decompressing

I’ve been pondering my next blog post for far too long, and since I haven’t come up with the brilliant new addition I’ve been hoping for, I decided it was time to just sit down and tell you all what’s been on my mind.

Today we’ve officially been home with Avivah for one month. Life with our little girl is at times full of fun and fulfillment, other times frustration and confusion. I am in awe of all God did to bring our precious child home, and I am in awe of how desperately I need Him every day to help me decipher the complexities of my new daughter and train my heart to respond in the way she needs.

Okay, now that the homefront update is out of the way, I want to talk about our time in Africa. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out how to do that yet (hence my hours of pondering and lack of posts). So much of what happened there involves procedural details and specific officials, and I know that a public forum is not the appropriate place to share those experiences.

I’ll say this: it was painful and exhausting, beautiful and life-changing. I found myself battling emotions I didn’t expect (still dealing with that) and looking at myself and my life through new lenses that made me ever more aware of my need for the truth proclaimed in the title of this blog.

I still haven’t processed all I saw and did in Africa, but I have a sense that my time there was not the end of our adoption process, but rather the beginning of something much bigger. Something that goes far beyond adoption, and far beyond me.

I remember with such clarity the moment I climbed the stairs to board our flight out of Kigali. It was 1:30 a.m. and the air was cool and damp. I paused at the top of the steps, just before ducking into the plane, and drew a deep breath, thinking, This might be the last time I breathe the air of Rwanda. Avivah was strapped into the Ergo, her warm body limp against my chest as she slept, but I had the urge to wake her and make her take notice. “We’re leaving your birthplace, child. You might never see this place again.” I looked out at the city lights blanketing the hills and tried to stuff down the pain of that thought. This isn’t right, my heart lamented. We can’t leave like this. Not in darkness. Not without more time to say goodbye.

The irony wasn’t lost to me even in that moment. We had prayed for miracles for two weeks, and on that last day we had seen God move more than one mountain to get us on our flight as scheduled. But my heart still ached to stay, not only for myself but for my poor daughter, who had only met us three separate times during visiting hours at the orphanage. The day we left Kigali was the first day she left the orphanage. Her first night with us would be spent in the Ergo on a crowded flight to Addis. We had every legal document in hand, but leaving that way, under the cover of darkness while she slept unaware on my (a stranger’s) chest…it felt like we were stealing her. Or stealing something from her.

The remorse over our departure never went away. In fact, it’s intensified. I want to go back. I feel like I left something there, or missed something, and I have to return to find it. I don’t know what to do with that sensation, so I’m trying to find the balance between holding it at a distance so it doesn’t drive me crazy, and keeping my eyes on it just in case God has a related plan brewing sooner rather than later.

I also have a feeling that as I continue to decompress from our travels and adjust to life with Avivah, I’m going to need to do more writing to stay sane. Hence the new banner and subtitle to the blog, and the new look. It’s time for the next chapter. I hope you’ll all turn the page with me.