I’ve been his mama and he has been my son now for almost two years, minus the two months he went back.
When I think back to that first summer he came, all I can remember is the rash that covered my body for six months. I used every cream and ointment you could imagine. I quit gluten and dairy. It didn’t matter what I did, the rash stayed. It was my body’s way of telling me it was too much.
I remember laying on my face every morning in my office, asking Holy Spirit for just enough grace to make it through that day. In those first days, it was minute by minute. I didn’t know how to be a mama to a then seven year old. And he surely didn’t know what it was like to live as a true son. He wasn’t used to boundaries and bedtimes, structure and routine. Love felt uncomfortable, like dipping cold toes in to warm water, it burned.
Although we have quite the journey ahead of us, sorting through so much trauma, and growing together in love, we’ve found our place together. I am his and he is mine. He’s settled in nicely to his place in our family. And we’re hoping one day it will be forever.
The calendar turned to a new year. December faded beautifully away. Only to welcome the bitter cold, January mornings when the light slips through the clouds to find it’s way through my living room window. With it’s newness, January brings with it a routine and chance to change. While my blank journal is calling out to me to fill it with new words, new dreams, new prayers, the same longings still scream out from my soul.
While this year ahead is laced in hope and promise, I’m still offering the same sacrifice of praise. Before the calendar page flipped, I found myself several weeks ago so broken before the Lord. On this particular day, my soul just ached. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the cause, but my eyes filled up with tears throughout that day. I was attending a conference with a few friends that night and although wasn’t expecting it, I knew Father was up to something.
I have never shared this story.
I’ve rarely spoken this story out loud, much less written it down for everyone to read. Mostly because it was so painful, but also because some things need time to grow.
I can write about adoption and the pain of infertility. I can be vulnerable about my waiting on healing. All of those things are pieces of my story. Beautiful pieces. Pieces that have caused me to press into Father, to know Him more intimately. But there is so much more to my story. And one day, I really think all of it will be shared. But for now, someone out there somewhere, needs to read these words and see a story like this one laced in hope.