I introduced myself as Sympathetic Sarah. Chris as Crazy Chris. The descriptions stuck as well, or better than, our names. I said that I wanted understanding. We have read enough for knowledge, now to understand what is going on, to be able to parent these little ones well. Someone mentioned the lack of surprise considering my self-proclaimed descriptive word.
I found that there are no words. I--who love words, who find meaning and hope and help in words--found that there aren't words to take away the feelings of confusion for a child. There isn't a truth for the child playing inappropriately and so being moved. Any answer given would further confuse and wound.
Even in a hospital bed, waiting to be taken to the operating room, a miscarriage to complete,
Even in a waiting room simultaneously crocheting rounds and praying while a doctor repairs tendons severed,
I have never felt so helpless. So inadequate for the task. So utterly incapable of being a parent.
It makes me wonder.
Can we do this?
Should we do this?
Are we really called to this?
I asked on the way to the classes:
Why can't the answer be, Because we can? Because we have been so gifted. Because Pure and undefiled religion is this, to care for widows and orphans in their time of need. Because we can do this.
People will keep asking why we want to adopt, and I will keep mumbling about pregnancies ended before their fruit was mature, about how we long for a larger family.
But really, Abigail and Simon fill our lives. We are blessed beyond belief by their very presences.
Really, we are doing this because a seed was planted in the heart of a twenty year old woman and life has nurtured it. We are doing this because the seed has sprouted and grown in the heart of the man this woman gave her life to. We are doing this because the God we serve has made us able and will continue to make us able.
Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this:
to visit orphans and widows in their distress,
and to keep oneself unstained by the world.
He wonders too. He is my box-maker. And, I am ever so grateful for the boundaries he places.
We will go again for another set of classes. We will talk about bonding and attaching, healing and hurting. We will again be saddened by the things of this world which tear families apart and the depth of loss each family experiences.
Our caseworker waits till we've completed the classes before she does our homestudy, but the papers beckon. I know we need boundaries. I know who will build them. I know he can't be rushed. I will leave the papers for another time. . .
well, maybe, I'll get out the clearance papers to make a few appointments.
I am finding contentment in the speed of this process and the time for deep prayer conditioning.