The potential for beauty and pain, laughter and tears, great exertion and great reward. Basically it's love and parenting, in a nutshell.

Being feelers, my friends and I carry the emotional weight of things heavily.  We care, not just about the milestones and minutiae of our own lives, but the large and small issues in our communities, country, and world.  Shouldering the empath’s mantle is exhausting. Its awareness, openness, sensitivity, and compassion are an overwhelming burden to drag around on the daily.  The other week I told a friend, “I’m tired of giving a crap. I’m tired of investing in causes and issues. There are too many things to care about! How does Jesus do it?”  (Side note: Maybe that’s why He looks weary and vaguely irritated in so many pictures. Plus His heart is probs on fire from overuse.) 

Later that evening, summoned either by Wren's call or my (self-diagnosed) spiritual compassion fatigue, a memory surfaced.  A month or two back, I visited a church.  Our downtown is fairly old and historic, with large stone churches (and neighboring bail bonds joints) adorning many corners.  For some reason, musty hymnals and stiff-backed pews and stained glass windows felt appealing in their otherness that Sunday.  Most likely for their difference from my more modern church experience.  The established traditions, measured readings, and simple music were a scratchy yet familiar afghan, almost more inviting than the hope of hearing God in this changed atmosphere.  But then, with only a small bulletin blurb of warning, they went and pulled the communion card.  This practice has always struck me as incredibly relational and intimate, requiring reverence and harmony from one's deepest soul space.  (Read: I'm disqualified for the time being.)  Rooted to my seat, I watched parishioners approach the minister down the center aisle.  Although it was a small congregation, the entire ceremony took a mini-eternity as every.single.person trotted down to receive the elements.  However, the priest never rushed through an interaction; she made eye contact with each participant, intentionally reciting "The body of Christ, broken for you" like a friend sharing substantial, very personal news.  Over and over the message was repeated individually until all were shepherded and served.

As that memory faded, the jumbled pieces from my past weeks finally snapped into place: Love is a deliberate choice.  And not always an easy one at that.

After Margot's heart stopped beating, I wailed to David, "It's my fault our daughter died.  She's gone and you are going to leave me.  I hate myself; why wouldn't you hate me too?"  And he looked me straight in the face and said, "I love you forever.  Nothing was your fault.  You're stuck with me."

I choose you.

As the social worker laid out each terrible health scenario for Wren, we took deep breaths and said, "Yes, we're familiar with a wonderful pediatric center that provides services and therapies for sensory integration, occupational needs, and behavioral intervention."  "Our family is aware that bonding can be extremely difficult and intensive."  "We acknowledge that we'll probably never have complete knowledge of Wren's life history and past trauma."  "We recognize the challenges in adoption, as with biological parenting, and fully -joyfully- KNOW Wren is our daughter."

I choose you.

Nearly 8 months have passed since December.  Since Margot.  It's insane that time kept going and life got busy again.  We were matched with Wren and continue to work on the paperwork necessary for her upcoming adoption.  Elijah finished 6th grade and turned 12 this summer.  But still -of course still- we make a point to visit Margot's site weekly.  To devote time to her.  Wiping off her stone, bringing flowers, visiting her angel friends.  She is present in family conversations, in the pictures on our walls, the flowers that we plant, the jewelry we wear, in the blanket and bear lovies David and I cuddle at night.

I choose you.

Every time we step foot inside a church, it is a resolute gesture.  This isn't an simple act for us.  A face-to-face confrontation with the God who, in His sovereignty, allowed the death of our daughter.  The wound is fresh.  Faith and trust have taken a tremendous blow; rebuilding is slow and haphazard.  But there remains a draw, a desire -however slight at the moment- to connect.  We can't picture life without Jesus in it.  So sometimes, our family goes to church.

I choose you.

Many years ago, a payment was made on our behalf.  By One who owed nothing, but understood everything.  With total awareness of our cumulative junk, Jesus relentlessly sought -continues to seek out- His creation, every.single.person on the planet -past, present, and future. Even the angry, confused girl ignoring communion by clinging to her pew in a stone sanctuary.  He sees through our messy or tailored outsides, straight to the sinful heart we all carry.   Yet He sincerely repeats this message to each one of us:

I choose you.  I've already chosen you.  I'll keep choosing you.

Because that what Love does.