The moment we've been waiting for - that moment is here. We walked into a large room crowded with children, and my eyes quickly scanned. They darted over the heads of all the big boys, and my mama eye could not pick out my son. And then, in what seems like hours but was probably mere seconds, a tiny boy was pushed from the crowd. Though he was half the size I had expected, there was no mistaking those eyes, because I knew them well. I have been looking deep into their 2 year-old likeness for a year and a half, and longing to daily look upon two pairs of such beautiful eyes.
He was full of shyness and reserve, something I had not expected, but he slowly stepped forward and melted into our arms. My internal soundtrack was busily chanting "don't cry, don't cry." In true Ethiopian fashion, he gave us three kisses on each cheek, right, then left, then right. The next few moments are sort of a blur. I know we played soccer and he giggled, ran and panted as his new daddy refused to take it easy on him. We sat down and poured over pictures together.
I don't know what memories he has of his baby brother, but he picked up his picture and kissed it over and over, repeating his name. Using the Amharic words for mom, dad, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa and friend, we introduced him to the people who have loved him from afar this last year. He treasured the photos, wanting them safely tucked back into our bag after viewing, but asking for them a dozen or more times over the coarse of the day. I had a very special picture of MB with two boys from his original orphanage, a picture taken nearly two years ago. His face lit up, seeing his old friends, long ago adopted to America. He told me their names and kissed their faces. I am blessed to know the mamas to these two boys, and I cannot wait for the day when we can reunite them in play.
We brought two backpacks full of toys. The first thing we handed out was balloons, and oh the pandemonium that created. Most of the older children instantly stuffed the balloons in their pockets (or, where no pockets existed, somewhere into the recesses of their pants). They would rather own their balloon than take the risk of playing with it. This germaphobe shared buckets of spit with smiling children, as they brought me their slobbery balloons to inflate, over and over again. Our bag of 150 balloons was quickly exhausted, and the tears, punches and heartache that caused was enough to break the hardest heart. God once again reminded me "this is not how I designed families." We had lots of other toys but, given the scene mere balloons had caused, we decided to give the rest to the nannies as surely they knew much better than us how to handle this.
Children clamored for our attention, hugs, kisses, for more treasures, but mostly for love. If I sat on the floor, I was guaranteed to have three girls removing my pony tail and fighting over who would braid my hair. If I stood, I had children digging in my pockets or attempting to unzip my pants, sure I was somewhere hiding more balloons.
The agency's official stance had been that we would be introduced as "visitors," though I doubt there was any question in the kid's minds why we were here. MB, likely being in this care center longer than any, probably knew better than anyone the reason. He's probably seen 50 to 100 sets of parents come for their children. And now, oh thank you Lord,
it is his turn. And he knew it. I could literally see his chest rise up with pride that he finally had two big people coming just for him.
Over the next eight hours, God would break my heart for what breaks his. When we traveled to adopt Taz, though spending the days in the orphanage was heartbreaking, it was comforting to know that those young children had, or would soon have, parents waiting for them. At that time, Ethiopian adoptions were beginning to really get popular, and waiting lists of parents were forming for those young children. But today, in this very different orphanage, these children, aged 4 to 10, have no long list of American parents waiting for them. For most, there are no people at home buying clothes, decorating nurseries or attending baby showers in their honor. These beautiful children; THEY are the waiting list, and some of them might never leave. I don't believe adoption is God's plan A. I don't think His plan A would involve disease, starvation or dying parents. But, I do firmly believe that He has a beautiful plan B, and it IS us. If there was just a way for his people to see this need, to share spit and play soccer with it, I have to believe we would respond.
And so, the clock soon approached 5, and the moment I've looked forward to for nearly a year is over, and the moment I have dreaded for just as long is here. It is time to walk out of the room and off this continent without this child. (I'm kind of blubbering like an idiot just typing those words.) I insisted on finding someone who spoke English in order to translate to MB what was happening, that we WOULD return. Eventually I found the pediatrician, and he spoke the words to MB; we had to go back to America, do some paperwork and wait for the government to give us permission to come back. And, we would be back. Oh how I pleaded with God during those minutes and the days that have followed that we would be back, and soon.
As soon as the doctor began to speak those words, that we were leaving and that he was not, the stone face that is the hurt child's mask swept over him. I think I would have preferred crying, kicking and screaming to this. To see a child sink into himself, his self taught defense mechanism for pain - there's not many things more heartbreaking. And so MB wrapped his arms around our necks with more strength than I knew he had, and he gave us each one last kiss. I stood up and swiftly walked out the door, not looking back, hoping he wouldn't see the tears streaming down my face, my trembling lip or contorted face. By the time we made it outside, I was sobbing with no ability to stop. I knew this moment would rip my heart out, but somehow knowing it's coming had no power to make it hurt less.
"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ" 2 Corinthians 1:4
