8 Months? Wow.
Today marks 8 months since we walked out of the Children’s Shelter of Cebu with two weeping little girls, full of a thousand emotions, and the two of us, wide eyed in wonder at the journey we were embarking on.
And for more than 8 months, I have been silent on this blog, in this journey. I’ve been silent and alone. I’ve often wondered why I have not taken the time to write, to give an update on the adoption, our lives and this new world. So many of you graciously supported us in the process and I’m sure there are those out there just plain curious to know. But basically, it comes down to this, there are just no words. Life has been “so much” that I’ve lost all ability to process and put together orderly, chronological and accurate words to give an account for our lives.
So you’ll forgive me if I do not start at the beginning.
Tonight I want to jump right in where I am and share a few thoughts, without the burden of going back and “explaining myself”, not giving a systematic account of the last 8 months. That might come better sitting down across from you with a cup of unhurried coffee in my hand anyway. For now, here are two incomplete images rolling around in my head.
Imagine a field on a new farm.
We have great dreams for this field. It will be cleared, planted and produce an abundant harvest. I expect year over year rows of beautiful corn will grow, yielding plenty with joy. But this is the first year. The field is full, not of straight plowed rows, but of boulders, rocks, trees and stumps. It is uneven and difficult. We get up early and work hard, removing these obstacles, or working around them. We sweat. We work. We even cry. We fight tooth and nail to get even one row plowed and seed in the ground.
But this is the price we pay for the first year. Come next year the field will be cleared and the replanting of seed will come easier. Many of the boulders will have been moved, though not all. The field will be used to being a field, no longer a part of the wild. The seed will be greeted with more willing earth and the harvest will be stronger and eager. But this year? This first year? This year is hard.
Imagine building a family out of the clear blue sky. This year? This first year? Yes, this year is hard.
Now imagine a spring.
“Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring?”
Here in Jacksonville we know what this is. It’s called brackish. It’s like water that can’t make up its mind. It’s mingled and confused. It’s the kind of confusion that brings reports of sharks in the river and alligators at the beach. It’s just not right.
“Blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth?”
No. This also should not be. In the middle of this hard field-clearing year, my soul oft resembles a confused spring. I think that’s partly why I have no words yet for you. Fatigue, pain and uncertainty is mingled with excitement, love and conviction. It’s a lot.
But tonight I am thinking again about a spring of life bubbling that is not tainted by the words of pain and exhaustion. A spring of words flowing to speak life over my family, healing over my children, and a hope for life to come together.
A field and a spring and a life lived that is not brackish.
It’s what’s on my mind.