You know the timelines.
Those “won’t go past” dates, the minimums and maximums, the farthest out, the optimistic estimates, the age spreads with your current kids. The readjusting and adjusting back and then stretching the timeline to the breaking point.
It’s part of The Long Wait.
And sometimes, it really does break. Or you do.
The Long Wait does feel different the second time around, after being there. I lived in how things work; I accepted that This Is Africa. And God-in-Uganda taught me so much about trust, and patience, and waiting for Him only. Not even for Him to do things the way I thought would work out best. Just for Him.
But easier? Here I was thinking that because the wait felt different, it was easier the second time around. It felt lighter, simpler. More accepting.
But even if you know the culture and you realize the variables, even if you leave it at the feet of the One who knows waiting, a second adoption can still start showing the cracks. The burden is still heavy. You can still fall apart. It’s still hard when you imagine that the dream you’ve chased for years, the one that started it all, the burning GO you felt in your heart, might disintegrate.
Some days, the weight is just heavier, no matter if it’s your first adoption or your fifth.
It’s the constant ebb and flow of hope and negativity, of rest and frenzy. I think I’m OK with the wait one day, and the next week a sliver of news betrays my heart: I’d been pining away after all. I’d wanted this.
My heart had been groaning in ways my words didn’t let met. My very soul held on while I smiled and said, “whatever happens is okay.”
It turns out, pain that’s pushed down beneath the surface still hurts. Hope still glimmers, even if you don’t want to admit it.
It’s better to let the pain rise, to acknowledge it. It’s okay to admit that this was the craziest, biggest hope I dared to dream, and it’s okay to tell God that I’m terrified. It’s good to confess that I thought I trusted Him, and it’s better to say out loud that I was trying to hide my deepest desires from him. In truth, I thought if I just stopped thinking about it, stopped longing, maybe it would all magically happen. I could slip it under God’s radar.
And so, I’m back in the swirling mess and I lay it down again. I ask for help because I can’t stand up under it anymore. I pray for acceptance, and I beg for trust and faith.
That’s all He wants me to be, because that’s where I say honestly and without the illusion of control, “help me.”