Adoption is a beautiful thing. The stories we tell are happy ones. Stories of loving children we couldn’t make
ourselves. Stories of giving a child a
home they wouldn’t have otherwise. But
there are other stories, too. Stories
that our children have to work to reconcile in their minds. Stories of inexplicably missing a person they
never really knew. Stories of feeling
abandoned, even though they have been in our home from the very beginning. And in the midst of their grief, I must
decide how to manage my own.
This week, grief came knocking at the door. As is nearly always the case, my first
instinct is to lock the door tight. To
be quiet and withdrawn so that she will go away. Or to be loud and excited in order to scare
her away. Because she is an exhausting
companion, leaving me weary and anxious and wrung out. And she gets in my head,
making me think that she will always feel big and scary and louder than
anything else.
She was insistent this week, though, and so I opened the
door. And as I sat with her, weeping for
all that is broken in our beautiful
stories, I began to feel the familiar feelings of despair. How will I ever fix this brokenness? How will
I manage it so that it doesn’t hurt so badly?
So that my child doesn’t hurt so badly?
And, at once, I knew that I couldn’t be alone with her.
So I invited my people over.
My tribe, as my friend would say.
“Please pray,” I texted. Again
and again they responded, “we are praying.”
Grief didn’t leave, but she got
quiet. She gave me some space to
breathe, to remember in the dark what I have learned in the light. That Jesus Christ is our only answer. That my own capacity to fix brokenness is so
small, so short-sighted. But He is
bigger and he sees the big picture. That his strength is perfected in my
weakness. That brokenness can lead me to him. Can lead
my child to him.
It looks like grief may be here to stay for a while. But I’m not scared of her today. Instead, we have decided to welcome her
in. To embrace her ability to bring us
to the feet of Jesus. To thank her for the reminder that this world
is not our home.
Some days are harder than others. And grief can feel like an unwanted guest
that we need to shut out. She is
insistent, though, and I’m convinced these days that her presence is for our
good. She doesn’t have to be the loudest
voice at the table, though. It turns
out, if you welcome her, and if you introduce her to your tribe, she gets
quieter. She takes her rightful place as
a bit player in this drama. And her
presence beckons you to look center stage, as the King of All Joy takes his
place in your story.
Adoption is a beautiful thing.
