Running Home

“There is no way my life is real right now!” 

I squealed those words more than once last March. 

The life that got me to the place that I felt I had to run away, as far away as I could get, was not a season of life that I want to relive. My life was full of Kingdoms that were shaping my identity and needed to be knocked down and rebuilt with God as the proper foundation. That soul work demanded separation from all the people and sacred mountain places that I love most. 

The blessings that had been prepared for me in advance were breathtaking experiences from start to finish. 

  I slept in a mud hut...

    met my Ethiopian children’s sister...

       shared the gospel with their dad...

          talked with a well known author about the soul of a child...

             and had the richest bible conversations with two of my heroes. 

And then…

Nine orphans left the government orphanage with looks of concern and wonder, and He allowed me to share every last minute of their day loving them in a new home we will forever call our own. 

On their first day with us, I got to pray the name of Jesus over each of them as I washed their feet. I fully recognized the humble position I was in and fought back tears against the feeling of being the richest person in the world.

We shared meals, and I watched in awe as one of the littlest protected her plate from invisible threats. She had been a beggar on the street since before she was three years old and had gone days without food on several occasions. That sort of trauma makes a permanent impression on your soul. In this home, she would never have to question if the next meal was coming. 

Throughout each day, my dream of being a teacher was practiced for hours as we counted and worked through basic math and writing lessons. Math isn't my greatest strength, but rolling out Playdoh to teach counting and addition... that's more like it. 

At night, I would mentally relax as I prayed over them and held their hands while they fell deep into sleep. As I lay in my own bed, I missed them. They were breathing deeply just across the hall, and still, exhausted as I was, I couldn't wait until morning. 

For a couple weeks, I lived with them in a place they will forever belong and call home. No more orphanage life. No more going unknown. No more wondering if they belong. 

As God adopted each of us into His family, these children adopted me into theirs. They continue to discovery the power in that word. Adopted. They are the sons and daughters of the same God that created the mountains and the oceans. They are His Beloved. They are a reflection of His love. 

They stole my heart the minute we met, and for an entire year, I have prayed for God to allow me to return.  

I told myself I had to make it a year. 
    Let the countdown begin...
        I'm running home. 

"What do you benefit if you gain the whole world but loose your own soul?"

Mark 8:36

My Walls are Full

When my 17 year old leaves a note on my nightstand, I know to expect a missing scarf or a pair of boots. At least she includes a heart or an “xo” to remind me that she loves me as much as she loves my closet.

If my 14 year old sends a text, I can plan on skipping whatever lunch plans I had because he wants to go out to Subway together and tell me everything that happened in whatever game he last played.  Play by play.  Even though I was there.

The 12 year old writes everything in Hebrew because she never stops being creative and knows that nothing looks better than “My Beloved” or “Unfailing Love” in Hebrew.

But then there’s this little girl, who technically isn’t so little.  My little one that turns 15 today.  The one that asked for a story about her…

When I first met her two years ago, she left me with a note that I carried around for an entire year.  It was all I had left of a little girl that I loved from the moment I met her. 

She had been in America singing with His Little Feet for a year. She asked for one last lunch before heading back to Ethiopia, and even though I knew it was going to break my heart to say bye, I went.  I asked by girlfriends for prayer and headed out to give her one last hug.  I fully expected that this date would be the last time I would ever see her.  She owned a piece of my heart, and I knew I had given it away carelessly. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

At lunch, she yelled at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, making a scene and leaving me speechless.  She was begging me to be her mom and all I could promise her was that God had a plan for her life.  She didn’t want to hear it.  She wanted me to say I would come for her. 

Ten months later, I jumped out of a van in Addis Ababa and called her name at the entrance to the orphanage.  I cried at the sight of the gate.  I knew that God had given me one of the greatest gifts of my life… He was allowing me to keep I promise I knew better than to make. 

But He knew. 

She came running.  I held her.  Knowing that for the rest of her life, I would be the one to protect her, teach her and love her more than she ever knew was possible. 

I had no idea what was coming. 

The teenage girl that I brought home was not what I expected. 

I thought I would teach her how to love.

     She loves me without fear.

I thought I would model trust.
     She takes me at my word and expects me to follow through.

I thought I would provide strength.

     She believes that we do anything as long as we are together.
Mostly importantly, I thought I would teach her about the love of Jesus. 

She shows me how Jesus loves. Completely. Without fail. Unconditional.

My walls can no longer hold her precious notes of affection. 
She has written too many.
But what she has written on my heart can never be undone. 

She speaks the same language as me… Words. 
Just give me words and you have my heart.

She has my heart.

Happy Birthday my love.

“But why would he skip Ethiopia?”

Those are the words that have replayed in my head all day - the innocent question of a teenage boy.  No longer an orphan, but some of the time, still acting like that is the only life he will ever know. 

“Where does he really live?”

“How many elves does he have?”

“Can I ask him for anything?”

“How many toys does every kid get?”

“How does he know where I live?”

It was supposed to be an endless breakfast that I didn’t have to cook… with a quick picture on Santa’s lap for the scrapbook I’ll never get to.  I had no idea what was about to play out.

The thought process of a boy who only knows the fend-for-yourself-life,
the orphanage-life,

the get-there-first-life,
the beg-on-the-street-for-dinner-life…
the mind of that boy was on full speed, and he was determined to have his questions regarding this “Santa” guy answered. 

“Mom? If he goes all over the world, why did he always skip me? Why would he skip Ethiopia?”

While he was questioning Santa...

The mind of this very protective mom fumbles for the right choice of words.  

I remind him of our conversations about the “Naughty and Nice List.”  Then the conversation starts coming together.  We begin to talk about life in an orphanage.  He hasn’t forgotten a thing about his old life.  I know we are replacing old memories with new, insecurities with confidence, fear with hope.  I know he will believe anything I tell him, and I have to be careful with his trust.

“Remember how many boys were naughty and liked to make you fight?” I begin, feeling my way through his emotions.  “I believe you would have been on the “Nice List” even before you were my son.”  I explain, “I am going to do my best to think like Santa.  I have been talking to him every year at this breakfast, so I think I know him pretty good.  I believe Santa would have brought you a present.  But you tell me, what would happen if Santa brought you and a couple of the other good boys a fun new toy?”

His liquid eyes squeeze up a little and I know he is picturing such a magical day.  He final replies, “I think the other boys would steal it and break it.”

“Then you would have felt really sad, right?”

“I guess.”

We both know that the big boys would have taken it, maybe sold it on the street later or broke it open to see what was inside and discover how it worked. 

“I think Santa was protecting you.  I think he didn’t want the other boys to fight you and take away your new toy.  I think he didn’t want you to feel sad for loosing a new toy.”

A mom just can’t explain to her little boy why there will always be darkness attempting to overshadow the light.

A little more trusting and excited after our talk…
and asking for a pair of Heeley's. 

There aren’t easy answers to many of his questions, but there is reassurance that he lives in a family now that will celebrate his new toy in a few days.  He has a brother and a few sisters that are going to cheer for him as he opens his special gift from Santa.  In the safety of his family, he won’t have to think about someone taking that special toy away from him.  He will simply get to treasure it. 

He’ll know that Santa loves all of God’s children all over the world. 

Whether they were born to a teenage girl to die on a cross for our sins,

or born to a mom that laughed at the news of her pregnancy,

or born to a mom that wept on the steps only to hand him back over a few years later,

or born to a mom that would die a few short years later…

… or born in the heart of a mom when she was a little girl and had to wait until he was a teenager to finally be brought home to her. 

This year, my little boy will know Santa will always bring him one fun gift to enjoy. 

However, it was Jesus that brought him to our family, and that is one gift that cannot be delivered on a sleigh, cannot be taken away and will grow more in love with each year.

Chapters

Chapters

3 Months Later

There is nothing to writing. 

All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Ernest Hemingway

Every story has chapters.

     When you’re trying to sort out an overload of information, or simply trying to survive it, it’s easier to divide it up into smaller pieces.  Manageable moments of overwhelming joy, gut wrenching heartache, and everything in-between, all deserve their due respect.

     There were clear chapters to every part of our adoption process and now that our kiddos have been home for three months, bleeding at the laptop seems like a task worth taking on… if I can manage a complete thought.    

It started with the “Seriously?  We’re going to adopt again?” chapter.

Our adoption announcement!

       Last week, my girlfriend read me my prayer request from this time last year when we were trying to decide if God was really asking us to do this thing again.  I begged Him to be loud because my world was very chaotic and busy.  So, clearly, adopting 2 more teenagers would make logical sense.

       But, she asked… and that’s really all it took.

Next was the “Referral Chapter” that had me holding my breath.

       These were the days where I prayed for my shy little girl to have big faith and a bigger mouth.  I went to sleep every night asking God to give her courage and boldness to simply say my name to the counselor.   

       Weeks weren’t even necessary.  It was revealed to me that my darling child had been asking for me everyday since she returned to Ethiopia.  She tells me now, that everyday she would ask if I had called yet to be her mommy.  She knew I would come for her. 

The “Paper Chase” chapter was a quick one…

       I somehow managed to do an entire Home Study and Dossier (a 6 month process) in a little over two weeks.  I look at it now and cannot believe how demanding I was of anyone that held the papers I needed to move to the next part of the process. I was on a mission.

The start to the cabin I built in
my backyard. 

The worst chapter was the “All In God’s Timing and Other Awful Clichés”

       I built a cabin. I painted random walls.  I pouted, cried, screamed.  I ate too much Mexican food, coffee and chocolate… but that’s all normal.  That was THE WORST!

But then… the “I’ll Never Let You Go Again” chapter erased the previous 5 months. 

       Finally, we got to fly to Ethiopia and see our kids for the first time as “Our Kids.”  Those were my babies and I was right where I wanted to be.  I was at peace… for a week.

Shirts to remember we are
coming back!

A few weeks later came the day dreaming chapter… “Go Get Them and Bring Them Home”

       I could feel myself slowly becoming more alive and excited to put a close to the chaos of the adoption process.  I just wanted my family to all be together, sleeping under the same roof. 

I was surprised when the next chapter was called “I Can’t Live Here Anymore”

Our little joy. 

       I have felt my heart pulling me toward Africa for almost a decade, but I was in no way prepared for the desperate ache in my heart when I left.  I’m pretty sure I cried every day for three weeks straight. 
    - One darling trouble maker’s, 2 year old excitement over my coming “home” (to the orphanage) and furious screams when I left, never left my mind.  They still haven’t.  I love her.  She can’t be adopted or she’d be here by now.
   - I called on other moms to take care of the 4 year old that lives on the street, alone.  What more could I have done to set her up for long-term success? 
   - My mind wondered about the one month old infant that God brought me to.  He allowed me to save her by simply teaching others the basics of human attachment, bonding and trust. 

       The things about it, is that I need those daily moments of God using me to be His hands and feet.  My heart still hurts.  My mind still races. I want to walk the streets of Ethiopia and anticipate God calling on me to serve one of His children and look more like Him.  My soul hungers for Ethiopia, and I will embrace the day when my kids are ready to head back for a long visit.

       It has been a long chapter. 

As the fog slowly lifted, the next chapter didn’t miss a beat. “Who Said Adoption is a Fairy Tale?” overlapped the previous chapter.

The day I figured out that eating
Runza helped him focus!

       Our kiddos have adjusted amazingly well to their American life, but there have been times when my eyes have been opened to a world of pain I had no idea could exist in the heart and soul of two tiny teenagers.  Dinner conversations shock me to the point of pushing my plate away.  Nightly stories and prayers evolve into a time of healing their heartache.  Drives around town allow for questions that plagued their minds all day to find the answers they seek.  And homeschool time… oh, please… how many hundreds of times will we say sight words like “as” and “at” before they finally stick???

       The thing is… it’s them.  So even if they were to fall apart every day (they don’t), even if they only told heartbreaking stories (they don’t), and even if they never fall in love with the smell of books (I pray they will)… it’s them.  And they are mine. I get to be there every moment. I’m so infatuated.  I’m so over the top in love with them.

And of course, Starbucks helps
my little girl focus!

Our current chapter can only be called “You’re mine now.  Always.”

     My baby girl is nothing more than a 5 year old in a 14 year old’s body.  She wants to be held, rocked, read to, kissed and hear how loved she is.  Every night, I’m the one that gets to kiss my daughter at least ten times all over her face and tell her that she is God’s beautiful child. She snuck in bed with me late one time and let me hold her all night long.  Her beautiful curls tickled my nose for hours.  For some foolish reason, she thinks we are all the most amazing people.  She sees us the way God does, and I’m not sure she realizes that we see her the same way.  I see a girl that is so willing to love, she’s going to move mountains.

     Yesterday morning, my man child locked eyes with me and said, “You’re the only one who trusts me.”  I didn’t even respond.  I said nothing.  I looked him in the eyes a little longer than normal.  He smiled and said, “Bye mom.”  Then he walked confidently into school.  I just watched, then I cried.

     Today was harder.  Much harder.  Days like today make me hate the enemy that calls earth his own.  He’s heartless and attacks the weak, the enemy, not my son.  My son is a fighter though, and he knows His Father loves him and calls him His son.  The chords on the guitar come out as a declaration as he sings worship songs so loud we can hear him two floors away.  He looks at his big brother like he is personally responsible for all things good in this world.  He has a laugh that will stop you in your tracks, and a light that will blind the world.      

     I never know what the day will bring.  Some mornings I walk on eggshells, afraid to rock the boat.  Other days I can ask them to climb the highest mountain or swim the deepest sea, and they would do it without questioning my request.  In the same day, “I love you” will spill from their lips with a shy smile, but being in this country will be more then they can handle.  This is life.  It’s ours. It’s theirs.  We are one family.

     I live with the tension of knowing that some chapters aren’t ready to end, but I refuse to remain stuck while others are waiting to begin.

Together at last!

My chaos!