This song touches my heart as I find myself, once again, waiting for my baby to come home.  Adoption is such a raw, emotional, and challenging journey.  And this part, this period of waiting, is one of the hardest parts.  Right now my baby girl is a world away from me.  Someone else is tucking her in each night, someone else is bathing her, feeding her, and holding her when she cries.  I would do anything, anything, to bring her home. This waiting, longing, and hoping is painful, but I highly recommend it.  We all need to be reminded that we are longing for something, that we are reaching for something that seems just out of reach. We are not home yet.

This song stirs my heart and brings tears to my eyes when I think about my baby girl, but when I’m reminded that my God feels the same way about me, I am in awe.  My love and longing for our little girl is only a fraction of God’s love and longing for me.  He has my picture on His piano.  That’s one of the wonderful things about adoption and parenthood.  Every time I think I have plunged the depths of sacrifice and love for our children, I’m reminded that I haven’t even scratched the surface of God’s love and sacrifice for me.

So, for those of you who need a reminder of why we celebrate Easter, here’s Caleb the “Teacher”:

Caleb Tells the Easter Story from Casey on Vimeo.

and his wonderful deeds for men,

for he satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things.

Psalm 107:8-9

This has been an amazing year for us, and, as it comes to a close, we look back in awe at all of the things God has done for us and in us. There is so much to be thankful for.

Foremost, we are so thankful for our salvation through Jesus Christ and the great love and mercy He has poured out on us. We are thankful that God has chosen and adopted us through the death of His Son. We are also thankful, and so humbled, that He continues to work in our hearts, changing us and making us more like Him. We are thankful “that he who began a good work in [us] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6). We look at the work He has done in our lives and hearts this year, and cannot wait to see what He will do in us in the years ahead.

And, of course, we are so thankful for our sweet boys. What a blessing and treasure it is to be their parents!

This will always be a year that seems most remarkable in the life of our precious son Josiah. This year, as we celebrate what we are thankful for, his healing, protection, and adoption into our family is at the top of our list.

We haven’t shared this before, but what better time than Thanksgiving to show the wonderful things that God has done for our little man. Just as his name, Josiah, promises, God has saved him and healed him. Only ten short months ago, he was a very, very sick baby boy. Here is one of the pictures we received when we got our referral of him.

I can’t tell you how many hours we stared at this picture, praying and hoping.  BUT GOD IS FAITHFUL.  Here Josiah is today, happy, healthy, and completely whole. Praise God! He has done amazing things! We are so thankful that “He fills the hungry with good things.” Thank you, LORD!  May You fill our hearts with good things, just as You fill our bodies.

And, one final note of Thanksgiving, today our petition for the re-adoption of Josiah was heard in court. It was, of course, approved, and we were able to have his name legally changed to Josiah. It’s nice to have his adoption officially recognized by the state now. So, so much to be thankful for.

About a year and a half ago, my life was pretty safe and ordinary. I had a wonderful husband and a precious two year old son, but I started feeling God pulling us toward something new. I wasn’t exactly sure what it would be, but I had that feeling: something’s coming.

In Genesis 12, God says to Abram, “Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you.” We too felt that God was calling us to a “strange land,” but now that we are there, it is so, so good!

At that time, I was operating under my usual scarcity philosophy. It’s a habit I often fall into without realizing it. I believed that if I acknowledged the role of a birth mother/birth family in the life of our son then I would be lessening my own role and importance in his life. I didn’t want to share motherhood with someone else; I wanted it all to myself.

But as we continued our adoption journey, as I read more, prayed more, and planned more, I couldn’t set aside the nagging whisper in my heart. Orphaned babies do not appear out of thin air, there is always a background, always a person or a family, always an undesirable circumstance, and always, always pain.

I kept imagining what I would do if I couldn’t feed or provide for Caleb. What would that feel like? What would it mean for me to purposefully choose to let another family be his family, to ask another woman to be his mom? The thought kept me up at night. Soon I was praying not only for our future son, but for his birth family, specifically his birth mother. And, without me realizing it, over the next several months God completely changed my heart.

Last spring, several weeks after we received our referral for our sweet little boy, we got word from our agency that birth family visits were now available. If we chose, we could travel the five hours south of Addis with our agency staff and visit Josiah’s birth place and his birth mother. We immediately said yes, absolutely, unequivocally yes, yes, yes. But there was still the chance that she would choose not to meet us.

The whole way out of Addis, I kept thinking about her. She had made that same trip two months earlier to appear before a judge for our adoption court date. It’s a long way there, and a long way back. What was she thinking as she traveled this road?

As we neared the village, I grew more anxious. What if she didn’t like us? What if we didn’t like her? And worse yet, what if she didn’t come?

When we arrived at the agency offices, we were assured that all of the birth families had come. We unloaded with the rest of our group, quiet and nervous. As we entered the dimly lit room, still no electricity, there was a group of Ethiopian women, and one man, huddled in a corner. They whispered quietly to each other, as they looked each of us over.

One of the social workers stood in the center of the group and explained to us in English that, as there were only three translators, we would have to take turns visiting with our birth families. He would call us out one family at a time, and we would meet in adjoining rooms for our visit. To our surprise, he called us first, “Marefu, Marefu’s family come with me.” We stood up and followed him out into a small office. As we took our seats, we heard him gently coaxing someone in the hallway. Seconds later, a young woman slowly stepped into the room.

She was so beautiful, so shy, so quiet. I’m sure she felt extremely anxious about meeting us. We were overwhelmed. We smiled, stood, mumbled some uninteligible English, and welcomed her to her seat. The translator came in and sat next to her. He was ready to get things started; I was at a complete loss. How does one begin a conversation like this? So I started with pictures. We had brought a small photo album for her with pictures of our family and our home; at the last minute I had included the most recent picture we had been sent of Josiah. When she opened the album, his picture was first. She smiled and kissed it, and my heart cracked a little.

I couldn’t help but think of how much I missed Caleb, though we had only left him a week before and would be home with him again in another week, and we had talked almost every day we had been gone. How much pain was she holding in her young heart?

And so we talked. We asked questions; she asked questions. It was difficult to really communicate through a translator, but we did the best we could. After we were finished talking, she gave us a bundle of tall grass. The translator told us that in their region the grass passed from one person to another was a symbol of a covenant. We had made a covenant to care for this child; we were so honored.

We walked back into the main room to allow other families their turn with the translator. The staff had provided the traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony: strong coffee and popcorn. We sat close together, unable to talk. Casey got out our digital camera to show her the pictures we had taken of Marefu. She looked at them so carefully, so thoughtfully.

I felt so connected to her; I wanted to tell her so much more, to really talk with her. I knew that our time with her was slipping away. I felt so helpless, so I offered her my hand. We sat, holding hands while we waited for the other visits to conclude. After everyone was finished we went outside to take some pictures.

As we gathered in a large group, adoptive families and birth families, the social worker announced that one of the birth mothers was going to pray for us, the adoptive families. So we moved closer together and bowed our heads. I reached for her hand again as another birth mother prayed. As I listened to that prayer, in her native language, of which I understood not one syllable, I was completely overwhelmed. My heart broke in awe of my merciful God, our merciful God. The One who understands every word, in every language. The One who knows us both, Marefu’s birth mother and me, inside and out, who knew about our little boy and planned every detail of his life before the foundations of the earth. The One who has seen every tear we have shed on his behalf; the One who turns sorrow into joy, who, I pray, will turn her sorrow into joy. I sobbed, nearly uncontrollably.

After the birth mother’s prayer, Casey prayed, lifting up these precious birth families to our Father who has adopted each and everyone of us into His family.

And then it was time to say goodbye. We hugged and cried more, and finally we loaded back up in our vans with the other adoptive families. She walked to the door and held Casey’s hand through the window until we pulled away.

A day, I would almost say an hour, has not gone by since then that I have not thought of her, this woman who has given me her only son. I think of her constantly and pray that God will heal her pain and sorrow and bless her with joy and happiness in abundance. I pray that I will see her and hold her hand and hug her again. But she is always with me; I see her everyday in my son’s eyes.

I cannot wait until we are reunited forever in heaven, and I can tell her, with no translator, how grateful I am. And we will laugh and cry and talk, as only mothers can. And we will share every detail of Josiah’s life together, and “ooh” and “aah” over his first step, his first word, his first love . . .

I am so humbled right now by my amazing God. I have to praise Him for not letting my selfish, stubborn heart get in the way of having this wonderful meeting. As we went to bed that night, Casey and I kept saying to each other, “What if we had missed this?”

And what will we tell Josiah? What will we tell our precious little “God has saved; God has healed”? In his journal that night, I began with, “You were born in the most beautiful place on earth . . .” I cannot wait to see his life unfold, to see all that God has planned for our little one.

We’re ready. The bags are packed. We’re leaving at the crack of dawn, and we’re about to take the greatest leap of faith we’ve ever taken.

We’re greatly anticipating His faithfulness and blessings as we step out on our biggest adventure yet.

“O LORD, you are my God; I will exalt you; I will praise your name, for you have done wonderful things, plans formed of old, faithful and sure.”
~Isaiah 25:1

Throughout the evening I heard Josiah’s name whispered in prayer several times across the room. What an incredible blessing to have friends that are praying for our son and eagerly waiting to celebrate his arrival with us! It was such an encouraging evening, especially considering where I’ve been emotionally this week as we continue to wait.

As we prayed I felt God burdening our hearts with the 140 million children in the world who need a family to call their own. There are nearly 5 million orphans in Ethiopia, and over 3,000 children in foster care just in our state. The numbers are daunting, and overwhelming, but I feel God calling His Church to meet this need, and I can’t wait to see what happens next!

Coincidentally, when Caleb and I went to the library this morning, we checked out the book A Mother for Choco, a story about a baby bird who needs a mommy and the mother bear who becomes his mother. I read the story to Caleb before he went to bed. Later, after he was in bed, I heard him crying in his bedroom. It seemed like a sad, hurt cry, and I was afraid that he had hurt himself so I went in to check on him. When I asked him what was wrong, he said, “Choco needs a mommy.”

It breaks my heart to watch my little son come to understand just one piece of the terrible sadness in this world, but I want him to know, I want his heart to break over the things that break God’s heart. I don’t want him to grow up thinking that every child has a life just like his. We prayed just tonight that the kids in our church would have tender hearts for the fatherless, and I’m already seeing God’s faithfulness in the compassion of my small son.

Of course, I immediately wrapped him up in my arms and assured him that he has a mommy and that Choco found a mommy. And then we prayed for all of the children who need a mommy. We lifted up the fatherless to our great Father who knows each one of them by name. Caleb is sleeping peacefully now; he may never mention it again, or we may talk about it every day. But I am so convicted by the heart of a little three year old who understands how desperately he needs his mommy and how sad it must be not to have one. And I can’t help but wonder how many three year olds went to sleep tonight with no mommy to comfort them. Oh that God would break our hard hearts over the things that break His heart!

There are so many parts of being a mommy that you can never understand or be prepared for in advance. When I imagined being a mom, I knew that it would be hard. I knew there would be lots of dirty diapers, sick days, and messy meals, but there is a big difference between expecting those things and actually living them. Until you’ve experienced it, you don’t understand what it is like to live daily with someone else’s snot on your sleeve; you don’t understand what it means to come in contact with poop several times a day or to find yourself cleaning up a bed of vomit at 3AM. But this is normal life for a mommy, and, even though there are so many beautiful, priceless blessings that come with motherhood, the messy parts can be draining and exhausting. There are no standing ovations for mommies, no promotions, and few “thank you’s.”

I love being a stay-at-home mom. There is nothing that would make me want to do anything else because I know that these years are fleeting. Caleb needs me so much right now, and someday he won’t. But, even though I feel so convicted about staying home with him, there are still times when I wake up and think, “I can’t believe this is my life! I can’t believe I went to school and studied so hard for all those years so that I could be a janitor.” Something about being a mom can make you feel so invisible, unappreciated, and unimportant. I know that these things aren’t true, but sometimes, without realizing it, I find myself living as if they were.

A few weeks ago, Caleb woke up sick. He had thrown up all over himself in bed. You can imagine the mess. How does one even begin to clean up something like that? Casey was out for the evening, so I found myself facing this mighty mess all alone. Usually I have a pretty bad attitude about situations like this. I hate messes, especially when I’m tired, and toddlers are so uncooperative when it comes to cleaning. But, for some reason, I approached this mess with a deep, calm peace. I gave Caleb a bath, put him in clean pajamas, and changed the bed sheets. The only thing left was the blanket that he had thrown up in. I wasn’t sure how to clean it. It was too big to rinse in the toilet, but I didn’t want to throw it in the washer with all of the vomit still on it. So I spread it out on the floor and tried to scrub it with a washcloth.

Caleb perched a few feet away from me and just watched. As he watched me struggling with the mess, he smiled at me and in his quietest, sweetest voice said, “Good job, Mommy.”

I was so startled by what he said that I immediately started crying. It hit me like a bolt of lightning that Caleb was not the one speaking to me. I heard unmistakably the voice of my Father saying, “I see you; you are not invisible to Me. I see you, and I am pleased.” Wow! How’s that for a standing ovation!?! I would clean up a mess like that every night for a year to hear those words from my Father. It was a beautiful moment that I want to cherish always.

“So she called the name of the LORD who spoke to her, ‘You are a God of seeing,’ for she said, ‘Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.’” ~ Genesis 16:13