Too Much and Not Enough

It's been 7 months since our dossier landed in Kigali. About 8 1/2 months since I last held it at the FedEx office on Fruitville Pike. I don't know how many times my brain has calculated the dates by which we would most likely hear something from Rwanda. Maybe not until mid-June, I remember thinking in December. But that's the worst case scenario. It could be as early as March!

It's the middle of July.

I've been hopscotching back and forth between trying to forget we're waiting for something (not one of my brighter ideas) and obsessing about it every hour of every day. There's a balance, I know, but I haven't found it.

Last week I was praying for our child. That's how I pray: for "our child." Lord, please protect our child... Let our child know the gentleness of a loving touch...

But then I slipped and started praying for "him." Father, make his little body strong to fight disease. Let him sense your love and power, even at his young age...

I had to stop. A couple of sentences for "him" and I was bawling. "I can't do it," I cried to God. "I can't let myself feel that. It's too much."

"Our child" was comfortable. But as soon as I said "him," something happened. Or...opened, I guess. I can't describe what it felt like. Love isn't a strong enough word, and there was so much more to it than that. All I know is it had to be divine, because there's no way a human heart could hold an emotion with such power behind it. When I say it was too much, I'm not being dramatic. I literally felt like it was crushing me.

I don't know if our child is a "him" or a "her." I've suspected a boy for some time, but I was wrong in both cases when I guessed the gender of my biological kids, so I don't put much stock in mother's intuition. I can't help but wonder, though...if "him" affected me like that, what would "her" do?

This journey looks nothing like I expected. Certainly not like pregnancy. Most everything I've had to wait for in life has come with a deadline or due date. This wait feels eternal, a concept which my head tells me is absolutely illogical, while my heart says is 100% dead-on accurate. Too much love and not enough progress.

Oh, for news. I was so hoping to see my baby in 2010.

Dear child...

Dear child,

You don’t know who I am, but one day soon someone will place you in my arms and I will carry you away from the only life you have ever known.

I’ve spent hours imagining what our first moments together will be like. Will you come to me willingly and smile easily, or will you scream in fear and pull away? Will I cry with joy at our long-awaited union, or will jetlag and adrenaline shroud the entire situation in a cloud of unreality?

If those beginning days or weeks don’t live up to my romanticized expectations, that’s okay. There was plenty of screaming and crying and pain when your brother and sister joined our family as well. But there was also love, and gratitude, and hope. And when we look back, those are the things we remember.

I’ll be honest with you, though. Life with our family won’t always be a bowl of cherries. You might not realize it at first, but you and I don’t look much alike, and people will notice. As you grow they’ll ask you where you came from, and who your real parents are, and if you have any brothers or sisters somewhere else in the world. Let me tell you the answers to those questions, just so you’re prepared. As to where you’re from, our address is 28 Buttonwood Drive, in Lititz, PA. Your real parents are Tim and Alison McLennan. And you do have a brother and a sister. Their names are Annabell and Liam, and they can’t wait to meet you.

Annabell

Speaking of your siblings, this might be a good time to introduce them. I’ll start with Annabell, your big sister. When God knit her together, I think he mixed a little drop of sunshine into her smile. I have a feeling it will be her bright smile and tender spirit that comforts you most when you first come home. And as long as you’re willing to receive, Annabell will give, give, give. She’ll undoubtedly bring you each and every member of her stuffed menagerie, and she’ll draw you a gallery’s worth of pictures. She’ll make you bead necklaces and watercolor paintings and inedible Playdoh creations, and anything else into which she can pour her love.

The name Annabell means “beautiful grace.” How aptly your sister is named.

Liam

If Annabell is sunshine, then your brother Liam is the wind. Always moving, prone to sudden gusts of energy or temper, and rarely passing by unnoticed. You’ll either find him bashing his Thomas trains together in a reenactment of some tragic railway mishap, or cuddled on Mommy’s lap, soaking up every drop of affection he can get. It’s amazing to me that the same little boy can be capable of dive-bombing off the couch one moment, and begging for Eskimo kisses the next.

The name Liam means “unwavering protector.” How well God formed him for this very purpose, crafting a kaleidoscope of vitality, determination, and tenderness. Someday these gifts will flourish as your brother grows to stand for truth and protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Daddy

Now that you’ve heard a bit about your siblings, it’s only fair to give you a heads up about your Daddy. Where do I begin? I don’t know what you’ll think about him that first day at the orphanage when we all meet. He and I often say you’ll probably be afraid of his booming voice and goofy faces. But I’ll guarantee you, give him some time and you’ll love having a Daddy who’s still a kid at heart.

There are a lot of fathers in this world, but they’re not all Daddys. You have a very special gift, because YOUR Daddy loves you fiercely, and he’s not ashamed of it. He’ll be proud to carry you on his shoulders, and take you on Daddy dates and show your picture to his coworkers and customers. Together you’ll wrestle, explore the outdoors, and camp out in the backyard just because.

Sometimes your Daddy will be very busy and won’t have much time to play with you or tuck you into bed. But even then, he’ll crave that time with you and fight to get it back. In this way, as in so many others, your Daddy lives up to his name, which is “Timothy,” meaning “one who honors God.” He honors God in his tender heart, which you, my child, hold in your hand, even now when he doesn’t know your name and has never seen your face.

Mommy

And then there’s me, your Mommy. I still can’t believe I have that title, even though I’ve had it for almost 6 years. I used to worry so much that I wouldn’t be a good mother, partly BECAUSE I worry so much about so many things. And because I like to be alone, which isn’t part of the Mommy job description. Nevertheless, I need to be alone sometimes, to think, and write, and pray, and just to be silent. Sometimes that part of me becomes selfish, especially when your siblings are full of energy and volume.

My name is “Alison,” which means “truthful.” So, let me be truthful now: I won’t be a perfect Mommy for you. I won’t love you perfectly. But by God’s grace I will love you the best way I know how. When you wake up at night, sick or scared from a bad dream, I’ll rock you and tell you all about the God who’s bigger than the boogey-man. I’ll read you stacks of books and do all the silly voices to go along with them. I’ll sing goofy songs and dance crazy dances with you (even though there are good, solid reasons why I don’t dance in public). But you’ll laugh, and smile, and love every single minute of it. And at the end of the day, after you’ve fallen asleep in your safe, warm bed, I’ll sneak in to kiss your cheek one more time and remember that I’m the one who is blessed to be your Mommy.

You see, child, you may come from a place of poverty, but you are a priceless treasure. People might say we’re doing a wonderful thing for you, but it is God who is doing a wonderful thing for us. Daddy and I will have to think long and hard about choosing your name, because there are already so many things we want it to say about you. That you are loved, that you are chosen, that God has already conceived a beautiful purpose for your life.

Yes, choosing your very special name is going to take some time, so Daddy and I had better get started! Because one day very soon, someone will lift you out of your tiny metal crib, carry you out beneath the Rwandan sky, and place you in our eager, aching, hopeful arms. And after we’ve smiled, or cried, or maybe done a little of both, then we will carry you away. We will carry you home.

So wait just a little longer, child, and watch for us.

We are coming for you.