The problem isn't a language barrier. I can give her detailed instructions that even my 5-year-old would have trouble understanding, and Avivah will follow them to the letter. For example, I can say, "Avivah, I left my phone upstairs on the table next to Daddy's side of the bed. Can you go get it for me? And can you bring a roll of toilet paper down, too? It's under the sink in the bathroom. Not Mommy's bathroom, the bathroom where you brush your teeth." No problem, she's on it. And in her garbled, broken English she can express her needs and ask questions. Man, can she ask questions...
But she can't answer them.
Tonight I sit on the edge of her bed and talk with her about our day. She had a blast playing with ponies this morning, and since she rarely plays with anything, this was quite a memorable experience. I think that might be an easy question to try.
"Avivah, you played for a long time this morning, didn't you? Do you remember what you played with?"
"Yah."
"What did you play with this morning?"
No answer. The relaxed expression that was on her face a moment ago is replaced with a frozen smile and wary eyes.
"Avivah, what kind of toy did you play with this morning?"
"Slushie." A stock answer. She got that one right a few days ago when I asked her what she'd had to drink at Aunt Amy's house, and ever since she's been inserting it after every question.
"No, not a slushie, silly girl. We don't play with slushies, we drink them." We both laugh, but hers is overly enthusiastic. She's wound pretty tight. I decide to try once more, very gently. "Avivah, remember this morning when you played with toys for a long time? What did you play with?"
At this point the bottom lip begins to quiver and her eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at my face. I back off, give her the answer and start talking about something else. Eventually I come back around to the slushie, since she obviously feels more confidence on that topic.
"Avivah, what did Daddy make you for dessert tonight?"
No response.
"Remember when Daddy made special drinks for you, Annabell, and Liam. You drank it with a straw. What was it?"
"Birthday." That makes no sense.
"What was the name of that drink? It was the same drink you had at Aunt Amy's house, remember? What do we call that drink?"
She covers her eyes with her hands and holds her breath, a surefire sign that she's trying not to cry. I hug her and answer the question myself, then tell her what a good girl she is and how much I love talking to her. Then I pray for her, finish tucking her in, and move on to the next little one.
But her fear haunts me. This experience is nothing new. We live with it every day, but for some reason it weighs on me more than usual tonight.
So I go back to her before leaving the room. I lean down for a hug, and then lay close looking into her eyes. (We've made progress here. A few months ago she wouldn't maintain eye contact with me at all. Now she'll actually hold my gaze for about 5 seconds before trying to kiss me, pat my cheeks, say "hi," or otherwise attempt to break the intimacy of the moment.) She's smiling, but it's still a camera smile, forced and stiff as she tries to cover up the lingering stress from my questions. For some reason, I say this: "It's okay, Avivah. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to be sad. Mommy loves you."
She says "okay" and tries to kiss me, her typical "let's talk about something else" effort. So I pull her close and put my cheek against hers. She laughs nervously and remains stiff as lumber. I whisper again, "Everything's okay, Avivah. Mommy loves you. You don't have to be scared. You don't have to be sad. It's okay." She relaxes a bit. I say it one more time, and this time she holds her breath. Then, just as I'm about to give her space, she chokes back a cry and wraps her tiny arms tightly around my neck. "It's okay," I whisper, and then I say it over and over again as she clings to me. When I finally let her go, her eyes are damp but she's managed to hold the tears at bay.
A 3-year-old who bottles up her emotions. How sad is that?
Something is broken. Speech and occupational therapy are in our near future, but that won't fix my little girl's insecure, confused, wary heart. Only Jesus can do that.
Yesterday at church we sang three songs back to back: "Our God," "He Alone Can Rescue," and "Never Once." I know God inspired that planning, because those are my adoption theme songs. Were, I should say, because yesterday God showed me that they're just as true now in this place of Avivah's brokenness as they were in the brokenness of waiting for her to come home. And they're true of the brokenness inside me - the dark, selfish part of my heart that often struggles to feel love and compassion when they so clearly belong.
Our God is greater. Our God is stronger. Our God is Healer, awesome in power. He alone can rescue. His grace goes deeper than our sin and His love goes further than our failures. And we never walk alone, because He is faithful. Every step we are breathing in His grace. Evermore we'll be breathing out His praise.
That is where I place my hope for Avivah, and for myself. That's why I can say tonight, "It's okay, Alison. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to be sad. Daddy loves you. Everything's going to be alright."
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