say something

I'm finding myself in a place where I just keep waiting to speak. Waiting for better days, for some sort of inspired, divine understanding of our journey, but so far all that waiting has done is leave me sitting in silence. And I recognize this place because I sat here for years waiting for our infertility journey to have a happy ending and I got absolutely nothing out of it. One of the most freeing things I ever did was choosing to start writing about our struggles. Now I'm here again with another pain that's too big for me to wrap my brain around and while my instinct would be to ignore what I can't fully process, it feels inauthentic to write anything else until this is out there.

One month ago today, we were honored to be chosen to be the parents of a sweet baby boy. We threw clothes into suitcases and raced through airports in order to be there for his birth and then we had five beautiful days of loving him and watching over him. Five perfect days of 3am feedings and "Sweet Jesus, please let this child sleep" and rocking and cuddling. Five amazing days of trying to capture pictures of those fleeting sleep-smiles and wearing our sweet boy all around the house just so we could be close. Five days of loving deeply.

Then with one phone call those five days were over and I lived through five of the most excruciating hours of my life. I will never forget how white my knuckles were while I carried his carseat from the parking lot to the building where his mother was waiting for us. I distinctly remember wondering how in the world I was going to make it the next few yards to the door and being surprised that my feet just kept going, one in front of the other. And then he was gone and the family we had hoped would be forever was over.

Now, a month later, I still have moments where I wake up and wonder how I'll make it the next few yards and somehow one foot keeps getting placed in front of the other.  I told J the other day that I feel maimed, like someone amputated a part of me and I'm having to relearn how to do everything around the injury. Grief is a beast, but he and I are coming to terms. Yet again I'm learning the human capacity to feel so many seemingly disparate emotions at the same time--joy and pain, hope and despair, anticipation and fear--there is so much stretching going on.

I woke up the morning after those five days and cried while I listened to Ulysses by Josh Garrels. The whole song is beautiful, but these lyrics always stick with me: tie me to the mast of this old ship and point me home. That's the point we are at in this adoption journey. There are times when I can't imagine surviving another loss like this one, where the fear of all the grief and pain we could be inviting into our lives is paralyzing. But we believe that we have made the right choice, that there are children who will become a part of our family, that there is a birth family who we can pour into and love and commit to for life. So, tie me to the mast of this old ship and point me home, I don't want my fear to keep me from another chance to love extravagantly and to do it well.


I'm holding on to the hope that one day this could be made right.
I’ve been shipwrecked, and left for dead, and I have seen the darkest sights.
Everyone I’ve loved seems like a stranger in the night
But Oh my heart still burns, tells me to return, and search the fading light.


I’m sailing home to you I wont be long
By the light of moon I will press on 

Until, I find, my love

Trouble has beset my ways, and wicked winds have blown
Sirens call my name, they say they’ll ease my pain, then break me on the stones
But true love is the burden that will carry me back home
Carry me with the memories of the beauty I have known


I’m sailing home to you I wont be long
By the light of moon I will press on


So tie me to the mast of this old ship and point me home
Before I lose the one I love, before my chance is gone
I want to hold, her in, my arms

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