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One of the great benefits of being an elementary teacher is actually remembering all that helpful, but slightly forget-able knowledge you learned back in your early days...

Husband: "How many cups are in a gallon?" 

Me: "Sixteen."

Husband: "Are you sure?"

Me, emphatically: "I made the Gallon Man seven years in a row. Believe me, it's sixteen."

Yes, I am your personal measurement Google in the kitchen. And since I'm a bit of a language nerd, I can also tell you the difference between two slightly confusing linguistic terms: simile and metaphor. 

There are some things you read and they wreck you. Forever. Sometime before we were matched with our first son, Titus, I read this story about a baby girl found abandoned at a park and the lengthy note left by her heart-wrenched parents. And it cut to the very core of my mama's heart. We had lived in China and knew in theory why children with special needs were abandoned. (See my post here for more information.) But for the first time, as I bawled through these heart-broken parents' letter, I caught a glimmer of the other side of abandonment. The thousands of tears, the cripplingly guilt, the agonizing pain. And, for the first time, a horrific question took root in my mind that to this day I cannot honestly answer: "If I were in this same situation, could I selflessly give up my precious child, knowing it was the only way to maybe save her life?"

I've thought about these grief-stricken parents so much these past two years, just as I think about our sons' birth parents. My mind cannot help but add flesh to these bare facts and my heart cannot help but to grieve for their profound loss. I've replayed their story a thousand times in my head, imagining the months, days, and moments leading up to them placing their precious daughter in a garden to be found. 

Please understand, I am not trying in any way to embellish an orphan's story or create a romanticized account of what happened to this precious girl or any other children abandoned. We strive to only tell our sons the facts we know about their stories. Period. Also, I am in no what saying I know what happened or understand these or any other parents' heartache. I just think that if we can pull back the curtain and put ourselves in their story, our hearts will break with compassion and empathy. 

Now, let me ask you one question as you read this fictional account based on a real note left: "How will you make sure that these and thousand of other heart-broken parents' sacrifice does not go in vain?" May your compassion turn into courage: to adopt. To support others who adopt. To give to organizations that help preserve family units. And above all, to pray, that families will be able to stay together, that children in orphanage will have forever families, and that hearts who have been broken by inexplicable loss will somehow be healed.

"It must be tonight," my husband softly whispered to me.

"Why tonight?" My eyes and heart pleaded.

"It's the warmest night of the week. We've talked about this. We've waited. The medicine is running low. It has to be tonight." I could see tears form in his eyes too. 

I wanted to be angry with him. I wanted to yell at him, "No!" But I knew he was right. I knew he wanted to do what was best for our baby girl. Just like me.

"Let's let her sleep a little longer. We can have dinner, give her a bottle, and then..." I couldn't finish the sentence. I couldn't even let my mind finish the sentence, think about what tonight would hold for us all.

My dark-haired, dark-eyed son sticks out in our otherwise light-haired, blue-eyed family. So, we can attract a little attention and just a few questions in the grocery store checkout line or our neighborhood park. Usually the questions range from “Where is your son from?” to “Is he adopted?” or something along those lines.

As long as the question is asked politely, I don’t mind sharing that yes, he is adopted from China. The follow up question to this is most likely, “Why did you adopt from China?” A good question and the usual answer of “Because we used to live there” was enough to satisfy many people’s curiosity of our mismatched and beautifully-created family.

Some will prod further and asked where in China we lived, to which until last month I would say, “A big city most people have never heard of, somewhere close to Shanghai.” (Which is like saying North Carolina is close to Florida!) Now, however, I just open my mouth and say,

“Wuhan.”

You’d think I just said “Mars” the way most people have looked at me this month as I uttered that once heart-warming word. Because, for me, “Wuhan” is home, my China home. We lived there for two years and have gone back to visit whenever we can. But most people don’t know “my” Wuhan. They only know the HazMat suits and masked-faced crowds Wuhan. The hospitals-built-in-ten-days-and-teeming-with-people Wuhan. The “dirty”-wet-market Wuhan. And whatever-else-is-floating-around-on-social-media Wuhan.

So, how do you "get past" the big, bad Boogie Man, Mr. Fear. When I picture "fear," I somehow think of "Marshmallow" in the movie Frozen. (Let's blame that on the fact that I have a Frozen obsessed daughter who loves to sing "Let it goooooo!" as loudly and persistently as possible!) He's massive, volatile, and wants to keep you away from the very place you want to be. And, no matter what you throw at him, it seems like you can't demolish or shake him sometimes!

I wrote this letter at the end of 2018, as I reflected on how far we'd come in a year. I'm sharing it again, as we are knee-deep in the adoption journey once more and battling the very same fears of the unknowns and knowns.

We all have our favorite Christmas songs. The ones we get a little teary-eyed or have goosebumps when we hear the first strands played.

Our family's favorite Christmas song by far is "Silent Night" for many different reasons, but especially because it reminds of someone who is now at the feet of Jesus singing this and many other songs of worship.

And we all have those Christmas songs that we're not too fond of. That for whatever reason we hope the radio will hurry up and finish playing so that we can get back to belting out our favorite carols.

It felt like deja vu. 

Same store.

Same box.

Same boy toys.

"Mom, can we adopt the loneliest boy or girl in China?" 

I turned from making dinner a few months ago and ran over to our precious daughter coloring at the table. There will be so many moments I'll forget about this adoption journey, but that question. Never.

"Yes, of course sweet girl. God will show us who the loneliest little boy or girl is and He'll bring him or her into our family."

365 days.

That's how long he's been in our arms. 365 good night kisses. 365 good morning snuggles. 365 days of smiles and laughter.

365 days seems like a long time to have a child in your life, until you calculate how many days there were before you: 1,020 (or somewhere close to that). 1,020 days divided between his birth family, the hospital, and his orphanage. 

And all the sudden, those 655 days we didn't get to hug or kiss or snuggle or watch him grow seem like a long time. But we're grateful that for one year he's been ours. We still have time to make up, but each day with him is precious. This year has flown by at lightning speed and yet it seems like we can't remember life before this little ray of sunshine entered our lives. We have 365 days and ways to be thankful we didn't miss out on this precious blessing in our lives.

"Pregnancy brain" is hitting hard these days. In the last month or so, I've forgotten...

...to write a church event on the calendar (and scheduled to work instead!)

...a doctor's appointment (and then realized I wrote it on the wrong day anyways!)

...a meeting for work (that I was supposed to speak at!)

...what I really needed at the grocery store (but leave with a cart full of everything else!).

...to write a check for notarizing important documents (Praise God, I remembered right before the envelope was sealed and sent!)

And these are just a few of the things I realize I have forgotten lately! Who knows what other balls have been dropped the past few months as we journey on this adoption road again, with all the papers and deadlines and appointments and important information we need to juggle! I distinctly remember about a week before we flew to China to bring our son home opening our refrigerator one bleary-eyed morning and being perplexed why an ice cream container was sitting in there (insert face palm and then sad face!). Yep, adoptive moms crave ice cream and accidentally put it in the fridge too! 

But there's one thing I honestly forget every day and I'm OK with it.

"Mom, come play with me!" I heard a little voice plead from the backyard.

"Sorry, honey, I can't. I'm busy," I responded. Again.

Some days, that's all I feel like I say. Busy with adoption paperwork. Busy with grant applications. Busy with business work. Busy with working to make extra money. Oh, and then there's cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, and the list of endless chores a mother juggles every day. 

The adoption process is hard and it takes tolls on your body, just like pregnancy. But the difference is the tolls are invisible. You can't look at a woman and say, "Wow, you really look like you're adopting!" Or "Adoption looks good on you!" (But I'm actually glad no one comments on my appearance these days, because if they were honest, they would probably say, "Wow, you really look tired!" Or "Adoption makes you look exhausted!")