I sat there holding my wife’s hand, the door opened and led by the hand of his older brother, our first adoptive son entered the room. He took each step without knowing, without thinking, resting in the hope that those he had come to know as family in his first year were doing their best, were protecting him, were sending him home.
I stood there in awe as this beautiful little boy conquered the distance between us and landed in our arms. My heart was full, my emotions responding like the explosion of a fireworks display. My son was home, the boy we had prayed for, the one we longed for, the champion who had risen above all th e challenges he had faced was about to cross the finish line and we were celebrating with tears, with joy and with an overwhelming sense that the enemy of orphanhood had been defeated.
One day they will arrive. Without celebration, applause, smiles or a hope. They enter the world by the hand of a hero who chose to give life and extend blessing to another family. But there is no time to celebrate, this is a time of great loss. Tears form and fall, not out of joy but from grief. Thoughts of regret, remorse, pain judgment fill her mind as she reluctantly releases her greatest gift to another. The grief, the poverty of mind, of situation and heart have led her to this day, a dark day, the darkest day. She holds only to a hope, a hope that flickers and settles her soul, gently encouraging her that he will be safe, he will survive, He will succeed, he will love and be greatly loved. Continue reading