in the valley

Sunday night, I found myself sitting in the rocker in our fully-stocked nursery, my Bible in one hand, tissues in the other, crying and trying to pray.  "Not for a Moment (After All)" by Meredith Andrews, a song we had sang in church just that morning (one that makes me cry every.single.time it plays on the radio or in church) ran through my head, and once again I tried to hold on to the truth in its words.  I had been triggered and hit with an onslaught of emotions that never seem to be too far away, and this time I chose to cry them out in the one room of our house that sits closed up and unused.

I hate to admit it, but more recently I've found myself wanting to give up, over this adoption process.  The days and weeks and months have passed, with the magical "time" of us becoming parents a continued mystery.  When I looked through our adoption profile book a few weeks ago after printing a copy to display at our garage sale, I realized just how much has changed since we created it last year.  Our nieces and friends' kids and babies are so much older, our community group through church has changed a couple times, we've re-arranged rooms and made updates to the house and yard.  Our positions and jobs have changed, our ages, our routines.  It feels so long ago, and yet in this one area of our lives, we haven't moved.  However, we have changed immensely, experienced a new kind of pain, longing, and loss.  We've been reminded of the good and bad that have brought us here, how life just isn't fair, and The One who carries us through.  We've grown in our faith and closer to each other.

I looked around the bright room, at the adorable animals, soft blankets, and board books.  As much as I try not to, I wonder if this room and everything in it will ever get the chance to be used and loved.  I notice the chalk board that I wrote on a few weeks ago when I was struggling, "Little L, come home soon.  Mommy misses you."  I do, I miss him or her with all my heart and yet know nothing about that precious life yet.

  

We've had to make some really hard decisions lately, ones that I don't feel we have the right to make.  Every time we do finally get a profiling opportunity, it's more difficult than the last.  There isn't as much anticipation, merely a self-preservation that allows a few thoughts of, "If this were to be...." but mostly waits to hear that it's not our time.  It's simply, hard.  And even though I hold it together quite well, we both function normally and go through each day without breaking down or causing a fuss, we have fun together, we make plans, we laugh and enjoy life, for me, in the midst of this journey, there are still a million tiny thoughts of longing that cross my mind each day.

In the dark after climbing into bed, Colin asked me how I was doing.  He wondered if I would be able to sleep and held me as I spoke some of my newest fears to him.  When I spoke of wanting to give up, knowing full-well that my practical side won't let me because of all that we've invested in the process thus far (not to mention we have already renewed and are set for another year), instead of telling me that I couldn't, like he did all those months ago when our hearts were broken, he simply spoke of his love for me no matter what happens.  And that's when I realized that my laid-back husband was also experiencing frustration, sadness, anger, and doubt.  

We are both in a valley, one of the many that comes with this journey.  But in order for valleys to exist, there must be mountains.  And even though the climb may be tough, the view at the top is always worth it.  On my hardest days, in the moments when we want to give up, when I want nothing more than to jump in a car and go on a permanent vacation from it all, I know that no matter how much I doubt and question and struggle to believe that the view exists, God has seen that view.  He knows exactly where we will be tomorrow, next month, next year, and forever.  He has a plan, which is most likely different than our own, but which is perfect and purposeful.  It terrifies me and thrills me.  But I know that I am here on this earth to love God and love others, to bring glory to Him.  And if I must struggle in order to do so, then so be it.  I am here to please Him and if our story brings even one person closer to His love and grace, then it is worth it.  He knows exactly where we are, and we must rest in that truth.

So no, we are not giving up.  We are trusting that God has a child in mind for us, that our calling to adopt is still true even though it feels like doors have closed, that we will be parents someday.  That Colin's childhood desire to "be a dad" will be fulfilled.  That our hearts and arms will be full, with whomever God calls us to love, child or not.