Good Grief

Although it was hard to post the poem I wrote for Lilibeth and Eddie on mother's day, I decided to do it anyways.

I am trying to be more transparent with my struggles in the hope that someone else can benefit or somehow be encouraged. It's also part of my quest for more humility in my life. Yes, humility. The "failure" of our attempted adoption has been a very lonely experience for us. We have lacked categories to place our grief. And we realize that other people have a hard time understanding. Honestly, we struggle to understand it ourselves. I have been shocked by the intensity and the longevity of the grief I have felt over losing these two precious little ones.

In fact, many times I say to myself, "GOOD GRIEF! Just get over it. Enough is enough." And I am almost ashamed that I am grieving so intensely. . . I imagine that other people are looking at me thinking, "They were never actually your children anyways. You should never have allowed yourself to be so attached to them." And perhaps that is true.

I was talking with the wife of one of my pastors. She has raised adopted children. I told her, "I have learned my lesson. Next time I will not allow myself to get so attached to a child until he is home." Her response? "I don't think you can help it. It is natural and it is good." That was exactly what my heart needed to hear.

When you adopt, you see a photo of a child. You get a description of the child and then you make a commitment to parent the child. Then often times you get to send them care packages. You get regular pictures and updates on their lives. You may even get videos of them. You start planning your life with the child. You buy their necessities like beds, car seats, clothing. You buy the extras, like books, cd's, dolls, stuffed animals.

Everywhere you go you cannot help thinking about what it will be like when your child is home with you. . . The extra time you will need to load everyone into the car. . . You look in the rear view mirror and your mind's eye sees their faces along with the other faces you see there. . . You see other children your child's age and you watch them thinking, "that is what it will be like when my children are finally home". . . When people ask how many children you have, you aren't sure how to answer . . . You hear announcements in church of families adopting children and think that maybe next time that name will be yours. . . You see children being dedicated and pray that next time it will be you with your newly adopted children. . . You plan, you imagine, you dream, you wait, you pray and pray and pray . . .

And then they are gone. And they are still orphans. Orphans living in a state run orphanage. You want them to be safe. You long for them to have a family. You long for them to know the love of Godly parents. You want them to be discipled to know the Lord. You want so much for them and they have so little. And it hurts. You feel it keenly. And you grieve.

You go somewhere in the car and grieve because you must remove them from your mind's eye. . . You grieve when someone asks how many children you have because this time the answer is so simple . . . You grieve when the pastor makes a baby announcement that is not yours . . . You weep during the child dedications because you cannot dedicate your precious longed-for children to the Lord.

You grieve for what you thought would be. You grieve for what could have been. You grieve for shattered dreams. You grieve for the children who have so much less than what you want for them. You grieve their loss and yours.

You grieve. It is necessary. It is natural. It is good.