Those who lost

The one-year anniversary of Hengxin joining our family came and left quietly. Not because it went unnoticed. In fact, every day leading up to it, I replayed in my mind the preparations, the nerves, the emotions that came before taking the biggest leap of faith any of us had ever taken- forever seared into my memory and in the deepest pit of my stomach. Most adoptive families commemorate Family Day with a celebration but I couldn’t do. I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate the beginning of what felt like some of the darkest days of our family’s life. Our little world felt like it was falling apart in so many ways. Satan was once again attacking from almost every angle possible. I quickly came to realize that the grueling process of bringing her home, which I thought was the pinnacle of our trials was, in fact, only preparation for bigger things to come. They were only the beginning. I wanted to look forward, not back.

Just as adoption is about gaining, it is also about loss. So much loss. And the most wounded often sit in the shadows, unnoticed and overlooked. My biological children suffered a tremendous loss for so long- something that is rarely talked about in adoption stories. While they watched their new sister gain parents, they felt like they were losing theirs, their mother and father consumed with this new family member. Almost daily medical appointments taking me away for hours at a time. Every conversation, every meal, every activity, seemed to be centered around this new person who at times seemed to only push us away. Strangers in their own home and lost in a new and disheartening reality, their world had been completely turned upside down.

There was grief disguised as anger. Some more than others and it felt like life would never feel normal again. At times, some of the children who had initially been the most supportive of the adoption, felt the deepest wounds and the greatest resentment. This was as much a trial of their faith as it was ours, and my heart ached as I watched them struggle.

And yet a celebration is in order. Not for where we were, but where we are today. On the one-year mark, in a serendipitous series of events that I couldn't have planned if I tried, I was able to sit back and reflect in gratitude for where we are today, not where we were a year ago. At times I am guilty of allowing the difficulties overshadow the triumphs.

A few nights ago Hengxin handed me a paper that she had written in school. It was a letter she had written to me about heroes. And her hero, she said, was me. For helping her. For comforting her when she was sad. For loving her. And the date she had written it? March 1st- the one year anniversary of her joining our family- the very day I had wanted to slip by unnoticed.

It was on the very day I had wanted to skim over that she also delivered several boxes of food for a food drive she had organized and carried out for my student's in need at my school. It was a labor of love, one that involved overcoming deep-seeded insecurities and fears, as she stood in front of large groups of people to solicit food donations. And the outpouring of support for her efforts was huge.

She had no idea how the timing of any of it coincided, so I was able to reflect quietly on its impact.
It was God gently nudging me to not focus on the difficulties we had experienced, but on the beauty of where those challenges led us. To remind me that it was all worth it. Every single bit of it.

But most of all, to see those wounded little ones who had once sat in the shadows, learn to embrace their new life, for me that is the greatest reward. They play together, laugh together, and yes... fight together- just like real siblings do. They gained a new sister, a friend, a playmate. They gained a mother who became more present than she used to be. They gained faith through experience that when God commands something, He sees it through till the end. That miracles happen daily, big and small. They learned the power of a changed heart, and that more often than not, it's our own heart that need to be changed. They learned that good health is one of our biggest blessings, and the power that comes when families work together through hard things.

So often people tell us that they are amazed by me and Dennis, that they could never do what we've done, but it isn't us who are the true warriors. It is the children, each of them, who didn't choose any of this. None of them did. They followed along with what God told their parents to do, and then opened their hearts in the best ways they knew how. They've each lost, but they've gained so much too. These little warriors are my heroes.

Finding a place

The dust has settled, like we're finally stumbling out to see the aftermath of what once felt like a terrible storm. In some ways it feels like stitching back together the tattered pieces of a quilt. In other ways it feels like walking out to victory.

Today was our first Christmas with our little girl, who a year ago, was a perfect stranger to us. It was lovely- a distant cry from where we were just a few months ago. The past few weeks I've been thinking about it all- the highs and lows of the roller coaster we've been on.

I'm part of a large online adoption community where I've been following the journeys of several adoptive families. As I read of some of their struggles, I can't help but feel a sense of guilt. For all the challenges we've been through, compared to the challenges of other adoptive families, we've had it easy. Incredibly so. In so many ways I feel like we hit the adoption jackpot. She fits into our family seamlessly, like a glove. It's this realization that makes me feel weaker than I thought I was as I reflect on how much I've struggled. She is a treasure- a priceless one, and I shutter to think what life would be like had we never said yes to bringing her home. But what got us to this point was going blindly down a path with lots of guessing and hoping... hoping that I wasn't screwing things up too badly.

__________________________

She stood there, staring at me in disbelief and I almost lost my nerve.

No, I told myself, follow through. I motioned again for her to take the backseat.

She narrowed her eyes but obeyed. Her face turned to stone and she clenched her jaw in defiant silence as she turned to look out the backseat window. I took a deep breath and sat in the front seat.

I felt sick and completely unnerved. I looked at Dennis for reassurance and he nodded quietly. She had only been home for a couple of weeks and still struggled with carsickness every time she traveled in a car. We had been having her take the front seat since it helped minimize the nausea, and now I was booting her to the backseat so I could sit in the front. It felt awful because I knew. I knew I had no idea what I was doing, that I was bluffing my way through it.

I had been sensing over the past few days that my attempts at being seen as gentle and understanding were being perceived as being weak and insecure. Bonding and attachment had been taking a steady downhill turn and I couldn't help but wonder if that was why. Our little girl can be quite intimidating when she wants to be, and truth be told, had intimidated me several times up to that point.

We had reached a crux. Either I was to be the perpetual weakling or I was to take my place as the leader of the pack- the alpha- and I was risking a puking kid in my backseat to prove it, but I knew I had to do it.

As she sat staring out the window, I could tell she had completely shut down again and that it would probably last for hours.... and it did. Her shut downs are hard on me. The silence, the emotional distance- it kills me.

But then something unexpected happened. After several hours, she pulled out of it and was different than she was before. Oddly enough, she smiled more that night, laughed more, and seemed strangely content- like an assurance had washed over her.

As the weeks and months went on, I saw this pattern reemerging time and time again. I'd comfortably slide out of alpha role, and bonding and attachment would suffer. We'd struggle through a few days of muck before realizing that I needed to tighten the slack, and our relationship would improve almost immediately. With each episode we'd be better than before. I would have to remember to occasionally fluff my feathers for things to continue to improve. It seemed like the strangest phenomenon.

Sometimes I'd "alpha" over the most trivial of things to pull her out of it- like how far away from me she was allowed to walk when we were in public- but it was too much of an obvious pattern to ignore. The stricter I was- even on the littlest of things- the safer she seemed to feel and the happier she was. I was learning a side of parenting I had neglected to notice with my biological children- that for some children there's a comfortable security that comes with what feels like militaristic parenting.

It isn't easy work for either of us though. At times we've locked horns for hours, sometimes day. There have been tears and frustration, but each time I see her blossom brighter than before. Today she shines brighter than ever before. As I write this, she came in to check on me from working with her dad on her new puzzle. She smiled and patted my shoulder, asking how I was doing and if I needed anything. She is a sweetheart beyond belief.

My little girl has been riding a roller coaster of uncertainty and grief for the past 12 years of her life, and finally there is a seat belt around her little lap, holding her in tight. She can finally be the child and enjoy the ride, letting someone else take care of her for a change, instead of always having to look out for herself. I pray that someday along this ride she'll be able to see with bright eyes what her place in this world really is.

And what a place in this world she has.

Working for love

There's something whispered quietly about among few mothers, spoken with hushed voices in private conversations. Heads hanging in shame, feeling broken by the impossibility of it. I struggled with it for two years feeling guilt and failure any time I said the words outloud. 

But now as I look back, I see the wonder of it woven into the grand plan that has led us to where we are. My struggle served a purpose, a vital one that had I avoided, would have never brought us to one of the greatest blessings of our life, and for that I will always be grateful.

I didn't bond with my own biological child for what seemed like a very long time.

Even seeing the words written, it's uncomfortable- like they should never be given a voice. But I've learned something recently; that saying things outloud loosens their grip and weakens their power. It allows for beauty to blossom from what was once our deepest shame.

My little Mila. Things were difficult from the beginning with her- different than the others. A difficult pregnancy with physical limitations affecting me to the point of incapacity long after she was born. At one point, I remember crawling across the kitchen on hands and knees to retrieve something from the sink, the pain in my back so intense. Born into one of the most stressful time in our lives with a discontent personality, her arrival was rough. For a long time after she was born there were lots of tears, both hers and mine.

She didn't seem to love me the way my other children did. She rarely wanted me, and when she finally allowed me to hold her in my arms, she screamed and clawed at me to get away. Rejection coming from anyone is difficult, but from a child I had birthed? It was devastating. It felt like the bitterest of failures. It was all the hard work of motherhood but with what felt like none of the rewards.

For months I prayed that a bond would grow between us- that some day she would learn to love me and I her. But the line between me and heaven seemed silent as the struggle went on, month after month. What was I supposed to be learning from this? I had no idea.

I had heard mothers whisper about struggling to bond with their child but never understood it. How was it possible for a mother and child not to bond? It had disturbed me in the past to hear about it, but now even more so as I lived through it. How did they survive? Now I knew. One day at a time.

I would watch other mothers with their infants and toddlers, and feel pangs of jealousy and grief. My daughter didn't love me that way. She was our last biological child and in a selfish way I felt cheated. I was missing out on the most rewarding part of the sleepless nights and diaper changes. What was wrong with my child? What was wrong with me?

When she was about 7 months old, we began sensing the first whisperings of adoption. It felt crazy. I was still struggling to bond with my own child, and now we were thinking of trying to bond with an adopted older child whom we had never met? But when we prayed about it, I felt peace. In a way that only the heart can understand, I realized over time that Mila's mission had been to prepare my heart. She was training me to love, to serve someone with no strings attached, to understand that sometimes love has to be sought after and planted on what feels like desolate ground.

When we brought Hengxin home, my heart was steeled for the possibility that things might not go as planned, having already been through months of tough love with my biological child. What at times might have felt like catastrophic rejection from our newly adopted daughter, was softened by my experiences with my biological daughter.

And then one of the many miracles that we've witnessed began to unfold with Mila. It began with her resting her head against my shoulder for the first time. She was almost two years old and I was shocked at the unexpected affection. Eventually came the unsolicited hugs, and then came the sweetest moment of all- one that I had missed and yearned for for so long- a kiss. After the age of two, she finally did what my other children had done at 6 months old. And in true Mila spirit, it wasn't gentle or sweet, but fierce and hurried as she grabbed me by my hair and yanked me towards her in a firm and tight-lipped smooch. But it was the first and I relished it. A tide was turning with her, and it was one I had wondered if it would ever come. Those first kisses and snuggles, although rough and hurried, were sweeter with her than they were with the others. I had missed them deeply.

We spend much of our day together now, just the two of us since the rest of the kids are in school, and how I soak up our days. She's still Mila- fierce, obstinate, and wildly independent- but I drink up our time together, like we are making up for lost time. And her favorite thing? Planting me with kisses at the most unexpected moments. There are still tantrums (lots of them), power struggles, and meltdowns, but how I adore her wittiness, her sass, and her charm. I cherish her with all my heart. Yes, love can blossom in desolate ground. I've seen it happen with two of my children now.

I can never thank God enough for the wild little nymph He sent our family with the ear-splitting lungs. Without her, I would have never taken the leap to commit to loving a child across the ocean that I had never met. It was because of her that I learned to love differently. I learned that sometimes love takes time to grow, and that's okay. Love isn't broken if it has to be worked for and prayed for. Sometimes what once feels like an empty void, blossoms into the sweetest of bonds- sweeter than if it had come without effort. The Architect has a master plan for us, preparing us long before we see what's coming in the horizon. Uncomfortable and painful at times, but so worth it.

After the storm

I'm not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the awkward line of bonding and attachment, it did. I looked at this child, who just months ago was a complete stranger and realized I couldn't imagine life without her.

I'm not sure how it is for other adoptive families, but for me, creating a familial bond with someone who we had received custody over literally ten minutes after meeting her for the first time and almost a dozen years after she was born, was anything but natural.

I remember driving home from the airport after landing in Boise, my newest daughter climbing the walls of the minivan- delirious from exhaustion and anxiety from the long flight. My children, who had waited at the arrival gate excitedly with balloons and banners now watched her anxiously, unsure of who or what we had just brought home from China. She gruffly muttered a bluestreak of frustration as she yanked on her seatbelt, looking out the window at what was now be her home. She looked anything but excited.

I remember staring out the window sullenly at the gray afternoon in early March. We were finally home with the daughter whom we had fought for for a year and half, literally shedding blood, sweat and tears for- and all I felt was an overwhelming sense of loss, like someone or something had just died.

What was wrong with me? I should have been ecstatic but all I wanted to do was go back in time to the day I first felt the stirrings that adoption was part of our path and choose the other way- like the Choose-Your-Own Adventure books I used to read when I was a kid. Except this wasn't the path I would have ended the book on.

The next few days were like having an awkward relative in the house that was there to stay. I can barely remember the daze of those first few weeks, hung over with jet lag and the fear of wondering if the robotic voice of Google Translate would forever echo the walls of our home. I hated that voice and what it represented- the concrete barrier that stood immovably between me and my new daughter.

Yes, something had died. My former life of relative simplicity was gone forever and I ached for it more than I ever thought I would. My sweet little family of seven was now an awkward family of eight.

How I wish I could go back to the terrified woman I was 5 1/2 months ago, and tell her to trust- trust that it would all be worth it. Not just in a far and distant time, but soon. I would tell her not to underestimate the power of Him whose errand we were on. I would remind her that the greatest of God's miracles were not raising the dead or calming the seas, but the changing of hearts. And how my heart would change.

I would tell that terrified woman a few things that might get her through another day- that within 5 short months her daughter's health would stabilize and the craziness of surgeries and endless visits to specialists would soon subside. She would learn English quickly, astounding everyone around her. Her younger sisters- especially little Beasty- would adore her, and everyone who met her would fall in love with her. She would become my most reliable helper in the home and she would learn to love hugs. She would teach my other children a thing or two about obedience and hard work. She would eagerly call me mama and seek me out each night for a bedtime hug. Her self-protective walls of stoicism would eventually come down and she'd tearfully look to us for comfort when she was sad or lonely. But most of all, I would tell that terrified woman that the day would come when my heart would swell with love when I think of my little girl.

But these things won't come cheaply, I would add. They'll be won- each and everyone of them through painful persistence, awkwardness, and prayer. Lots of awkwardness and lots of prayer. I would tell that woman from 5 1/2 months ago that there will be plenty more days ahead when I will wish we had never done this. It will be the hardest thing I've ever done. That any of us have ever done. But I would tell her to remember that all anger is born of grief. All of it, and most of it cuts more deeply than anything I could ever imagine. I would tell her that some of her biological children will lash out in anger as well as they also grieve the life they lost and the perceived loss of a mother. There would be slamming doors and angry tears, and one child would even try to run away. But to take them in my arms and try to love them the best I could in my own imperfect way. And then the walls- the ugly ones we had all put up to protect ourselves- would begin to crumble one by one.

But, trust. I would tell her to trust in those undeniable promptings that led them to her and, most of all, to keep going. I would remind her what Gordon B. Hinckley said, "that what appears today to be a sacrifice will prove instead to be the greatest investment you will ever make."

I watched Hengxin sit at the counter for two hours on Monday afternoon, intently working on an essay her teacher had given her to complete after her first day of school. Hunched over her tiny composition notebook she carefully tried to describe, in broken English, what the first day of school felt like to her: scared, anxious, excited. After two hours, she proudly showed me the full page she had written. I was so proud of my little girl. Yes, the day would soon come when my feathers would fluff over her accomplishments like the proud mother hen I am towards my biological children. I would tell that woman that I would soon be able to take this little girl in my arms and not feel like I was hugging a stranger.

I've often made the mistake of believing that once the cloudy mists of trials pass come the sunny days of ease. But that's never the case. There will always be challenges. Always. And if the storms seem to have subsided for a while, then it's to gather strength for our next one. But I think what the past 5 1/2 months has taught me, is that no matter the darkness, no matter the discouragement, the storm clouds will pass and we'll catch glimpse of what that investment is that we're making. And it will all be worth it, not only in the end, but now.

Self-Pity and Ingratitude

Yesterday I had an ample supply of self-pity. So many tiny little reasons. None of them hugely significant- just a hundred little things, all stacked on top of each other like tiny little Legos, into a huge pity pot.

And there I sat most of the evening, perched on top my Lego pity pot, a complete bear to the people who love me the most and judge me the least.

Oi.

I woke up this morning feeling a little better but still, groggy from a bad night's sleep of terrible and disturbing dreams. Hengxin and I were sitting in the back of a speeding pick-up trying to flee. I could hear them in the distance, witches cursing and howling for her blood. The sound made my skin crawl. She hid her head in my shoulder, weeping and trembling in fear. I wrapped my arms around her and promised her I would give my life before ever letting anything happen to her.

I walked around the house, trying to shake off the eeriness of the dream. As I wandered into the kitchen, my mind went back to Monday morning. I had taken Hengxin to the grocery story with me, and asked her if she wanted to learn how to make my favorite treat: chocolate chip cookies- the kind made of mostly butter and sugar, and only a little bit of flour. With bright eyes she laughed and adamantly nodded. As I washed the cookie sheets that evening, not a cookie left to be seen, I thought of all those dirty cookie sheets represented.

An abundance of food.

Electricity for both heating an oven and cooling a house.

Clean water to drink and wash dishes with.

The joy of watching my new daughter's face as she tried a chocolate chip cookie for the first time.

Time spent building treasured memories.

So many things to be grateful for.

Leading up to Hengxin's 12th birthday, we had a difficult week- probably triggered by the significance of the day. With many of China's abandoned children, their birthdates are set by the date of abandonment since their actual birthdates are usually unknown. So, along side balloons and birthday cake, come terrible memories of a day that she remembers well. To "celebrate" the day that forever changed her life is the cruelest of ironies. It was a difficult week of angry grief for her and I was usually the target.

But when the day finally came, she put a smile on her face and handled the gathering of friends and family graciously. My brave girl. Since that difficult week, we seem to have turned a corner, a new level of trust seeming to have blossomed. She laughs more easily. She becomes frustrated less. She tries harder to speak English. She's more patient and tries harder to find ways to be helpful around the house.

So many things to be grateful for.

A firm diagnosis, with an upcoming surgery that should help control her symptoms.

A biological child who I was finally able to get through to in seeing the bigger picture of adoption.

A daughter who will remained unnamed (*cough* Mila *cough*) who is gradually trading in a few of her wild ways for humor and charisma.

A job that lets me have summers off with my children.

A sweet family friend who is living with us to help us navigate the next few months of surgeries.

A church group that has embraced my daughter with open arms.

When I think of how I felt yesterday- feeling so sorry for myself with the mounting medical bills and the losing battle I'm fighting to find time to take care of myself- I realize that when it really comes down to it, self-pity is just an unwillingness to yield to gratitude.

The proverbial cup that overfloweth, has some holes in it, and depending on the day feels like it's leaking more than it's filling. But when I take a few steps back, I realize how amazing the process really is. That my leaky cup is the one I wanted for myself but not necessarily the one God has in mind. That just beyond it- surrounding it- another cup is forming. Stronger and sturdier, and with a greater capacity to hold. And even as the leaky cup disintegrates and the greater cup builds, both continue to overflow.

The painful work of grief and love

I've really struggled with blogging lately- struggling to find the balance between honesty and over-sharing. I've started countless blog posts and then deleted them, unable to find the words. I know a lot of what I write is heavy and most people don't want the heavy version, but I feel compelled to write and to share, not for any sort of self-promotion but for understanding and compassion, mostly within myself and for my daughter. It's a lonely road that few have walked, with friends and acquaintances often keeping a weary distance. So often the talk of bonding and attachment with an older child is vague and white-washed, at times unrevealing of any sort of struggle for years following. I don't believe that does anyone any favors. I write with the intent of Hengxin being my primary reader as she gets older, and try my best to avoid writing anything that I don't think she would want disclosed. That being said, please consider yourself fully disclosed. :)

______________________________

She spoke and laughed easily with her sister and as she did, she rested her hand on my knee. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It told me how far we have come in the past three months. Just a few hours before we had been working through another dark pit of grief, and now she was smiling and relaxed. Each time, we seem to come out of it a bit better and a bit closer.

If there's one thing the last few months has taught me, it's how little I really knew about grief or about love.

Grief isn't always what many of us imagine it to be- the images of a child crying in the night or the mother sorrowing over a lost child. Perhaps it's because these images draw us in, instead of push us away, that we are more comfortable with them. These images evoke tenderness and sympathy, a yearning to comfort. But grief, I've learned, is so much more. It's at times despondence, it's blaming, it's guilt, and sometimes it's confused and angry tears. It's messy, uncomfortable, and hard for even the griever to identify. It both pushes away and yearns for closeness. It's awkward. It's painful. It's rigorous work. And there is no easy fix. 

We see pieces of that grief almost every day. Sometimes in small fragments, sometimes in icebergs. 

This past weekend I attended my brother's master's graduation ceremony and thesis presentation. His thesis was on complicated grief and melancholia. As he presented, he talked about those who were well-acquainted with grief, some enduring a lifetime of complicated grief. I thought of my little girl. She has endured more grief in the past 12 years than most will endure in a lifetime; and considering it all, how amazingly well and dignified she holds that grief. But still, it's not an easy burden for her to bear. 

We've read books and taken courses, and yet I don't think anything could have ever really prepared us to meet the grief head-on with full confidence and assurance. But it's most certainly present and I can't help but believe that grief is perhaps meant to be a part of life because it's often by traveling down the road of grief that we learn the most about ourselves.

And along with her grief, I've discovered a grief of my own, albeit only a tiny portion when held in comparison to hers. A grief for a simplicity of life that will likely never be mine. A grief for things that have resurfaced from the past. A grief that the life I once lived has been replaced with doctor's offices and waiting rooms. A grief for the woman I want to become, but who always seems out of reach.

Through it all, it has been amazing to watch love- a new love- flowering alongside the wasteland of grief.

Nor is love, I have also learned, what it had once seemed. I had once believed that love is a natural inclination for us all, something that would come easily strolling in if we simply opened the door. Of all the things I had worried about before she came home, the ability to love was not one of them.

Yet again, I have learned how wrong I was. Love has to be earned and worked for. It has to be prayed for, sought after, and then inexhaustibly nourished. It has to be shown even when- no... especially when- it's not felt. I've come to more clearly understand why the Savior insisted on serving those He loved. He knew what I have only recently come to understand- that love and service are inextricably linked.

We've all had to work towards love- her, perhaps, more than any of the rest of us. Sympathy and affection, while wonderful elements of human emotion that often propel us towards things like adoption, are not the same as love. They may drive us to action, but are woefully inadequate in navigating the mountains and valleys of a long-term relationship.

Almost daily people ask how things are going with our growing family. I always hesitate, looking for an answer. Do I tell them what I think they want to hear? That everything is wonderful? That our house is bursting at the seams with joy? That it's not as hard as people told us it would be?

Or do they really want to know, I wonder? That it's hard... like, really hard sometimes? That I've never done anything harder or doubted my abilities more? 

But then I want to tell them not to feel sorry for us because hard is okay... because these are the things that make the good days seem even better, and these are the things that make us stronger- stronger than we ever knew we could be.

This photo, though seemingly unrelated, was taken early one morning while the children slept. We had a busy day on deck, full day of doctor appointments and lab draws. I wanted desperately to remember, and perhaps carry with me, some of the serenity I felt at the moment that would so soon be gone. And it helped. We got through another day, just like we do every day, and came out stronger in the end.

Learning to Dance

A couple of weeks ago, I came to the hard realization. I need help.

I was sitting in the doctor's office listening to him tell me about Hengxin's condition and what it would mean for the rest of her life. My head was spinning with implications. So much has happened and so much is still yet to come. The endless doctor visits, the mounting medical bills, thinking of all the other areas in my life that are suffering and neglected, feelings of guilt... it was all crashing in at once. All of the sudden I felt like I was floating- but with weights pounding in my head. My ears started ringing, and my fingers and lips were tingling. 

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a deep fog, tears coming several times throughout the day. After dinner, I withdrew into my room and fell into a deep sleep for several hours. I awoke to a darkened house. The kids were in bed and the house was quiet except for the sound of Dennis feeding the dog and closing up for the night.

"I need help, Dennis. I can't keep doing this on my own," I told him as we sat in the darkened dining room. I had said this in the past, but this time I meant in a way I never had before.

In every way, Dennis is my better half. I could never ask for him to be more. I'm beginning to think that he's quite possibly the inspiration for the romantic hero in Nicholas Sparks' books- as well as MacGyver, Spiderman, and the Hulk, all rolled into one. He gives everything he has, exhausting himself trying to help in anyway he can; but because of the reality that he needs to hold a full-time job to support the family, the heaviest part of handling Hengxin's medical issues has landed with me.

I don't know what I've been trying to prove for so long or why I thought I had to do it all. Maybe to prove to all the naysayers and everyone who warned me that this would be hard that I could pull it all off seamlessly- that we could emerge unscathed. But that's just not the case. We were never meant to be islands, and what we think are circling sharks are actually lifeboats, just waiting for us to say the words, "I need help."

So, I started getting that help in different areas of my life. None of this to get a better life, but simply to help clean off my looking glass, and to allow myself to see the beautiful life that I already have.

I once heard the relationship between a parent and a child described as an intricate dance: two people learning to move and sway in sync with each other. When child cries out, mom steps forward to comfort. When mom uses that tone of voice, child steps back knowing she means business. It's an ebb and flow of sorts as they learn to anticipate and react to each other's subtleties, each rhythm unique to each parent and child. With my biological children, that dance began when they were in the womb. By the time they were born, we had already been dancing for nine months. 

With Hengxin, that dance began just two and a half months ago. Dennis pointed out the other night, that we still know so little about her. What was her life like in the orphanage? What else does she remember about her birth family? What's going on in her mind behind those beautiful almond-shaped eyes? We have so much making up to do... so much lost time.

That day in the doctor's office, she shut down again as the interpreter told her some of the medical things that were coming down the pipe for her. She rolled over on the exam bed so she wouldn't have to look at us, and the tears began to flow. As I moved towards her to comfort her, the interpreter, a Chinese woman we have come to love and trust, advised that I give her space and back off.

For a split second I was torn. She knows Hengxin's birth culture better than I do. Hengxin was not taught to display or react to emotional gestures the way I do. Maybe she was right. I hesitated, wondering if I should listen to someone, who in many ways, probably knows more about my daughter than I do.

"Screw it," I thought. That's not how I dance. I went over and hugged her and stroked her head. "Things will get easier. This has been hard, but you have been strong," I told her. I knew she didn't understand what I was saying, but I needed her to know that when she cried, mom would come.

And I'm learning to dance as well... to the reality of my new life- one that involves a lot of jumping between lifeboats and remembering that the music was not given to us so we could dance alone. Nor were we meant to dance with gritted teeth and white-knuckles, but to embrace the music for what it is: crazy, messy, and unpredictable; but intricate and amazing, and full of beauty.

And what a beautiful little dancer my girl is turning out to be.

She called me "mama"

There's something about being exhausted that makes me want to sit down and write, I think to try to sort it all out. We've been in doctor's offices and waiting rooms all day. Aside from two thyroid scans, we were evaluated for the worst double ear infection I've ever seen, and an arm fractured in two places from four-wheeling- all for Hengxin. Poor girl! Trying to keep Mila contained and acting semi-human for that long was a task of Biblical proportions in itself- like trying to feed Cheerios to a cross between a wet cat and T-Rex. So yes, I'm tired and my nerves are raw.

The other day someone said to me, "You're a strong person. I don't think I could ever do what you're doing. I'm just not that type of person."

I was embarassed. If I have ever made it seem like I am "that type of person," then I have been unintentionally but terribly deceiving, because "that type of person" is certainly not me. Sure, I have my moments, but that's all they are... moments. And sometimes, when I'm in a good place, those moments are longer and closer together, but usually they're sporadic and unpredictable. Hopefully some day those moments will all string together and I will in fact become "that person," but that woman is still light years away.

My children will tell you that I've taught them lots of things: how to say "thank you" and to respect all life, from the tiny ant to the huge oak tree. They've learned tolerance, tidyness, and how to work hard. They've learned that true beauty comes only within- that anything else is superficial and fleeting.

But I've also taught them other things- many of them not so stellar. I've taught them that 8:30pm is the witching hour when nice moms turn into momsters. They've heard me say (and then repeated) a few four-letter words. And I've taught them - no, shown them- that people can be selfish, short-sighted, and impulsive.

In the few years that they'll live under my roof, my children will see both the best and the worst of human nature, all from the same person- their mother.

On Tuesday Hengxin called me "mama" for the first time. She said it casually, without even looking up, as she called for me to help her with an English assignment.

I answered equally non-chalantly, but inside my heart wanted to burst. She called me mama! I had been waiting and wondering how long it would take. Two months and two days.

I think of the vulnerability it took for her to call me mother. So recently I was nothing more than a complete stranger. What if she called out for me and I scolded her that I was not her mama? What if I told her I was only a mama to my biological children? What if I hadn't answered? I can only imagine. It would have been crushing. But once again, my brave girl stepped up to the plate and took a risk, and I was amazed by her.

But man... I sure hope she knows that she's not getting a fairy godmother version of a mama- that I'm just a 34 year-old kid, still trying to get my crap together. That everyday I pray for the strength to do and to be what I'm utterly incapable of being on my own. As Mother's Day approaches this year, I'm grateful for the greatest gift I've ever been given: the beautiful little souls God gifted me that have helped me so clearly unearth both my short-comings and my potential.

But I guess that's both the beauty and the beast of motherhood. We will never- can never- be everything we should, and somehow these amazing little people still love us and call us mama.

Imperfect Child

Today marks one month that HengXin offically became a part of our family. This past week has been both beautiful and rough. With HengXin battling constant low-grade fevers and brutal insomnia, she has felt utterly miserable. She has become weary of taking the new medications since the promise of feeling better has proved to be anything but true. If anything, she has felt worse since starting them.

The stress is starting to catch up with me as well. The possible diagnoses they're throwing out are scary and overwhelming. The magnitude of how our lives have and will continue to change is hitting me like a ton of bricks. It was a long morning of doctor's appointments and testing, and it's looking like this might become part of a new norm for us, at least for the forseeable future. I had a good cry this afternoon and felt better.

From the first day we started looking into adoption, it has been a rollercoaster, with both amazing vistas during the highs, and intensely discouraging valleys during the lows. Coming home has been no different. 

As sweet as she is, she manages to push buttons and trigger insecurities I never even knew I had. Almost constantly throughout the day, a silent dialogue is running through my head.

It's from having lived in an orphanage.

It's cultural.

She's never been taught differently.

She's grieving.

Don't take it personally.

This isn't about you.


...But even knowing these things, it's still tiring.

Thankfully my little girl seems to feel a close bond to me and Dennis, and seems content to be within arm's reach of me at almost any time of day. Hugs are beginning to be something she enjoys, and readily embraces us several times each day. For someone, like me, who loves physical affection but also needs her space, the constant physical closeness has been both a blessing and a challenge.

Earlier this week I had to go for a jog to decompress. After a long day of eye-rolling and typical pre-teen attitude, I needed some space and a break... a four mile break. Dennis talked to her about how mom gets tired and needs a rest sometimes. And sometimes mom feels sad and overwhelmed.

I returned home at dusk to an eager little girl awaiting me at the gate. She eagerly hugged me, pointed out the beautiful colors of the sunset, and led me inside to a surprise she had prepared for me. Banana slices- cut in the shape of a heart- with Skittles sprinkled on top, a tall glass of water, and marshmallow Peeps were neatly arranged on a plate. Sitting next to it, the stuffed animal she had bought me in China, with the bracelet we had worked together on in the hospital. Oh.... that girl. How does she do it? One moment I want to rock in a corner, banging my head against the wall, and the next moment my heart is a melted puddle on the floor.

One of her favorite ways to unwind is to sing along to Chinese music videos. The sounds of a prepubescent Chinese boy band are heard throughout the house almost any time of day. I love hearing her sing along, though it's usually the same song over and over and over ...and over again. 

After my tearful mini-meltdown today, I came home from work to find her listening to her song again. She brought me the phone and pointed to the screen, indicating that she wanted me to watch the video. She had found a version of her song on Youtube with the lyrics translated into English. The song was titled, "Imperfect Child."

As I finally understood the words to the song she had sung along to, dozens of times each day, my tears again flowed freely. But this time the tears were different. I couldn't believe this was what I had been hearing all along. She eagerly watched me and then smiled, asking if I liked the song.

Did I like it? Are you kidding me? I gave her a big hug. I love it. Now, please excuse me while I mop up the puddle on the floor that used to be my heart.

When my smile shines like the sun

When my dreams are bright enough

The whole world will applaud me

But only you worry that I will get hurt

While the whole world waits for me to fly higher

Your heart hurts for my tiny wings

You support me

And give me a place to rest

When I need to seem like a perfect child

And fulfill everyone's expectations

Yet it seems you don't mind

The sight of my foolish mistakes

My imperfect dreams 

You think about with me

My imperfect courage

You tell me to be strong

My imperfect tears

You wipe with your smile

My imperfect songs

You sing each one

My imperfect worries

You worry about each one

This imperfect me

You treat like a treasure

The love you give me is not perfect

But is most beautiful

The whole world is rushing me to grow up

But you hold me tightly in your arms

And shelter me from unknown storms

When I work hard to be a perfect child

And fulfill everyone's expectations

You don't tell me all your wishes

Fearing the weight on my shoulders

The love you give me is not perfect

But is most beautiful

No longer just the nice lady

Tomorrow marks three weeks that HengXin will have been a part of our family. In some ways it has flown by and in other ways it seems like the days have crawled by. In many ways, having her as felt like having a newborn again, and I seem to have much less time and sleep than I did before, but I am eternally grateful to have her in our family. As I write this, my eyes well up with tears at my gratitude to God for having led us to her. She truly is a special girl and I love her dearly.

We had so many friends and family praying for a smooth flight home, that I realize I need to follow up on how it went, as I know their prayers and faith were what brought us home in one piece.

I had quite a bit of anxiety leading up to our flight because of her history of motion sickness and how she had shut down for us a handful of times in the past. I had prayed that God would grant us yet another miracle- that she would handle the flight home well and not shut down until after we got home.

On the first leg of the trip from Guangzhou to Shanghai she did amazing- thrilled at the take-off, and marveling at the city and tiny cars below. The newness of the experience seemed exciting and exhilarating to her, enough that she wasn't affected by motion sickness. Phew... Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. 

Soon after landing at the Shanghai airport, I could see her eyes hooding and growing distant. She stopped making eye contact and started increasing the walking distance between us. I had seen it enough times to recognize the warning signs. I looked in despair at Dennis and thought, Oh, no, no, no... We can't do this now!

We were in one of the busiest airports in the world, surrounded by a sea of quickly moving people. We had just spent an hour waiting for our luggage, only to realize that the airline had lost one of our suitcases- the one with all of our souvenirs and gifts. Our next flight was scheduled to leave in 30 minutes and we were frantically trying to check our remaining bags in through Seattle and make it through the long security line that seemed to be moving at a snail's pace... and she had just shut down. ...clamped down. She was no longer responding to me or Dennis and insisted on sitting on a curb around the corner from us, just out of sight.

I had to get through to her- desperately so. Again, I prayed silently for wisdom. Where in the past I had quietly given her space and time, that simply wasn't an option this time. I knew I needed to try something different so for the first time in the two weeks that she had been with us, I knelt in front of her, leveling our eyes, and used a tone that every child understands in their mother's voice. I knew she couldn't understand my words, but she watched my hand motions, heard the gravity in my voice and saw the seriousness in my face. I saw that she understood what I needed her to grasp.

"I know you're sad, and it's okay to be sad, but you have to say where Mama can see you. There are too many people and you will get lost."

Our battle of wills went back and forth for several minutes- her giving me death glares as I continued to insist that she stay where I could see her. She angrily motioned that she had no intentions of getting on the plane, that she was staying right where she was.

"What are you going to do?" I asked her exasperated. "Are you going to stay here alone in Shanghai, because Baba and I are getting on that plane."

With furrowed brows she begrudingly stood up, motioning that she would follow us and stay within sight, though she still maintained her distance.

As we stood in the agonizingly slow security line, I peaked over and saw her staring off in the distance. Huge crocodile tears were streaming down her face as silent sobs shuttered through her tiny body. I had seen her cry before but never like this. I reached over and hugged my grieving little girl, sure that she would push me off, but she stiffly stood still without pulling away. I stroked her head and told her I loved her. A thousand memories came flooding back, of me standing in the airport, with tears streaming down my face as my family moved to another country, yet again, leaving all of my friends behind. We did it so many times, and somehow it never got easier. My little girl was aching, and in a very small way I had felt some of her pain. I had to blink back my own tears at the painful memories. And yet, in an odd way, I was relieved to see the grief because it told me she understood.

Within minutes she was smiling and back to her cheerful self, having given her grief its space and time- as she should- and had moved on.

We ran full speed to our next flight and made it on the plane by the skin of our teeth. She sat down in her seat, out of breath and laughing at how frantic the airline attendants were to get us in our seats so we could take off. She was back.

The rest of the trip was wonderfully uneventful. She did amazingly well on the rest of the flights and seemed thrilled at the prospect of finally coming home to her forever family.

I think our relationship took a turn that day in the airport in Shanghai. I was no longer just the nice lady who took her to get ice-cream at the 7-Eleven and bought her gifts, but someone that cared about her enough to wag my finger at her and insist on her safety. Oddly enough, I think she found a strange sort of maternal comfort in that. Surely this is not the last we've seen of her grief, but it's something that I know must be met and embraced for what it is, each time it comes.

We are home- and I am so glad for it- but I realize now, more than ever, that our journey is just beginning.

Losing

Tenth place out of eleven. He was devastated. I could barely get him to even look at me. He had worked so hard on his pinewood derby car, designing it, sanding it, painting it, and carefully putting on what he was sure would be winning numbers. I don't remember him ever working so hard on something. He displayed it proudly on our kitchen window sill for a week before the derby, sure that he had a winner.

He asked me to come that night to watch him race while Dennis stayed home with Mila and put her to bed. I was flattered that he wanted only me there. Camden had won the derby last year, so the pressure was as high as it gets for a cub scout racing a rickety block of wood on wheels.

And then he lost over and over and over again. With each round, I could see his face becoming more and more dejected. I learned early on in his life that when he's disappointed, he becomes angry and withdrawn. I wrapped my arm around his shoulder as he stomped angrily out of the church building, tightly gripping his losing car. He slammed the van door and angrily turned his back towards me.

"I'm so sorry, bud. I know you're disappointed. How about we commiserate together? Let's stop at the gas station and get some hot chocolate."

We drove home mostly in silence sipping cheap hot chocolate.

Slowly he started talking. How he wasn't sure where he had gone wrong. What he'd do differently next year. How humiliated he felt. How he didn't know how he would tell his brother that he had lost. Mostly, I just listened.

That night as he went to bed, he gave me a long hug and looked at me for a long moment with those huge, beautiful, green eyes that melt women into puddles.

"Thanks for everything, Mom. Thanks for coming to watch me, even though I lost." And then the rare unsolicited, "I love you."

How I adore that little boy.

"You know, Luke... maybe losing wasn't so bad. If you hadn't lost, we wouldn't have gotten hot chocolate and we probably wouldn't have gotten the chance to talk like we did."

He gave me another long hug and I thought my heart was going to explode with tenderness for my sometimes-prickly little boy.

I thought of the past year and how it's brought me literally to my knees, time and time again. I've experienced more discouragement and frustration than I can ever remember experiencing in my life. And yet I think of how grateful I am for what it has done for my relationship with my own heavenly parent. My heart has come closer to God than it ever would have ever otherwise. And what I've discovered has changed me. I feel such tenderness for this person that I know is there but have never seen with my mortal eyes. This Father who weeps with me when I weep, and rejoices with me when I succeed. I wouldn't change this past year of hardship for a hundred years of ease.

Maybe, like with Luke, losing over and over again had really been better for me than winning.

I've never been one to ask for prayers, but they would be appreciated now. Very, very soon our little girl will be in our arms. At any given moment of the day I'm vacillating somewhere between exuberant anticipation and overwhelming nervousness. I think of the grief she will experience when she leaves her country and friends, and I want to weep. It will probably be one of the hardest things she will ever go through in her life. As we approach the finish line I realize that, really, it's just the beginning.

Lock down

We're on the countdown. Very soon we will be flying across the ocean to bring our little girl home. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I'm terrified. Terrified of rejection. Terrified that things will never be the same again. Terrified of the unknown. But I'd also be lying if I didn't say that there is also peace. Oddly so, and much of it.  And yet I try to imagine the day that we meet her, and my stomach twists up in nervous knots. I doubt I'll get a wink of sleep the night before.

I've lost count of the hundreds of miracles that have led us to where we are. Dennis and I talked about it for a long time last night- of how the Lord started preparing us for this long before we were even married, in tiny little ways that at the time seemed inconsequential but were quietly changing our hearts. We are as prepared as we can possibly be and, at the same time, woefully unprepared. I don't think we can ever be fully prepared for what the Lord has in store for us. Preparation and obedience... and then finally, faith. I think that's as much as the Lord ever expects from any of us. We've completed the first two steps, and now we are riding the final wave. Faith.

The last few months have felt like preparing for a hurricane. Essentially, we've gone into lock down. We pray that the storm will never come, but we are metaphorically boarding up and hunkering down for the long haul, just in case it does. I closed the door on my photography business and I've gotten in my final hurrahs with my friends. As Dennis wrote about in his previous blog post, he asked to be released from his church callings, as did I. We both know that we need to turn our complete attention and energy onto our little family in every possible way, without any distractions. But even with that sure knowledge that we needed to do this, it has brought with it surprising grief- grief of letting go of serving in a church that we both love. But for the time being, our calling is elsewhere- a calling that we both accepted almost a year ago.

We have been working on learning some basic Mandarin, which in case you were wondering, has to be one of the most difficult languages to learn. My Mandarin is atrocious- comically so. I installed Google Translate onto my phone and tried out my newly acquired words that I was so proud of, only to realize that Google didn't even recognize my speech as Mandarin. I thought my kids were going to die laughing when they saw the app's confusion as it tried to figure out what I was saying. I'm crossing my fingers that our little girl has both an abundance of patience and humor.

Our family also started seeing a family therapist in preparation for the changes coming to our family. She has been wonderful and has given them some helpful tools to help us know how to be assertive, compassionate, and when to ask for help. What a blessing our therapist has been for us already.

Her bedroom is ready. The linens are freshly washed and clothes are hanging in her closet. She has only seen a handful of pictures of us and we've only seen a few pictures of her, along with a two-minute video clip. Her adoption file is confusing, vague, and at times, self-contradicting. That's it. That's all we know of each other, and still I love her fiercely.

We pray for her every night- that her heart will be prepared. That courage will defeat fear... in all of us. That we will be blessed with patience and understanding as she grieves the life that she knew and the people she loved. But we are not alone in this. Angels, both seen and unseen, are shoring us up. They have been all along the way and I know they won't abandon us now.

My New Calling

Before you all get excited that Rita has posted a new blog post, I’ll spoil it for you and let you know that this is her husband this time around.  Like many of you, I’m a big fan of Rita’s blog posts and realize that I can never be as eloquent as she is with words.  However, I’ve felt strongly over the past while that I needed to write down my experiences with adopting our daughter, and a few things happened to me today that solidified my resolve to document my feelings and my experiences.

Nearly seven years ago I was called to the stake young men’s presidency, accepting the new calling with a level of frustration and a heavy heart.  You see, I poured my heart and soul into the young men’s program in my own ward, and now I was being torn away.  It was with great difficulty that I accepted the call, but determined to see the silver lining, I realized that now I would be able to have a greater level of influence as I could work to ensure that the other eight wards in my stake had trained leaders, and programs that would help mold and build great young men.  I’ve served as the stake young men’s president for the past three years, but today, I was released.  I asked to be released, and as I listened to the new members of the stake young men’s presidency, my heart sank.  They had just called a young men’s leader from my own ward to be the new first counselor.  A leader who was dedicated to scouting, loved the young men in our ward, and who I wanted desperately to lead my own boys who are now just entering the program.  My heart was heavy laden, and I only became more saddened with feelings of guilt as I realized that because I had asked to be released, this man was now going through what I once did.  I began to second guess the clarity I had felt prompting my request to be released.  I became more saddened and hurt when good friends approached me during church and made comments like, ‘I bet your glad to be released from that prison’, ‘I see you’re all smiles while we’re all sad and angry that they just took our best scout leader’.  Even the newly called man indicated that he was not happy that he had been taken away from our ward.  For the next hour, I sat quietly weeping internally because I felt like my decision to be released from my calling as the stake young men’s president had angered and frustrated many of my friends.

I didn’t want to be released.  I loved my calling.  Over the past seven years, I’d poured my time, talents, and energy into the young men’s programs of my stake.  As I pondered this with increasingly heavy heart, I was comforted by the Spirit of the Lord as it spoke to my mind and gave me clarity.  It told me that I had accepted a new calling.  With complete clarity, my mind recalled all of the wonderful blessings that the Lord has given me and my family over the past year in preparation for our adoption, which is set to finalize in just a few weeks.  The Lord provided a way for us to build our wonderful home.  Rita was offered a part-time job as a school nurse that has a flexible work schedule, daycare option, and advisor that had recently returned from China after teaching English to Chinese students for two years. We were blessed to raise the funds necessary for all of the adoption expenses up until the last month, and as an answer to a sincere prayer and a family fast, an anonymous donor offered to fund the rest.  Just this past weekend Rita ran into my cousin at the store. After approaching Rita saying that she had felt prompted to speak with her, she explained that her husband had served his mission in Taiwan and is fluent in Mandarin.  He had just finished helping missionaries teach two recent converts the missionary discussions and wanted to help do the same for our daughter after she was home, something that we had been praying that we would be able to do with her, but weren’t sure how we would do it.

Then my mind went to the experience I had when we were looking for the right child to adopt after feeling inspired that we should do so.  Rita had searched and combed through hundreds of children’s profiles trying to ‘feel’ which child would be right for us.  Every time she thought she had found ‘the one’ I simply did not feel that same connection.  I began to wonder if something was wrong with me.  Why couldn’t I feel the same way?  I had reserved myself to think that the time was just not right, and I had tried to convince Rita of the same.  Then, out of the blue, Rita sent me the profile of a 10-year old girl.  I read her profile and felt good for the first time, but still unsure if she was the one.  That night I prayed, like so many nights before, that I would know and receive a confirmation that this girl was to be our daughter.  The next day as I sat in a meeting at work, my mind totally affixed on work related things, my mind became completely clear and I was miraculously blessed to have a witness, beyond any doubt, that she was to be my daughter.

As the church meeting closed, my heart was still heavy with the thoughts of what asking to be released from my calling had done to our ward and my friends.  But I had received a re-affirmation that I had been issued a new calling.  A calling to be the father to an abandoned now 11-year old orphan girl living on the other side of the world.  I had been issued this calling over a year ago, but the moment had just arrived that I needed to devote my time, talents, and energy into my family as I had done with my previous calling.  There is no doubt in my mind that we didn’t simply choose to adopt, we have been chosen to adopt, and the miracles that have happened in my life over the past year are a testament to that.  I know that the Lord is at the helm of my life, and I know that our ward will be blessed by this man’s acceptance of his new calling in the stake young men’s presidency.  If only we could see the results before we are asked to have faith…but that’s not part of the Plan.  In the meantime, I’ll pray for the leaders of our ward, and continue to have faith that those whom God calls He qualifies.  This is my testimony.

Dennis

Staggering news

I did a lot of crying on Monday evening. Anytime my mind went back to the phone call, the tears would start to fall. Dennis was the same. We walked around most of the evening with red, puffy eyes and wads of tissues. But these tears were different and our children weren't sure what to think. We had told them the news, but seeing our tears left them unsure if what had just happened was good or bad.

Around 4pm I got a call from a woman saying she was representing a law firm. My initial reaction a sinking feeling of dread. What now? I thought. Has someone filed a lawsuit against us for some reason? Surely this was going to be one more of a thousand obstacles we've had over the past year and I braced myself.

"I would like to inform you that a donor, who would like to remain anonymous, has heard about your adoption and would like to make a donation." She paused for a moment and then finished, "They would like to cover the remaining portion of your adoption costs."

I sat in silence completely dumb-founded. This had to be a mistake.We had only raised a little over half of the estimated costs, leaving a huge amount that we had figured would have to be covered by loans. We had spent the past several weeks trying to decide how best to secure the loans. To consider that someone would be willing to cover it was staggering.

I sat in silence, completely at a loss on how to break it to her that the cost was higher than they knew.

She must have guessed what was going through my mind because she then told me that the donor was aware that the remaining portion was quite large and that they were willing to cover it.

I fumbled for words but all that came out were unintelligible sounds. When the words finally did come, they were strangled off by shock and emotion.

The woman laughed and said, "That's okay, this is the fun part of my job." She gave me a few instructions and the call ended with me still in a daze.

When Dennis got home from work, his eyes filled with tears when I told him the news, and he walked quickly away. A moment later I saw him in our darkened room, kneeling at the side of our bed praying. When he came out of our room, we hugged and cried, and then cried some more.

We gathered our children, telling them the news and then knelt together in prayer to thank our Heavenly Father. Just the day before we had held a special family fast that somehow things would work out financially, but we had thought our prayers would be answered in the form of loans with low interest rates, and that was something we would have gratefully accepted.

I slept fitfully that night, partly still in disbelief and partly filled with feelings of guilt that this was being done for us. There are so many people more in need and more deserving than we are. And then I remembered that this was not only being done for us, but for a little girl who has waited for almost 12 years for a family to call her own.

I realize that our donor wants to remain anonymous, but I hope he or she reads this even though words are woefully inadequate at this point. I hope they feel our deep love for them even though we don't have a name or a face to attach to their actions. That night when we knelt together as a family, I prayed that the windows of heaven would be open and pour its blessings upon them. I pray I will never forget the way I felt that day- that if and when things become difficult after our little girl comes home, that I will remember that God has laced our journey with angels, both seen and unseen, all along our way. I will repay this debt somehow- I promise. You have my word on that.

This little girl is of infinite worth to our Heavenly Father. What else would explain the blessings followed by the opposition all along the way, as if heaven and hell have been engaged in a year-long tug of war. Things may continue to be difficult for us after she's home, but this week I realized that after all that has happened, heaven finally won. Our little girl will be home soon.

Forgetting God

The last few weeks have been a bit of a lull... a blessed lull. Well, relatively speaking. In our house nothing is ever really a lull, but they're as lull-ish as can be expected and my tired body has been drinking it up. It has been like surfacing for air after being underwater for too long. Afternoon cuddle time with Calista has once again resumed its rightful place in the universe and life again feels like it's closer to coming into balance.

Taking a break from fundraising so we could focus on our children wasn't an easy decision to make, especially knowing that we hadn't met our fundraising goal, but it was what we knew we needed to do. The cost of an adoption is much steeper than any dollar amount, and unfortunately no one knows this better than my children who have paid the highest price.

I've discovered that preparing for an adoption is in many ways like preparing for a marathon. Spending money on the right running equipment is only the beginning of what will get you to the finish line. The rest comes in countless hours and miles of preparation and we have so much preparation to do, mostly in the way of preparing those within the walls of our home.

I gave myself permission to shut out the vastness of the unknown, and just focus on what I do know- that God has blessed me with a more beautiful life than I could have ever hoped for. That regardless of the hardships that might come, I have known more clearly than I've ever known anything else that this is part of God's plan for me and my family. I gave myself permission to submit to the blind type of faith that the world rages against, and what sweet relief that has brought.

The past year has brought more challenges than we've ever had in our married life. Since we began the process, it seems like every area of our lives has been challenged. Satan has been on overdrive, pummeling our family from every possible angle- health problems, unexpected expenses, job challenges, fading friendships, strained family relationships. Dennis has said several times that the only other time in his life that he can remember being challenged this much was before he left to serve a mission. But as difficult as it has been, I've seen my children blossom into beautiful human beings- thoughtful and caring, hard-working and self-sacrificing. In the areas of our life that really matter, we have been blessed more abundantly than we've been challenged. It has been wonderful to be able to once again focus my days on the five beautiful little people that I get to raise and the wonderful man by my side, and shut out everything else.

A few nights ago I was going over our finances and was reminded how far we are from meeting our financial goals for this adoption. I don't regret for a minute taking the fundraising break that we did since our family needed it so desperately, but seeing the numbers made the all-too-familiar grip of discouragement begin taking its icy hold again. As I felt my mind darkening, I knelt in prayer and asked for the faith that has so often carried me through the past year.

But how distant God felt as I started to pray. It was like having an awkward conversation with someone I hadn't really talked to in a while. And here I came knocking, asking again for more. The lull that I had been enjoying for the past couple of months had made me more lax in my relationship with God. When I shut everything else out, I had also shut Him out without even realizing it. How grateful I am to those looming finances for bringing me to God again. I thanked Him for the hardships that had brought me so often to my knees over the past year and wondered why it's so hard for me to stay humble. Why do things in life have to be so hard for me to remember God? How quickly I forget Him when life becomes easy- but it's been struggling through the muck and the discouragment and despair that I have felt closer to God than I ever have before . I think of something James E. Faust quoted before he died, "The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay." And it's a privelege I would pay again and again.

Here are a few of our latest lovely lullish moments.

Without photo sessions to work on during the afternoons, this little lady and I get to spend a lot more time together.

Luke spent an hour assembling his Mila's shopping cart

A morning trip to Krispy Kreme

Calista falling asleep during our nightly reading of the BFG

Our little Cave Woman has decided that she is quite the comedian and keeps us laughing

Camden practicing the piano with Mila

When we became hers

Within days after submitting the list, our agency began sending us profiles of children who met our criteria. They sent three or four profiles per day to review, but still the process of elimination was painful. So many beautiful faces and so many stories of children who were desperately pleading for a family.

After a day or two, I emailed our case worker and told her how hard this was for me. How would I know when we came across the child who was meant to be ours? It felt like such blind selection. She encouraged me to be patient and reassured me that this part of the process often took many months. Along with her email, she had attached three more profiles.

I've come to believe that what draws a parent to an adoptive child during the selection process is a recognition of something- either within themselves or in someone they love. As I scanned the pictures, one little girl immediately caught my eye. It seemed like I was looking at my little Lauren: energetic and happy, but sweet and trusting... and absolutely beautiful. She was described as helpful, gentle, friendly, and thoughtful of those around her.

I sent her file on to Dennis, wondering if perhaps he would recognize it too. Immediately he responded and said he wanted to know more. I asked him if he had read in the profile about her special medical need. He had... it was the very special need that just days ago he had been so firm about not considering.

I was surprised but cautious of committing my hopes to another child. We had already looked at so many children and my hopes had been dashed so many times. There are so many children who will never know that they will always hold pieces of my heart.

We reviewed her file for a few days, but by this point I was mistrusting of my instincts. I told Dennis that because I felt so strongly that we were supposed to adopt, I didn't entirely trust my emotional compass. I needed his objectivity and emotional distance to help with this decision. This child would not be mine to raise- but ours- and without an unwavering committment from him, we would be setting ourselves up for well-intended, but certain disaster.

As I researched her condition, I presented Dennis with each unknown that we would potentially face. There was much, much more to consider than a three-word diagnosis; most of which we had never considered as being part of our life plan. I asked him to really put ourselves a year... five years... and ten years down the road. Were we really ready to do this?

And then one day after work, Dennis tearfully told me he had had a sacred experience, confirming to him that she was the one we were being led to. And just like that- as beautifully simple as that- he knew, and that was that. Once he knows something, he never looks back. How I wish I had his simple faith. We went to the temple to pray about it, but he had already received his answer. She was the one we were being led to and he was completely committed, and I had known for a long time that all I needed was his committment because my heart was already there.

Several weeks went by. Before we made public our plans to adopt, a few more things still needed to fall into place. A small part of me was still holding back. It felt surreal that after so many months of searching and praying, that we had finally decided to move forward. Like a bad dream, I was afraid Dennis would wake up one day and realize we had made a terrible mistake.

We had requested an update on our little girl, knowing that the file was several years old. The little girl in the referral picture looked to be about 7 or 8 years old, and by now she was almost 11.

The moment in time when we received the email with the update will always be frozen in time for me. We were standing in line to go into Disneyland when I heard the email notification on my phone and I read the subject line. This was it... with trembling hands, I clicked on the pictures.

I had to do a double-take. This wasn't the same little girl we had seen in the referral picture. She was more grown up. She had changed a lot in the years between the referral picture and the update. Her smile seemed more reserved, having lost much of the youthfulness from the first picture we had seen, though she was still beautiful.

In my mind, this was the moment. Up until now, I hadn't realized that part of my emotional reservation came from wondering if what had drawn Dennis to her was the recognition of Lauren. And she was her own person now- independent of any resemblance of Lauren. It became a stark reality that we would not be adopting the little girl, but a young woman quickly approaching notoriously difficult years... and completely unnavigated years at that. Would this change his mind? Would this be the moment when he would say it had all been a terrible mistake?

I leaned over and asked him if he would like to see an updated picture of our little girl. I watched him intently as he quietly studied the picture for a moment. And then with the tenderness of a father seeing his newborn baby for the first time, a smile came over his face.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

And that's when I finally let it sink in that this was really happening. With thousands of miles between us and with her having no awareness that we even existed, at that moment, for me she became ours and we became hers.