Every year since we adopted Hengxin, I often find myself lost in thought around this time. Four years. It seems like both yesterday and a lifetime ago that we were preparing to making the biggest leap of faith any of us had ever taken, and perhaps ever will take in our life- the anticipation that made me physically ill at times, the fear of not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, and the frantic preparations we were making to embark on this journey with its unknown destination.
I've recently had a number of friends ask me about adoption- how we were led to it and what struggles we've faced along the way. Several of these conversations have spanned for hours, but if someone were to ask me to describe adoption in one word, it would be simply grief. Grief has been interlaced in every part of the journey, in some form or another, by no fault of her own. Our story is somewhat unique because we adopted her at an older age. We went into it knowing- but not really understanding- that adoption is a far cry from the child's "happily ever after." If anything, it's just the beginning of a long and difficult cobblestone road.
But I've learned a deeper lesson- that around every corner that grief sends us, there awaits its ever-patient counterpart: redemption. To grieve is one of the bitterest cups that we will ever drink from, but redemption is perhaps the sweetest antidote. It sits patiently, waiting for the chance to show us how the deepest of pains can become our greatest of blessings. I wonder how often I turned the corner and walked right past, not noticing that it was waiting there for me.
As we celebrated the Chinese New Year this year, with our menial party of a few decorations and poor excuse of overly-Americanized Chinese food, I found myself grieving again. I thought of how much better the celebration would have been if she had been in China. It seemed like a pathetic replacement for the week-long festivities she had enjoyed as a child and, once again, I found myself lamenting and feeling guilty for what was taken from her when she was adopted- what I had stolen from her.
But as I watched her laughing and playing with her siblings and friends that night, seemingly unaffected by the ineptness of the party, I realized that while so much has been taken from her, sometimes redemption isn't just waiting around the corner. Sometimes it walks into a room, hand-in-hand with grief. Both giving room for the other to stand, not competing, and just allowing each other space. Certainly she must have felt a longing for the festivities of her childhood, but didn't allow it to rob her of the joy of the moment.
I wish I could go back to the woman I was four years ago and tell her to sit back and buckle her seatbelt for the coming ride, but to rest assured that every bit of the journey would be worth it. Hengxin is a special girl with inner strength that most of us would never develop in several lifetimes. She is the embodiment of how grief becomes redemption, if we allow it to. I once told her that I never wanted her past experiences to become a stumbling block, but that I wanted them to become her stepping stool that takes her to greater heights. She has followed my instructions from that day far beyond anything I could have accomplished. I have so much to learn from her, and realize that in so many ways, we were never her rescuers. She has been ours.
I've recently had a number of friends ask me about adoption- how we were led to it and what struggles we've faced along the way. Several of these conversations have spanned for hours, but if someone were to ask me to describe adoption in one word, it would be simply grief. Grief has been interlaced in every part of the journey, in some form or another, by no fault of her own. Our story is somewhat unique because we adopted her at an older age. We went into it knowing- but not really understanding- that adoption is a far cry from the child's "happily ever after." If anything, it's just the beginning of a long and difficult cobblestone road.
But I've learned a deeper lesson- that around every corner that grief sends us, there awaits its ever-patient counterpart: redemption. To grieve is one of the bitterest cups that we will ever drink from, but redemption is perhaps the sweetest antidote. It sits patiently, waiting for the chance to show us how the deepest of pains can become our greatest of blessings. I wonder how often I turned the corner and walked right past, not noticing that it was waiting there for me.
As we celebrated the Chinese New Year this year, with our menial party of a few decorations and poor excuse of overly-Americanized Chinese food, I found myself grieving again. I thought of how much better the celebration would have been if she had been in China. It seemed like a pathetic replacement for the week-long festivities she had enjoyed as a child and, once again, I found myself lamenting and feeling guilty for what was taken from her when she was adopted- what I had stolen from her.
But as I watched her laughing and playing with her siblings and friends that night, seemingly unaffected by the ineptness of the party, I realized that while so much has been taken from her, sometimes redemption isn't just waiting around the corner. Sometimes it walks into a room, hand-in-hand with grief. Both giving room for the other to stand, not competing, and just allowing each other space. Certainly she must have felt a longing for the festivities of her childhood, but didn't allow it to rob her of the joy of the moment.
I wish I could go back to the woman I was four years ago and tell her to sit back and buckle her seatbelt for the coming ride, but to rest assured that every bit of the journey would be worth it. Hengxin is a special girl with inner strength that most of us would never develop in several lifetimes. She is the embodiment of how grief becomes redemption, if we allow it to. I once told her that I never wanted her past experiences to become a stumbling block, but that I wanted them to become her stepping stool that takes her to greater heights. She has followed my instructions from that day far beyond anything I could have accomplished. I have so much to learn from her, and realize that in so many ways, we were never her rescuers. She has been ours.
2 comments:
You are a very special lady and I admire you. I truly wish that I could have adopted a child after the loss of my son but unfortunately my finances wouldn’t allow it. May God continue to bless you and your family.
This is the second year since moving to Idaho that I managed some semblance of lunar new year celebrations. The essence of lunar new year is to be with loved ones while welcoming the new year, so I am glad Hengxin was able to celebrate it with her family!
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