This was probably the hardest it’s been to adjust to America.
Going from 90 and 100 degree days to 30 is just shocking to your system. Its a chill I can’t describe, where even being in Arkansas I didn’t really feel my toes until sometime in April.
The first week when we arrived, everything felt dry from the lack of humidity. I could feel my face cracking, my throat ripping, and my skin began to peel. One day scratched my ear and a piece of skin nearly the size of my ear flaked off into my hand.
This was the first time America felt like another planet. I felt I was an alien here—this place I used to consider home, and now my body couldn’t even adjust.
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But this also might be the hardest its ever been to leave America.
Being in the middle of the adoption process has placed so many unknowns in front of us. As we complete the process and are placed—hopefully in just a few months—we then will be in country for at least 18 months while we finalize the adoption. At best, this is a two year process, and at worst…well, more years than I’d like to admit.
And while we might be able to leave individually for an emergency, we won’t be able to leave with our baby, or have our families meet our baby (or meet theirs!) for a number of years.
Or we might not be placed at all.
Either way, we have no idea what 2017 has yet to hold, nor 2018 for that matter. We know we just said goodbyes to our family, friends, and mentors, likely for a few years. We don’t know if we’ll have a child in our home soon or not, what age it will be or gender, or even ethnicity or health. We don’t know who will be in our community when we return, or who will have moved to Bangkok or back to Burma. We don’t know what God has in store for the community, because the only consistency it has offered is surprises.
This seemed even more evident as we packed our bags, trying to fit in clothes for upwards of three years; guessing at what we might need. We packed in small baby gifts and fun items we’ve found for our little “bunny” on the way.
But with hope and expectation, there is always the room for loss and grieving–of the years we’ll be gone, of the unknowns ahead.
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The last night we were with my family in Little Rock, we played outside with my nieces and nephew. We played basketball and wrote with sidewalk chalk until they had to come in for showers and bed.
Stephen began playing songs for the kids on the piano, singing about the smells and needing to take showers, their pajamas, how their dad was tall playing basketball and was a prince..pal. The kids were rolling with laughter, and my little two year old niece kept saying, “‘Nother one! ‘Nother one!” as each song finished.
This led into all of us piled on the piano bench, bed, and floor—Stephen & I, my sister & her husband, and their four kids—singing worship songs as Stephen played. The kids sang oh-so-loudly that Holy Spirit you are welcome here; they even included some interpretive dance moves.
And then we sang Good, Good Father. The kids know it, so the little four-year-old, six-year-old, and seven-year old voices sang out about their good, good Father. I looked at their dad as he sat with them on the floor, and he is a good, good dad. I looked to Stephen, who is going to make such a good, good dad—hopefully soon. I thought of my dad, who I’d hug goodbye the next day, and he is a good, good dad. I looked to our Heavenly Father, and I know he is a good, good Dad.
And then I thought of our little neighborhood kids who know this song and sing along with us often. They are getting to know their good, good Father. And I thought of their good dads, who are need of their good Father.
And I knew we needed to go back.
Because as much as I’m probably not supposed to say this, I question it often—in the goodbyes and the missed birthdays; in the fundraising; in the middle of the domestic disputes; in the middle of my weakness; in our marriage and our futures; in big picture of the Kingdom or just doing good things. I question it all, so often, but packing bags and saying goodbyes and walking into unknowns just brings out all the questions in you.
But He is a good, good Father. And I wanted our little bunny—wherever, whoever, and whenever—to know Him. And I want our community to know Him.
You are perfect in all of Your ways. You are perfect in all your ways to us.
And somehow, while we cry and say goodbyes, He is perfect in all of His ways to us. And while toddlers become little girls over FaceTime, He is perfect in all of us His ways to us. Somehow, while we try to start a Breakfast Club so these kids don’t go to school hungry, He is perfect in all of His ways to us. Somehow, while we wait for our bunny to come to us, He is perfect in all of His ways to us.
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