In the early hours of the morning, the only light in our room squeezes through the bamboo blinds from the streetlight on the corner. I wearily finish nursing Caden, and mix up his bottle. The sound of his little gulps break the quiet. I snap out of my reverie and realize I have been daydreaming of Caden's first birthday party. Hearts are strewn everywhere in brilliant, happy colors. I come to the realization that somewhere in the past few weeks, I have turned a corner. And found myself staring into Caden's future with hope and anticipation. Where once I only saw a big question mark, and fears that were too terrible to name, I now begin to see hopes. Seeds of dreams for my son that I nourish with prayers and faith.
One foot in front of the other has been our journey for the past five and a half months. Grace for the day. Trust and dependence. But one foot in front of the other, as it turns out, still leads you SOMEWHERE. And I am pleasantly surprised by where I find myself today.
On New Years Eve, we were huddled around the fire pit, talking with the kiddos about their hopes and dreams for the new year (amidst gunshots peppering the night-quiet around us). And we went around the campfire, each of us sharing what we were most looking forward to in 2012. I said something sarcastic, like "Jayci not being 3 anymore" (because the tantrums and attitude, they are exhausting). But when we were laying in bed after ringing in the new year, I told Adam I thought that maybe what I was most looking forward to in 2012 was the possibility of beginning the adoption process. And I surprised myself with this ability to look ahead, to envision Caden turning a year old, and us continuing with our dreams of the family we felt like God was pointing us towards.
Suddenly everything that has happened with Caden was no longer all-encompassing. Huge? Yes. Scary and crazy? Definitely. Defining? For sure. But not everything. Not the end of his story, nor the end of ours.
Because from the beginning, Adam and I said that whether Caden lived one day or to be one hundred years old, we are better because of him. And we are. I have been astonished at the strength I found within myself. Caught off guard by my faith and trust, by an ability to do the unthinkable and push through the difficult.
And at sundown, when sun meets the horizon and with a Midas-touch turns all the world golden, so Caden has touched our lives from the first moment and transformed and enriched us completely. Bringing with him the gift of new morning, despite a dark night.
So even though I finally feel "unstuck," not constantly counting heartbeats or reliving the cicu, it doesn't take much to bring me back there. To flood my heart with fear and brim my eyes with tears. An ill-timed tv show, a scene from a book, words from an expectant mother, the smell of hospital soap, or a song on the radio. But that's ok, because I am NOT the same as I was. I am better. Stronger. Greater capacity for pain and fear, have carried with them greater capacity for compassion. For joy. I find myself able to enter into other's pain, particularly mothers, and walk hand-in-hand with them without having to turn away. And isn't that what Christ calls us to? Isn't that what He himself did?
As Caden finishes his bottle, I gingerly lay him in his bassinet. Gently, I lower myself back into bed, cringing as its creak breaks the early-morning hush, and Caden's small cries ensue. Desperately clutching for a few more moments of sleep before Jayci wakes up, I pick Caden back up and snuggle him in bed, pulling him into the crook of my arm and breathing in his sweet baby smell. His whole body is tense, fighting the lure back into sleep. I jiggle him and whisper in his ear until I feel him relax in my arms. His breathing evens and heart beats slowly, miraculously.
And I feel the Lord drawing me close. He whispers truth to me until I relax into His arms. Until I stop tensing against what He has for me, and rest in the shadow of His wings. And I have hope for the future. Caden's half-birthday is almost here, and I know that the Lord's great plans for his life are only beginning to unfold.
On New Years Eve, we were huddled around the fire pit, talking with the kiddos about their hopes and dreams for the new year (amidst gunshots peppering the night-quiet around us). And we went around the campfire, each of us sharing what we were most looking forward to in 2012. I said something sarcastic, like "Jayci not being 3 anymore" (because the tantrums and attitude, they are exhausting). But when we were laying in bed after ringing in the new year, I told Adam I thought that maybe what I was most looking forward to in 2012 was the possibility of beginning the adoption process. And I surprised myself with this ability to look ahead, to envision Caden turning a year old, and us continuing with our dreams of the family we felt like God was pointing us towards.
Suddenly everything that has happened with Caden was no longer all-encompassing. Huge? Yes. Scary and crazy? Definitely. Defining? For sure. But not everything. Not the end of his story, nor the end of ours.
Because from the beginning, Adam and I said that whether Caden lived one day or to be one hundred years old, we are better because of him. And we are. I have been astonished at the strength I found within myself. Caught off guard by my faith and trust, by an ability to do the unthinkable and push through the difficult.
And at sundown, when sun meets the horizon and with a Midas-touch turns all the world golden, so Caden has touched our lives from the first moment and transformed and enriched us completely. Bringing with him the gift of new morning, despite a dark night.
So even though I finally feel "unstuck," not constantly counting heartbeats or reliving the cicu, it doesn't take much to bring me back there. To flood my heart with fear and brim my eyes with tears. An ill-timed tv show, a scene from a book, words from an expectant mother, the smell of hospital soap, or a song on the radio. But that's ok, because I am NOT the same as I was. I am better. Stronger. Greater capacity for pain and fear, have carried with them greater capacity for compassion. For joy. I find myself able to enter into other's pain, particularly mothers, and walk hand-in-hand with them without having to turn away. And isn't that what Christ calls us to? Isn't that what He himself did?
As Caden finishes his bottle, I gingerly lay him in his bassinet. Gently, I lower myself back into bed, cringing as its creak breaks the early-morning hush, and Caden's small cries ensue. Desperately clutching for a few more moments of sleep before Jayci wakes up, I pick Caden back up and snuggle him in bed, pulling him into the crook of my arm and breathing in his sweet baby smell. His whole body is tense, fighting the lure back into sleep. I jiggle him and whisper in his ear until I feel him relax in my arms. His breathing evens and heart beats slowly, miraculously.
And I feel the Lord drawing me close. He whispers truth to me until I relax into His arms. Until I stop tensing against what He has for me, and rest in the shadow of His wings. And I have hope for the future. Caden's half-birthday is almost here, and I know that the Lord's great plans for his life are only beginning to unfold.