There was a time...

not all that long ago...

when the topic of adoption set me ill at ease.

I, once an advocate - a person who was certain she would raise children in need of a home until she was old and gray, had changed.

The truth is, bringing Meadow and Flint into the fold of our family rocked my whole world. It challenged my concept of the reality of living on this earth as a woman who longs to draw near to the heart of God. Of charity. Of Sovereignty. Of obedience. Of service. Of family. Of sacrifice. Of benevolence. Of mercy. Of justice. Of equity and fairness and rightness. Of what I do and do not have to offer human kind. Of what love is. Of my ability to offer it in such an intimate way, as a mommy, to little ones, who were much bigger than I expected, that I hardly knew. Children whom I believed were supposed to feel like my very own...but didn't. In my home. Daily. Nightly. Hourly. Moment by moment.

The communication barrier made getting to know one another amidst a world of transition and turmoil, a slow placed, monumental, uphill, wearisome battle.

Much to my own disappointment, I immediately learned I was not the person I thought I was. My endurance lacked. My compassion ran dry. My heart tore open. It hurt. It ached. The easy affection that freely flowed to and from my beloved five did not automatically translate to our new additions. Sometimes, I resented their presence. The difficulty that was thrust upon our lives, the inescapable depth of challenge that was introduced to my every single day. The guilt was wretched. I embraced it, allowed myself to wallow, covering myself in it, wearing it. My personal cloak of shame. Darkness set in. Joy left. Sorrow arrived. It felt as if my eyes grew dim.

I owe such a debt of gratitude to my husband, my strong, sweet solace. Throughout this dark season, he was a rock. Steadfast, kind hearted, compassionate, considerate, patient with me. So very patient. Never placing blame on me as I was emphatically intent on heaping it upon myself. He listened. And listened. And listened. Allowed me to muddle in the mire. To cry. To question. To doubt. To not have answers. To process. To grieve. To heal. Freely. Without rush. In my own time. As long as it took.

And heal I did.

I wanted it to happen sooner, to will the light back into my eyes. The hope into my heart. The spring in my step. The knowledge that come what may, we will get through this. We will be okay. We will find real, true, sustaining, affectionate, willingly self sacrificing, motivating, what-makes-the-world-go-round-love.

But it took exactly as long as it took. It just did. The valley belonged to me, and I belonged to the valley.

Until I didn't anymore.

I grew tired of defeat. Vowed to do whatever is required. Accentuated the positive. Worked really hard. Not to simply to survive. To thrive.

The light came back. Hope emerged. My crumbled, disassembled heart began to piece itself back together.

Gradually, I acclimated. Daily life took on a more optimistic cadence. One of new normalcy. I no longer sensed such distinction, such doubt, such cloudiness. Like someone peeling away the film, things became clearer to me. I did love these kids. I do love them. Somewhere along the way, among the labor of focusing on what is good and pure, they had taken up residency in my soul. Just as the others, they became, most preciously, mine.

These two hold in their hands my utmost adoration and respect. The awe inspiring Meadow and Flint. They are masterful, triumphant, merciful, gracious, fun, lighthearted, beautiful, prevailing overcomers. They also hold my heart.

The human spirit is astoundingly resilient. It harbors the capability for tremendous mending. We are truly fearfully and wonderfully made.

The adoption topic is no longer troublesome to me. Parts of my old self are coming to light once more. I wouldn't be at all surprised if our family revisits the notion of adopting again in the future. We are a flawed, breaking, mending, rejoicing, forgiving, messy group of people. I wouldn't change our experience for anything at all. We are refined by fire. Maybe we still have something we can share.

Because I know this one thing to be true, love grows here.

Praise the Lord, oh my soul.