I had this picture on my fridge in Tanzania. Nearly every time I opened the door, I placed my hand on this picture. I love this picture because those are babies who had just arrived to something new- and then they grew and grew and grew. I love their smiles and I love remembering some of the cute little kid-ness that has gone now out of my big teens. They each changed and learned so much while we were there. We all did. We celebrated and struggled. There was faith. And there was question.
While I went in and out of the fridge, making dinner, packing lunches, refilling my coconut water I found just touching this picture to be like a battle cry: “we are pressing on toward victory”. Now as I glance up at it frequently, above my desk in our new home, it again serves as a marker. A reminder of how far we have come and an evidence of some truths:
We are better, stronger, more-alive because of each “YES”.
We continue on, out of a miracle-seeking hope for full healing.
We are stronger as 9!
Sharing those mantras feels good. In fact, especially on our journey in adoption, my primary focus tends to be on these very true truths. Today, reflecting back on the five years since we became forever 9, I realize this year has added a new and healthy layer to our story truths. We’ve learned to grieve what was lost to make our family. As a discipline, this has been a more difficult practice for me to lean toward. Maybe because there can be lies attached to the idea grief. I have twisted it to believe the hope, progress and redemption are not honored if I let my heart remember the loss.
This Jesus-denying lie simply does not acknowledge or appreciate that the Lord, of all people who ever walked the Earth, was CERTAIN of full redemption AND wept at the pain of the process. He grieved over the pain of Lazarus in the grave. He pleaded in struggle in the garden before His own crucifixion. To deny his grief in these moments is to reject that His ministry required loss. To believe that hope is void of grief is to say that it is also void of sacrifice. Jesus lived perfectly in the tension of both. Grief over brokenness and Hope in full restoration
I want all 7 of my children to have a story of redemption. A testimony of powerful healing. A gift of empathy for others. I’m slowly awakening to an idea that none of these concepts are remotely possible if they have not experienced loss AND clearly known their own loss to be acknowledged. For 3, especially, my loss does not come close to theirs. I got to do a lot of choosing in all this adoption business. They got to do exactly none. I (sometimes too freely) express my anger, make efforts toward healing, take responsibility for my role. They face an intense internal struggle to simply believe the loss wasn’t their fault, that they’ll still be valued should they question or doubt or wonder what might have been. While I try not to diminish this gap, I can lead. I can show a practice of grief, acknowledging pain, asking for forgiveness when I react to grief inappropriately, offering grace when others do. I can, by my own willingness to try, give permission to reflect on loss and remember what was or could have been. I can help make allowances for the very real spaces where grief and joy swirl together. The sacred space where hope shines brightest because of the dark back-drop of pain.
As a first step, this year I’ve taken some time to remember and to share with my family some memories of “before”. The Lord used this little blog to give me space to think both about what we were and what we might have been. There was a time on these virtual pages when the writing was simple because it reflected a simpler life. There was an innocence and naivety to those early days of parenting. And there was a propensity toward FUN and humor that seems to have diminished over time. Joy, then, often came without work or choosing. It just was. We hunted sticks and decorated pumpkins. We laughed at the funny things they said (which I had time to write down). We doted when they finished puzzles quickly and read together, book after book.
Some innocence is naturally washed away with age. But the experiences of our last ten years- caregiving, adopting, world travel and transition- seem to have aged us in warp-speed. I am deeply grateful for the new awareness this age has provided. I’m forever changed by a deeper sense of humility and responsibility. I have a resilience of faith. I know, love and trust people I never would have before. We have new awareness of the needs of others and new opportunities to help. And we also developed new and necessary personal boundaries in relationships. We pulled some people closer and had to release any responsibility in relationship with others. Those are good, healthy, redemptive outcomes of our journey. Yet, those impactful changes also came with cost and sacrifice, with pain. And some days there are some of those sacrifices I long to un-make. And I think others do, too.
Right there. There is grief. There must be.
Slowly, I’m learning a declaration of thanksgiving that can only rise from a preamble of loss. I can declare thanksgiving in all things, even times I couldn’t read with my 7th child or we couldn’t go on as many random adventures, or I didn’t know a deep struggle of a heart because there were just SO MANY PEOPLE to see. Thankful, not because I’m so thrilled, but because the recognition and grief over what was lost magnifies the dependence we’ve grown in. We know Jesus more fully. We’ve gained a front row seat to His miracles.
Just like the faces from that photo have grown. So have we.
Here’s to 5 years of loving, learning and growing together, Team Lewis. You are all my very favorites!
ABL
(If you want to read more about why we call Jan 13th our Ebenezer day, here’s a post from our first adoption-anniversary.)
