The body remembers...

7 years today I held my 12 pound one year old son in my arms for the first time. I met my shy, scared 4 year old. I can bet you neither of them remember the date, but their bodies remember. A brain somehow etches into permanency the trauma of adoption. So many people idealize adoption, and while it is beautiful, it is tragic, it is trauma, it is devastation. I cannot imagine being a 4 year old and being told, "Go, this is your mama now". That is all Maran was told in her language. She had not seen a white person, she had not heard the English language, and in the orphanage, she hadn't been caressed or changed or tucked in. And now here is this woman and man she has never seen that are doing these things. I cannot imagine the fear and confusion. The mind may forget the details but the body remembers.

This month has been hard, plain old hard. Trauma rears its ugly head in whining, attitude, discontentment, anger, uncontrolled outbursts, lashing out with words, and regression. Bed wetting, sibling arguments, ungratefulness, negative attitudes. And when you bend down and look in their eyes and say "This isn't you, whats going on in your heart?" The response is I don't know. The mind can't put it all together at this age I guess, but the body remembers. The body remembers leaving the orphanage, the place where 4 "mamas" cares for 35 kids, where one meal a day was all you got, and even that was often sautéed leaves and worms and a ball of dough called Fufu. The orphanage was the place where 6-8 kids slept on a queen mattress on the floor, where they would bring a bucket in at night and you would sit your bottom on the edge of it and go to the bathroom before bed. The orphanage was the place where the older kids would target the younger to take their one meal a day because they could push a baby out of the way to get a double portion, the scar still protrudes on Levi's head to prove it.

I can't believe it has been 7 years. Part of me wondered if at 6, 7, 8 , 9 years home that they would forget the painful memories of trauma, but the body doesn't forget. Doctors say continued hunger and malnutrition in the first 2 years of life creates a trigger in the brain that can rarely be reversed. Food equals nurture from that day until forever, which brings its own set of issues. Food is intensely triggering during these periods of grieving. This year for my child's birthday I got the most special breakfast, I brought their favorite treat to school to share with friends, I had an expensive rare treat waiting for them as an after school snack, I cooked their favorite dinner and dessert that evening, but it wasn't enough. Why didn't you do this mom? Why did I not get celebrated enough mom? It is a vacuum that cannot be satisfied. It is exhausting and so hard to parent through that from a place of patience and compassion.

I think the hardest part about walking with someone through grieving is when grieving doesn't look like grief, it looks like anger, apathy and irritability. Give me tears and "this is hard" and I am there by your side echoing your hardship and comforting and affirming. But the alternative form of grieving stirs my default reaction of stress, frustration, impatience and a lack of compassion. I am trying to take a step back each day and ask God for just what I need for that day, not get afraid of the future or how long this will last, but just enough grace to give my kids for today. I ask him for eyes to see their regression and anger with compassion, because it stems from them sensing that their world is not as it should be. And that is a true assessment, it is not how it should be. No kid should lose their first family.

But as I tell them as I tuck them in, 'our family is forever', 'it is ok to be sad and mad', 'mom still loves you and always will no matter your behavior', 'I am sorry I got frustrated with you today, that was not kind of me'. Affirmations, apologies and vulnerability do go a long way in the midst of grief.

As I am learning from my diagnosis, people don't tend to do well when there is no "end" in sight to suffering, when there is no promise here on earth that this will tie up with a pretty bow and you will just say "Wow wasn't that worth it all". Not here, no. In heaven, all the sad things will come untrue and all of the suffering will appear as a brief second in time that had complete purpose filled with love and intentionality.  But in the meantime we will put one foot in front of the other, love when we don't feel like loving, ask God to help us to endure well, and enjoy the lives He has given us. Happy 7 years together to my sweet treasures.

5 years together... A letter to Maran and Levi

Maran and Levi-

I cannot believe its been 5 years since we met your sweet faces in Congo. Those days are forever etched into my memory. Levi, all 11 pounds of you in your blue outfit and Maran, shy and quiet with that denim jumper 3 sizes too big tied around your small frame over a brown and orange sweatshirt in the 80 degree heat. It wasn't a magical moment by any standards for anyone to witness. There was no "mama!" shouted or running into my arms. It was a quiet and somber moment that none of us understood the magnitude of what we were entering into, and for you two especially a moment of fear and uncertainty.

So many people call you both "lucky". You are not lucky. You have walked through trauma no one should ever experience. Maran, you became a mother figure to your baby brother at 3 1/2. You carried him, cared for him, fed him, fought for him. Levi, at such a crucial time, you had the bond broken with the woman you knew as your nurturer and protector. This is tragic and if I could somehow heap your pain onto myself and remove it from your heart I would... or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe instead I will pray that this pain propels you into dependence on a perfect Father who would never leave or abandon you, the Savior who always provides, never lets you go hungry, always cares, always listens, always comforts. Maybe this pain and trauma is the very mess that becomes your greatest strength and greatest reminder of the rescue God has done in your life. Not through me, no, I am not your rescuer. He is. He reached down into the pain of loss and abandonment and called you His. 

I am no Savior, us adopting you has not given you a now pain free life. We  pray we can create an environment for you to grow, to heal, to get to know the real rescuer.

Your pain is real and it is something I have never experienced. I hope in my parenting I never minimize the weightiness of the grief that you experience. I realize I put so much pressure on myself to try and "heal your wounds" and as my wise counselor reminds me, I cannot hold your healing in my hands. I cannot parent you perfectly in a way that your grief melts away. I cannot make everything alright again. But, I will give my ALL to fight for you, to work with you, to grieve with you, to comfort you when you are sad or scared.  I am so far from perfect. I am sure some of the flawed ways I try to love you will actually hurt you. And I pray God covers that with his love and grace and uses those moments to show you HE is the only one who never fails or disappoints. 

I am so honored to be your mom. I share that title with another woman and I hope I can help you love and honor her too. I am beyond grateful for the love and life she gave you as she could. 

Levi, the other day at school, someone told you that you were just an orphan and that your real parents were probably dead and that you don't have a real family. My heart broke for you of those triggering words of hurt someone spoke over you. I did my best to comfort and remind you that you had two families who loved and did their best for you. Your identity is not an orphan, it is our precious son, it is a boy who God loves and calls his child. I know at age 1 you don't really have memories of Congo, of the orphanage, of your first family. I hope I can help you love your country, be proud of your history, and tell you about all the beauty and tragedy that exists in the place you were born. 

Maran, what a journey we have been on. Trust has been an ever changing, ever growing bond between us that takes work and effort and sacrifice and love. I remember those first days, where you would run from me, where we would wake up in the night and find you eating dry baby formula with your fingers because you didn't know if a meal was guaranteed the next day. You were a fighter from the beginning. It broke my heart to watch your skills of survival. It was a process over months and years to earn your trust to let go of your role as "mom" to Levi and trust me to be his caregiver. It was such a joy to watch you re-learn how to be a kid again, to play without worry. The hardest thing as a mom is to watch you grieve, I wish I could ease your burden. But I am so proud of the way you are relying on God through the pain and it is becoming your strength. Your joy and excitement for life challenges me to slow down and enjoy the small things. You are a servant hearted girl and I can't wait to see where God will take you in life, whether it is back to Congo to serve and love the country you came from, or working in a school, or fighting for justice as a lawyer (because you can argue with a fencepost and I am pretty sure that will take you far when harnessed for good ;), or being a mama to your own children. You will be a force for good, I just know it.

I am privileged to be called Mom to you both and it is a title I don't take lightly. I promise to hold your lives with open hands and trust your Creator to do the work he promises to do in your life. I love you with a fierce love and I can't wait to see the world changers you become. 

Happy 5 year forever family anniversary my loves,

Mom

Whistleblowers

Yesterday, Levi came home with a whistle from the kindergarten prize box, bless kindergarten teachers. He was so excited to blow that whistle wherever he was, including the car, kitchen and right next to my ear. I told him whistles are only for outside, so he happily went out on the back deck and blew that whistle for 15 minutes straight which cut right through the kitchen windows. As I stood there cooking dinner, annoyed by the continuous screeching, my mind went to Congo. 

A few years ago I heard the story of child soldiers from eastern Congo, too small, young and weak to carry the heavy guns the rebel army gives them. So instead, they put the smallest boys, even toddler and kindergarten aged, on the front lines, armed only with a whistle. Their only job is to blow their whistles loud when they see the enemy approaching, you can imagine the small boys fates unarmed on the front lines. Their only job is to be a whistleblower. Congolese boys, taken from their home, or removed from orphan life on the streets and recruited to be soldiers when they should be playing outside. I looked outside the window again and what was previously an annoyance turned into a wave of gratitude. Rebel groups pray on the weak, the street boys, the abandoned ones, and here was my sweet little Congolese boy, who lived out most of his first year of life in an orphanage, happily blowing his whistle as he marched around the back yard. The contrast stopped me in my tracks and made me thank God for protecting Levi from what could have easily been his alternative. I prayed for the boys and teens trapped in servitude to rebel groups all over Sub Saharan Africa, forced to kill their families first to show their allegiance.

A whistleblower. In this context it is used for complete evil. But yet, we should be whistleblowers for truth. When we see oppression or injustice, that is where we should raise our voice loudly for those who cannot. I think of the faces of orphans I have looked at across Congo, Uganda and Kenya. Children who have no voice, and a dim future, by no fault of their own, so many stuck in orphanages where there may be one meal a day. Orphanages where the strongest survive until they age out and take their survival skills to the streets. Such brokenness. That is why I will blow my whistle and say that is what the enemy intended for evil, this should not be, I will raise my voice until I can no longer that we have to step in. I want to step in and break the cycle before they even get to that place, without their family, abandoned or orphaned. I want to support organizations who are supporting parents and holistically helping them keep their families together, find a trade, and keep their children from the orphanage doors. There has been no greater joy in my life as to watching our CARE for AIDS centers graduate 80 families after 80 families after another group of 80 every 9 months that will not send their children to the orphanage. Children who now have someone to protect them, speak truth over them, and help them find their God given purpose. Over the last 3 years of supporting these life-giving centers, over 1000 potential orphans have been prevented. And I will keep blowing my whistle. 

If you want to join us in being a whistleblower for the vulnerable, you can join us here.

Oh Congo...

A few weeks ago I got to return to Congo to accompany a dear friend visiting her children she is in process of adopting. Due to the governmental halt on adoptions, she cannot bring them home, but wanted to meet the children she has been the parent of for a year now. I was honored to go alongside.

Heading to DR Congo this trip was completely different than the last. The last time I boarded that long flight I was filled with the nerves, excitement, fear and uncertainty of what was to come as we met our two treasures there. I spent 4 weeks in a convent turned hotel, staying put as much as possible while paperwork cleared, passports were printed, and we awaited the much coveted exit letter to leave the country.  The few times we did leave the convent, we were met with opposition in public, in one situation that only God orchestrated protection in because it went violent very quickly all around us. I had small hungry boys outside the 2 inch rolled down crack in my window making gestures of slicing my neck and reaching their small hands through the cracks trying to get in. Our driver was yelled at, hustled, and arrested and a stranger got in the driver seat of our car.  It is only through God's grace we made it out of there unscathed.
The month before this most recent trip to Congo a battle was raging in my mind. Fear vs. Trust in God's sovereignty, my mind trying to find the line between wisdom and recklessness, trying to figure out the vague boundary between not letting safety be an idol and using the wisdom God has given me. 

As we arrived in DRC that June 28 evening God gave me such a peace to be back in a country so sacred to our family. My fear was gone and my heart was flooded with love for a people and place so deeply interwoven into our home.  The next morning we woke up early to attend church with a friend. We wound down unpaved roads, through slum areas where people rode on bikes carrying chickens, motorcycles 3 men full, mothers walking their bundled up babies in the 78 degree weather.

Life in Congo is awe-inspiring. I saw a mother on the side of the road with her 4 children, younger than mine, trying to sell clothes and food to make an income for that day, men carrying 30-40 soda bottles on their head in hopes to sell, little girls carrying bundles of sticks tied around their head in fabric. I saw girls around the age of 5, 6, 7 on the streets alone caring for their younger siblings.  We made our way to the church and the sermon was on Ruth. Through our translator, I was moved to tears through the rich interpretation of Ruth's story.  Here was a pastor speaking to 150 Congolese people about leaving a life of safety, security and potentially trading that in for clinging to Jesus. Over 70% of people in Congo earn an average of 2-4$ a day. This pastor challenged these people not to turn away from Jesus because they are afraid he will ask them to give up something, but instead, to run to Jesus and cling to him no matter the costs. If it costs your job, your family, your financial security. Run to Jesus. Cling to Jesus the way Ruth clung to Naomi. He said sometimes this will mean we need to leave our familiar and venture out to the unfamiliar, serve the least of these, maybe even go to another country to take the good news of Christ.  Orpah made the safe choice, to leave Naomi and return to hopefully find a husband or prosperity without the 'burden' of her mother in law. However Ruth took a risk. He preached:

 Sometimes God calls us to do the uncomfortable, something that doesn't make sense, God pushes us out of our norm, out of our culture, and asks us to follow. Giving up control to our lives doesn't mean we lose freedom, we are set free. This takes humility, God raises up the humble. Ruth didn't ask questions or give conditions to her following. She merely said "Where you go, I will go, where you stay I will stay. Your people shall be my people and your God my God. Where you day I will die. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you." What a declaration of reckless faith. 

God used a Congolese pastor in the near slums of Kinshasa to remind me of how he has called me to live, how he called us to adopt, how he gives me far more than I ever "gave up" for him. The following week was a roller coaster of emotions in my heart, reflecting on meeting our kids almost 2 years ago now in this beautiful, tragic country of strength and struggle, hope and devastation. God blessed me in ways I cannot explain in words on a page of this trip. He poured healing and purpose into my heart, He laid out for me another step in my journey of what he has called me to in this amazing country. He put a new chapter in the story of our family and I am completely humbled he would use someone so small, messed up, selfish, and insignificant as me. I am also reminded of the beauty in the adventure of following God. If you would have told me how our story would have ended up 3.5 years ago when I filled out that application to adopt I would have laughed and thought, not me. 

God also allowed me in those 10 short days to enjoy a country in a way I couldn't when I was there before. Not only did I get to witness a new mom meeting on and loving on her two Congolese children and watch the bond of unconditional love begin, but I got a fresh look at my own story, a new heart for a country I had only 'wanted to get out of' the last time I was there. 

My challenge to you is to put your yes on the table. Put your "anything" out there for God to use. Pray to him, "God I will do anything you ask!" And see what he does when you surrender your everything. He will change how you spend your life, your money, your time. Holding our stuff close only keeps us trapped in the life of the predictable, the mundane. Live recklessly like Ruth, trust he is real and live like it. He sees us and he made us and he put you in the story he is writing for you. I guarantee he will move, he will call us out, he will use us, we will live in the freedom we were intended for. We, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us,  to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen. Ephesians 3:18-21

Thank you Jesus for giving me a small part in your huge story. May I steward it well,

A tale of two mothers

3 days and 30 years ago a little girl was born in Eastern Tennessee. She was born with hope and a promise of earthly opportunities and born into a family of 'enough' and one that loved the Lord and wanted the best for her. She would go on to graduate from a good high school and a great university and get married to an amazing man and one day bear a child. Around that time another little girl was born in a province of DR Congo. She was born to a mother who carried her against the odds. Born in the middle of war, violence and hunger. She was a survivor of utmost proportions. She went on to one day meet a man and bear a child herself. 

The first woman would carry that child full term, and birth a little girl in one of the best labor and delivery hospitals in the south, a 9lb blue eyes beauty with a head of hair, this mother experienced relatively no pain in childbirth, thankful to modern medicine, and went on to bear another child, this time, a boy. She loved her children very much and wanted the best for them, a life of opportunity, hope, adventure, but most of all love.

Back around the world, that other woman bore her child, a girl, one with skin the color of smooth chocolate and lush lips and a cute button nose. In that moment, in that birth, that was at best in a local hospital and even more likely in a shabby home in western Congo. She soon bore another child, this time a boy, with almond shaped brown eyes and soft brown skin. 

These mothers loved their children, they were full of hope and optimism at what their girl and boy's life could hold, maybe a life that would change the future, benefit others, meet a need, solve a problem. This boy and girl, both sets, were destined to be world changers.  They were born on opposite sides of the world to two women raised in completely different ways, but they were all loved. Loved beyond measure, loved without condition, loved with great sacrifice, loved in a way it seems like love enough would will that great things would come from these children. 

One mother today holds all of those four children in her arms; grateful, somber, amazed, feeling inadequate for the gift she has received. The other mother has empty arms today; she did not get roses or handmade flowers from those two beautiful children she birthed- I did. I got her handmade cards and her roses and her hugs. This world in all of its brokenness and beauty has gone through a tragedy and a gift at the same time and they have landed in my arms. 

The weight of this day does not pass from me.  I went to bed and woke up this morning with that woman from western Congo on my heart. I ached for her loss, I thanked God for her sacrifice and the way she loved her children well, and wanted every opportunity for them, just as I did mine. Our hearts are not that different I don't believe. Love just plays out differently some times. Painfully different at times. Beautifully and graciously different at times. Today I ache for the birth mom that gave me my mother's day treasure. I wish loss wasn't the way I came about such a great gift, but that is the heart of our story. Every great story is up against great odds and a great crisis, a battle of epic proportions. Victory in this situation is often vague and ambiguous.  There is no win-win. There is no sweeping the bad under the rug to only look at the good. Like the tapestry-maker knows, the underside is ugly, tattered looking, pieced together, looking like nothing beautiful can come out of this mess, but on top, the master weaver has woven a masterpiece. 

Today I am painfully and heavily aware of the loss that is on the other side of the world, in a poverty stricken area of DR Congo. I am praying especially today for such an amazing, strong Congolese woman that will ever be part of my heart, life and story. 

One year home today....

One year. One year? It can't be. I can't believe it has been only a year since we landed on US soil. Since we left a country I will have an eternal connection to that I cannot explain. Since our lives were changed forever. 

It is hard to wrap my mind around what life was like before adding Maran and Levi to our family and yet it feels like its been a blink since we boarded that flight from Congo and I watched Maran's heart transform. There sadly are only a handful of people who got to witness the supernatural change that happened in Maran. You now, have only seen her this side of Congo. God did something when we boarded that plane. He mended broken pieces, he stitched permanency in a heart, he whispered in her mind more than I could shout to her heart that we are going home, forever home. Before that plane ride one year ago today, she was a different child. And expectedly so, the hurt, the trauma, the confusion, she let it all out on me. Imagine you have never seen a white face before. Your whole world is black. Then you somehow lose your family, get put with a bunch of kids and with temporary "mamas", and then one day get taken to a different place and put in a white woman's arms. Adoption is nothing less than traumatic, scary, confusing in her eyes at that point. Someone told her in Lingala, this is your mama now. How crazy. Now she had to let this white woman wash her, feed her, bathe her. It is the depth of vulnerable we do not know. So for 4 weeks her confusion, manipulation, and survival kicked in. She tested my love, she pushed to see what a boundary was, she tried to make herself unlovable so she wouldn't have to deal with rejection again. And it pushed me to my breaking point, right to the arms of the only one who could handle all of it: Jesus. The statement "God won't give you more than you can handle" couldn't be farther from truth. I believe that is right where God wants us. 

Past the point of what we can handle and only at a spot where the miraculous has the meet up with reality. It did this day. Somehow Maran's heart changed as she silently boarded that plane. These are the last pictures I took in Congo. She was silent as we walked along a path and it was like she knew what was happening. We were leaving her country. 

Some people say "isn't it cruel to take a child from their culture",  I guess in a small way it is. She will not grow up like a Congolese child. She has ties yes, stories yes, but not life experience after the age of 4. Levi will remember nothing from Congo. But if you were given a choice of growing up in a home with 30 kids and 4 rotating workers sprinkled with a little cultural rituals vs. a family that where you were cared for, known and loved and pointed to Jesus, I think I go with the latter. I mourned for her this day though. This is not as it should be. Congo one day, I pray will have structures to support families to raise their kids. I pray businesses grow where people can make an honest living and feed their kids. I pray kids aren't hiding from gunfire, forced into sex slavery, sleeping on the streets, dying of a disease that costs 2$ to treat. The world is not as it should be. And come Jesus quickly because he sees his children suffering. He is the father to the fatherless. He sets the lonely in families. (Psalm 68:6)

We will go back one day. We pray for Congo and talk about it. We sometimes eat Congolese foods and sing Lingala songs. But it is no longer their home. Some of her memories from Congo are hard. Hunger, neglect, hurt, sadness, fear, guns, orphanage life, confusion. But many of her memories are there are good. Somehow God has shielded her heart and allowed her to mention and reflect on the hard memories and still have a love for her home country. What a gift he has given us in that. She asks to go to Africa regularly. And Africa will always have a piece of all of us that calls us back ever so often. 

One year ago today, we landed and walked down the corridor of the airport to friends and family. I have never wanted to explode with emotion like that day. Sheer exhaustion, the deep pain of missing my other kids finally relieved, the excitement to see a support group of believers who had prayed this into being, the reality that we are now a family of 6. It was a glorious day. It was the end of one journey and the beginning of the next.  

Thank you to you all who have supported us, prayed for us, counseled us, sacrificed for us, brought meals, watched children, laughed and cried with us over the last year. It hasn't been easy, but it has been good. I thank God for entrusting me these two treasures that I did not deserve. They are not lucky, they are not the "blessed ones". We are. I am. I am the changed one. I was the orphan. Now I see my home ahead of me and I have hope beyond hope. I will trade this world any day for heaven. Thank you Jesus for this indescribable gift. 

half a year gone by

It has officially been six months since John and I hopped on plane to begin the next chapter of the story God is writing for us. In some ways it seems like it has hardly been that long, in others it feels like they've been home for as long as I can remember.

It hardly seems like 6 months since a confused, scared, underweight 13 month old was placed in my arms, at 10:00 at night on the front steps of a convent turned hotel. Six months since I looked in his almond shaped chocolate eyes and tried to reassure him that his world hasn't just been turned upside down again even when it had.  I can remember it like it was yesterday. He was placed in my arms and just stared at me. He felt so light considering the only children I had held lately weighed far over 35 pounds and he weighed in at a mere 14. All of the 12 and 18 month clothes I brought swallowed him and I found a new use for my hair ties to keep his clothes on him.  I remember bringing him back up to our room and the only thing I had of his former life was his outfit and one bottle they said he liked. They told me he was a night owl, sometimes staying up until 11pm. And that is it. That is the history I have on him. Other than a story that is his to share, I knew very little about my own son.  We went up to the room and he snuggled scared on my chest and didn't move a muscle. For 10 minutes he laid there. I covered him in a blanket and we laughed and cried and tried to get him to respond. Shortly after we changed his diaper and as I tickled his feet we saw his first smile. Levi Moses was now ours. He smiled and laughed for the next hour until we finally decided to put him to bed. We ourselves had just finished a 30 hour journey to get here and now our life with Levi had begun. 

The next morning we woke up for breakfast and went down to the lobby to wait for his sister, our daughter. My nerves were high and my expectations were low. I knew it would not be an embrace of gratitude or a feeling of home for her to meet us. She, far more so than him, would be scared, timid, unsure. And that she was. In she walked, slowly, head down, steps behind our facilitator. We were told she had cried leaving the orphanage and was very upset to go. Unknown was all that was ahead of her, and she had braved one impossible transition already only to now go to the hands of two people who looked like none she had ever seen. She would not meet eyes with me as I crouched down to her level. She looked like a shell of a child. No smile, no emotion. Solemn and strong. The opposite of who I know her to be now (with exception of her strength). We walked her up to the room. I will never forget her orange and brown sweatshirt, despite it being 85 degrees that day, and the jean jumper 3 sizes too big tied on to her tiny frame. Her shoes were several sizes too small and the imprint took a while to fade after we slipped them off. Her feet and legs were dry and caked in dirt. I remember thinking as I wiped off her legs, how strange and scary this must be for her. Her clothes were dirty and didn't fit or smell good so I took them off. She had no underwear on and my heart sank as I saw her protruding belly and scars on her skin. This is my daughter I thought. Why God? What has she been through at such a young age. I don't know. I just had a mental picture of Jesus taking me and washing my dirt off and calling me daughter. For the next 7-8 hours she remained lifeless, emotionless. She would only respond to me if I offered her food. The only words she would say was to potty in her language. She would let me hold her but not respond to touch or affection. I remember thinking the road to healing for her would be so hard. She barely played with the toys we brought, she would not speak, smile or laugh.  Later that night I played videos Reese and Wheeler made, showing them their beds and talking to them about how excited they were. We then skyped with them shortly after, and it was like she awoke from her sleep. She was smiling, mimicking their silly faces, trying to say their names "weese!" "weela!". I was overjoyed to see her childness come out. 

Each day after was a journey of ups and down, shutting down and opening up. Learning each other was hard, for all of us. There has been a song that is rocking my world lately. Oceans by Hillsong united... 

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand
Will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

These words are my story. God had called me into the deepest of waters, where I was in over my head and all I could see in the future was storms and uncertainty. This was a huge opportunity for me to fail. Failure was certain on my own. And that is where he wanted me, in the deepest waters where only grace abounds. We were led to a dangerous place, where comfort and self had to be abandoned. He has called me to this hard place because that is where I can find him most easily. 

I could not have scripted the transformation that has taken place over the last six months.  That shy scared little boy that was so small he could not even put weight on his legs now runs, jumps and rides his little scooter down the hall, squealing the whole way. He now says Mama, daddy, ball, up, more, doggie, baby, out, bye bye, eyes, ears, belly, shoe, woof woof. He still would rather be snuggled on my chest than anywhere else, so that much hasn't changed! But he is a joy.

Maran is no longer that quiet, emotionless shell of a girl. She is so full of life, gratitude, excitement, and sillyness. All she wants to do is exactly what her older siblings do. And she longs for affection and asks for it frequently, "hug time mama?" and purses those big beautiful lips at me. She loves "ticklish" as she calls it and loves being outside. There are some remnants of her life of survival. She can tie, zip, carry Levi, button, dress and wash herself better than her older siblings can. She speaks in 10-15 word sentences as she rambles on about lots of things. She desires to go back and visit africa. She tells me she wants to show me where she lived (although we will never know that) but then come back home to 'Merica and live with mommy and daddy. She talks about Jesus and God and has lots of questions about how she was made and is so surprised every time I tell her she is made perfect and beautiful, just how they wanted her. "Me pwetty mama? But you so pwetty mama." She says. She makes friends quickly and warms up quickly to others. She desires relationships. She loves to have attention and affection from others. She loves it most of all from her daddy. "Swing please? Ticklish please daddy?" She can get hurt fairly badly and not shed a tear. Her strength surprises me. She wants to please. She wants to help. She wants to pitch in around the house. I see these things and think about her mother. I can tell her birth mother did her best. Sacrificed, and loved her the best she could. I know nothing of her circumstance and only bits and pieces from a vague story. But I can see her story in her present. There are glimpses of it in the memories she shares. 

I am so so grateful she does not hate Congo for what she has been through. We talk about it a lot. And what a beautiful place it is, despite the hard things that go on there. Me 'dopted mommy? Yes sweet girl. You are adopted. I want her to be proud of her past, proud of her country, proud of the story that makes her the girl she is today. There will be hard discussions, identity crises, confusing questions, but we will make it through the deepest waters as his grace abounds on us all. 

Six months. 

Six months since their identity change. Their transplant. Their trauma. The new chapter unfolding. It is not beautiful. It is not whole. It is a work in progress. Imperfect perfection. But it is our story. I am so grateful to a God that commands us to care for the least of these, to take in the orphan, to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked. And when you do it, it is not a chore, or a task, or an obligatory burden. No, even the hardest of days it is a privilege for me. It is my rescue. It is where I find him the easiest, in the deepest oceans, where my feet may fail.

Hello God? Hello World? This is Kylie.

Wow, four kids is keeping me b.u.s.y. Just when I think I'm hitting a stride, stomach bugs, flu and lice hit! In a house of 6 people it rarely stops at 1 person too!

I can hardly believe we have been home 3 months as of yesterday. We only met them 4 months ago tomorrow. Sometimes it feels like we have been home 9 months or a year. It feels like this has always been our family.  And sometimes my time in Congo is so fresh I can still smell the burning trash in the air, remember the ache I felt there, and see the peoples worn down faces in my mind as they asked for money or food. At 3 months home and 4 months together I honestly did not think we would have come as far as we have. Tantrums are down to a minumum. Sharing is getting better. English is the primary language spoken between us now! I am understanding my kids and they are understanding me. Yet every now and then we go back. Just the other night I had Maran and Levi on my own for dinner while the other two were in gymnastics. Levi started to cry about something and Maran grabbed a bib and showed me how to tie it around her back. She said "my other one mommy put Levi on back when Levi cries."

There it was.

Her first memory she had recalled and shared to me in English without prompting. I got so excited and engaged the dialogue for a while. As we kept talking about it her head got lower and lower. I asked if her other mommy was kind, If she slept in a bed, who slept with her, if she lived in a house. Answers were sporadic and then she asked to see a picture of her in Africa. I pulled out my ipad and showed her the orphanage, the kids there, the food they were eating, the mamas that worked there. I asked, did you like it here? "no, not that one house, this one house. Me this one house, this one mommy". Silence for the rest of the evening. Reminder after reminder of the grief she has experienced and suffering she has seen and walked through. John held her that evening after coming home and told her "I will always be your daddy, mommy will always be your mommy, you will be in our family forever". Comfort, but not healing. 

Parenting 4 is non stop. Teaching lessons that have been missed is non stop. English. Sharing. Date nights with the older kids. Time with my husband. Diaper changes. Snack time. Laundry. Dinner. Car line at two schools. It is keeping me busy. I have not made the time I should to carve out for me and God to sit and talk and look through his word like I used to. I am giving myself grace in this season but I miss it. I am finding new ways to connect with God through this busy season. It has still been a sweet place and he has not let me fall away. It is a hard place many days, but a sweet place. 

It has also been a beautiful thing for us to see the lessons they did learn, the quirks they have, the things I think their mother must have done well. They both will not walk by an open drawer or cabinet without closing it. Maran always wants to sweep up a mess and she is very thorough. Maran is so diligent about saying "Thank you mommy!" whenever I do the littlest of things. Levi loves to be held close, sleeps best when strapped on back or chest, and gives lots of kisses. Maran cares for Levi still as if she was his mama. Picks him up when he cries, tells me to feed him if she thinks he is hungry. Maran loves to be tickled, throw into the air, jump, play outside, be a kid. I think about the other kids her age in charge of taking care of their siblings, deprived of a childhood of carefree play or laughter. Living in conditions that constantly keep them sick. 

I came across this video on Facebook and it is exactly my prayer for DRC.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUjCNpr-C10

So life will one day feel normal again, I know it. I will be able to grocery shop, finish laundry, and cook more than 2 days a week again. I will be able to spend more time with friends, play dates, and time away from the kids. But for now we are still in the trenches most days. And I am so thankful for this refining time, this restoration that is slowly coming over our kids, our family. I found two pages in Reese's prayer journal this week that reminds me of the beauty God is making in our family.

"God plees sav all of the orfins"

"God did a mirucle in giving us Levi and Maran"

Home is where your heart is...

On the way to the airport our last day in Congo we stopped along the way and I snapped as many pictures and videos as I could as I tried to soak in our last day there, the sights, sounds and smells. I tried to drink in the culture, see the people differently, and etch in my memory the home of my children.   The beauty. The tragedy. The hope. The desparation. The strength and the plight of these people. 

I think you can travel to a place and see the sights and way of life there and think... How do people do this? I could never. I can't believe. This is so sad. The conditions. Yes... those thoughts come and go. But then I see the pride some have in their country. The dreams they have for progress. The desire to pull themselves up. The realization that you are alive another day and that is a good thing. This is their life in DRC. The juxtaposition of city and rural, rich and poor, beauty and filth. It all just captivated me as I scanned the skyline of the city and looked back how the river made its way, bringing life and change. I was in awe of this country. Of the people. Of their strength. 

 I don't know how to tell our kids the story of where they are from. God is writing that in my heart and preparing me. I have no idea how I will tell our kids bits and pieces of their story at different ages until at the right time we tell them the full story of redemption.  With all of its twists and turns, despicable things and amazing miracles. Their story is their story and not mine to share. But it is a story of hope and of restoration. And for that I am so honored to carry it for them.

 Maran was unusually quiet that morning. I am not sure if it finally soaked in that something was changing as the suitcases loaded in the car and goodbyes were said. She looked proud at moments as she waved to the workers there telling them Today was the day. Today we get on the plane. She told them goodbye. Goodbye to the workers that would taunt her when she was hungry, that would tell her I would do mean things to her. The people that would laugh at her when she cried. Not all of them, but some. She smiled as she carried her backpack and walked out of that place, but yet she did it with a cautious silence too. In the car she was sullen and looked down. We made a stop and she would not let me take her picture, she wouldnt laugh or smile, she only wanted to be held. It was like she knew something big was coming but had no idea what the future held. Unsure whether to be devastated or happy.

I remember the flurry of emotions and thoughts as we boarded the plane in Kinshasa, leaving DRC after 4 weeks. I remember walking Maran and Levi on the plane (you board outside) and Maran's face as we walked up to this giant foreign object she had never seen. I remember my heart starting to hurt as we neared the plane because we only had a few more steps on the soil of Congo.  I remember her wide eyes as we walked the stairs and stepped inside. I could see the excitement on her face after a hard and confusing day for her. We had packed our suitcases and left all we knew for the last 4 weeks. 28 days before that she had left all she ever knew, crying as she drove away from the orphanage. Now, here we were about to fly away from the home she has known for 4 years. My heart started to ache for their mother as I sat into my seat and thought about what she was doing and if she only knew that her children were leaving their country that very moment.What would she think? Would she be so thankful they were leaving? Sad? Missing them terribly? I have no idea. I felt guilt sweep over me, here I am taking them from their country. God assured my heart, they are not done with Congo and Congo is not done with them. As we taxied to take off, I tried to hold back the tears of all of the emotions I was having. My heart was heavy yet I looked at the excitement of the little girl next to me. Her eyes glistened as she looked out the window shouting "Avion! Avion" as she watched other airplanes go before us. I wish I could explain to her what was happening and share in her joy and in the pain.

We will return to Congo one day. I will be excited to show the kids where there home is. Their country. Their people. But also they have a new home, a new country, and new people. Their lives are a beautiful story that God is writing. I do not know where it will lead, but I am so grateful to be a part of the journey.