I went back to Virginia a few
years back to find work and help my parents as they prepared to move. I had
been unemployed for about a year and was taking whatever chances of employment
I could find at the time. Part of that was helping my parents sort through the
large collection they had amassed through the thirty-plus years living in the
area. I can’t completely lay it on them; much of what they had was from my
childhood.
Pulling out box after dusty
cardboard box, I found old comic books, Transformers, G.I. Joe and Star Wars figures I had acquired
ages ago. There were stuffed animals and trophies, some cobwebbed and dirty,
others in their original packaging; probably worth something on Ebay, huh? I
even found a few construction paper-made pamphlets, complete with my primitive
crayon drawings of my family (I can say my spelling has gotten better, but the artwork is about the same). As I dug through this stuff, I
kept thinking of the memories I had. For much of it, I could still remember
where and when I got it; birthdays, Christmas’ spent in New England; even have
a strong memory of calling every toy store throughout Delaware, looking for the
new Dinobot Transformers.
Yes, a lot of fond recollections, but also a lot of baggage.
What does all this stuff do for me? What does it do for
anyone? I mean, sure there are some great memories that come with it, but I
have those, regardless of whether the trinkets come with them or not. They are
all just stuff; some of them could catch me some cash on Ebay, possibly, but I
wouldn’t be selling the nostalgia with them. And, otherwise, they simply take
up room; too much room.
I had to deal with this thought on a much deeper level,
recently. And what I, and my family, ended up “letting go” of was far more
painful than anything made of plastic or worth money to some fan boy in east
L.A. We had to say goodbye to two beautiful children growing up in one of the
poorest countries in the world; and we weren’t allowed to tell them why.
Without going into too many details (yes, you are welcome), Kristie
and I found out we were unable to adopt a young man we had fallen in love with
over a year ago. We could not tell him he was already being adopted by someone
else, and we would no longer be able to keep in contact as we had hoped. It was
difficult enough finding out, after six months of pursuing his adoption and
visiting with him regularly (via Skype), he was already matched with someone
else, but when we were told we would need to write and tell him we would not be
seeing him anymore, it was devastating.
Likewise, we have been connecting with a young lady for the
last few years. I’m embarrassed to admit we had seriously considered adopting
her and have been keeping in contact with her on a weekly basis. After seeing
her last year, however, it became increasingly clear we would not be able to
take care of her as she was more severely disabled than we had anticipated. We
agreed to advocate for her and keep in contact, but after quite a bit of prayer
and tears (those do go hand-in-hand more often than we’d care to admit, I think), we knew what steps we had to make.
Writing the letters was one of the most difficult decisions I've chosen in some time. How do you tell two elementary-aged kids, presumably
hoping to come to America and become part of our clan, things have changed?
“Sorry kids. We like you and all, but… well, it’s not you,
it’s me… uh…”
We are hopeful Pastor Daniel, who would be reading the
letters to the children, would be able to explain to the best of his knowledge
why. He is a wise man, with a great heart for these orphans, and we trust God
will use him.
These are a few instances of us having to let go. We cannot
hold to what God has planned for others; we cannot keep to ourselves what He
has chosen to share with someone else. His ways are not my ways; and His will
is so much deeper than I will ever fathom. Granted, the toys I found in my
parent’s attic doesn't compare to the precious lives that have affected us so
deeply, but the memories those things are tied to can sometimes complicate my
willingness to give them up.
Part of the reason we had to “let go” was we have been
matched, officially, with two other kids, and we are in the process, again officially, of bringing them into our
family. Like the two we already have living in our home, they are a brother and
sister. We have met them on more than one occasion and we are excited about the
possibility of making them “ours.” There is always the risk of more broken
hearts, but it is a risk we are willing to go through, again, and hope we don’t
break any more along the way. Adoption is a very scary two-way street.
Ironically, and it just hit me as I write this - yes, I’m kind of a stream of consciousness blogger -
the two we
have been paired with were actually connected to a dear friend and her family,
when they realized God’s plan was not for them to adopt them. Strange how that
works! She had the heartbreak of telling these two beautiful children her
family would not be theirs, while a year later we are matched with these same kids!
This is the part where I talk about “hanging on,” but only
briefly (again, you are welcome). We believe God has placed this young brother
and sister in our lives so that they will have two more siblings and we will
have two more children to call our own. We have made it through some extremely
painful obstacles; honestly, if someone told me we would go through all that we've
gone through when we started, I probably wouldn't have believed them or would
have stopped before we got started. These trials and tribulations do not
compare to some of what we've seen friends going through, and I am hopeful they
know we see this and pray for them. But it’s been hard, terrifying even, but we
are in this for the long haul (I think I’m done with the clichés for now,
unless you've got one you’d like to add), and will be hanging on.
If you are interested in supporting our endeavor, please pray for us, first and foremost. Please also see our other links for more information and for other opportunities to give, if you so choose.
