Faith in the Sustaining Work of God

I have had the intense pleasure of studying Genesis and Exodus this entire year because of our church's sermon series and a Bible study. And, there is just this one theme that runs through these early books of the Bible, again and again and again, and in case you missed it, again.

"Wait on the Lord. He will fulfill His plan and His purpose. Even things that seem impossible are not too hard for God."

In 2013, when everything fell apart, I heard the voice of God say three words, "I will sustain." At the time, I thought it meant that He will sustain me, and He has. But, I recently looked up the word sustain and realized it has an additional meaning that I did not know or remember:

"In music, an effect where a note continues to play after the key has been released . . ."

Our journey has been long. It began in my heart nearly 20 years ago, and in our family's lives in March 2012, five years ago, when we made the decision to begin the adoption process. In 2013, many of you know our adoption failed because, while the birth mother left Jean Paul in the care of an orphanage, she did not consent to his adoption. I traveled to investigate, withdrew our adoption petition, and ensured that Jean Paul was returned to his birth mother. A few months later, she relinquished him again because she could not care for him due to her health and other issues, and we have supported him in a foster family ever since. We had hoped that we may be able to correct the issues in the first adoption quickly, but a few weeks later, the country closed, and the future of adopted children from the DRC became uncertain. We could not move forward as planned. Deadlines loomed that we would not be able to meet, and we began to accept the reality that, while we had been able to help Jean Paul, we would not be able to bring him home.

While we grieved, the Lord was sweet to sustain us. 2014 was quiet. We received a few pictures. Philip and I took a small trip together. We started to get back to life as normal.

In early 2015, there were murmurs that the country may allow hundreds of children adopted in DRC to come home. This tugged at our hearts, but we were so far from any hope in the process, and there were many factors to consider-the most important one being what would be best for Jean Paul.

But, we could not abandon him when there was hope. Because of a change in the law, we could not work with our previous organization. We had to go this time alone, so, we put the outcome in the Lord's hands and  began the journey of taking the next logical step, and if a door closed, we would allow it.

And, so the Lord's work began, a beautiful note playing, steady through what looked like chaos and uncertainty.

One day, I will sit down and recount all of the miracles and provision the Lord has provided over the last two years. I cannot count the number of doors that could have slammed in our face, and yet, each one has remained open (sometimes surprisingly at the last minute), for us to walk through to the next.  For every need, he has provided someone that could meet it. For every impossible scenario, he has made a way. Through closed countries, through a complicated US process, through political strife and upheaval, he has sustained us, and He has sustained His purpose and plan for our lives.

So, with great joy, I am pleased to recount the goodness of our God--last Friday, Jean Paul was issued a US visa to join our family. Once we find a way to arrange travel, we will bring him home. Thank you for your prayers--they have been heard and answered (they would have been heard and answered had it been 'no' too).

"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

Our God, the Great Sustainer in all things, to Him be the glory. May we each look back on our lives and see the beautiful symphony He has pieced together by our joys, our sorrows, and our seasons of waiting that allow us to trust Him and His power to bring all things together for our good and his glory.

We have remained private but have recently been convicted that the Lord loves to hear His people cry out to Him and plead with Him to act in a mighty and God-glorifying way. Therefore, we ask for prayer in the FINAL, FINAL phase of this journey--the DRC has been experiencing political strife for the past 6 months, that seems to be culminating in the weeks ahead. We are waiting on the Lord to make clear travel plans and pave a path for Jean Paul to travel safely to the US. We look forward to celebrating the completion of the work He has begun.

In Ways We Cannot See . . .

It's been a year and a half since my last post. I look back on that season, and I can't believe how the words just flowed out of my heart and onto the page. The Lord spoke such Truth to my heart as he walked with me through suffering. And, now, I feel I look at a blank page and have little to say. That's okay--God has given someone else a voice for this day. It's sometimes nice to walk a level road.

I am reminded, though, of this time 2 years ago. I pulled into my school parking lot on the first day of school and just sobbed. I could barely go in. It's not that I didn't want to be there--I genuinely love what I do--but I was supposed to be on 'maternity' leave helping Jean Paul get acclimated to his new home. The end of summer felt so final; the hope I had clung to in July and August ripped from me as I crossed the threshold. The work of smiling through every day, overwhelming.

That same month, I started taking graduate classes in educational administration. I looked through my journal recently and realized that I had been praying whether or not to start classes since 2010. I had applied and then unregistered several times, not sure it was a good decision for our family. August 2013 was my last chance to register without starting the entire process all over again, and I really needed something to keep my mind busy. Can I say that again? I really needed something to keep my mind busy. So, I asked Philip if I could sign up for a few classes. Being immersed in education classes was such a blessing--it invigorated me for the work of teaching and gave me a new focus.

Then, a few months later, my colleagues were gracious enough allow me to represent our school in a teaching program. I am sure those red eyes the first day of school helped me to get some pity votes, and I was just floored. If you can believe it, I was talking to a friend during the meeting's announcement and had to be told twice.  I can say this because I don't think that award really had much to do with me being a phenomenal teacher. I have neighbors and colleagues in my building and in the district who teach circles around me. And, that is not false modesty, I promise. I steal ideas from them every day.

When I look back, that sequence of events--the first day of school, and the decision to start classes, and the small recognition--were not a coincidence. I believe they were a divinely appointed whisper from my Savior to say, The dreams and gifts I have given you have not fallen through the cracks. You are right where you are supposed to be. Joy and purpose are not found in circumstance, but in Me. I work in ways you cannot see. 

And, in the sweet provision that can only come from the Lord, the recognition also came with a monetary prize. Immediately, I knew my heart's desire for that money: I wanted to return to Africa. I wanted to redeem that moment where Jean Paul's mother pushed him toward me, and I had to say no. I wanted to steal back that snapshot of abandonment and replace it with one of love and sacrifice and favor. Philip graciously allowed me to open an account for my 'Trip to Africa' fund, and we waited for the right time.

Two Augusts later, the start of this school year brought excitement, not overwhelm. I was actually looking forward to a year without so much activity (I finished classes in May), where I could slow down and find small joys in my family and friendships. I sat down to mark the school calendar. Then, I went back through the months to mark the birth dates of close friends and family. When I went to write Jean Paul's birthday, I was surprised to see that it fell on a four-day weekend. I checked flights, and the prize money would cover my trip.

So, on October 11, I was given the surreal privilege of experiencing this day. God is so good. All the time, He is good. But, to allow me to see Jean Paul's tooth-filled smile again, and to feel his shoulders as I prayed the Lord's goodness and mercy over him, and to hear this new family of voices celebrate his life, there are no words.

Finally . ..At Peace

So, I am here, finally at an emotion that has been elusive since February 2013: PEACE.

I am not quite sure how I got here. Honestly, I sometimes worried that I would never feel true joy again.  For the past fifteen months, when peace would try to infiltrate into my heart and mind, other emotions quickly took over.  Fear. Anger. A desire to be right. To win. I thought I wanted peace, but I didn't.  I wanted to fix everything.  I wanted the solution that made sense to me to make sense to everyone else, so we could all just move on.  

The only person not moving on was me. 

God has been so gracious and faithful.  He has brought situations and people to pass to reach my stubborn heart.  Just this week, I sat on a conference call where many other adoptive families are facing the fears that the Congolese government may never reopen adoptions, and my heart went out to them. I know the hurt and fear and overwhelm.  A few days later, I ran into a friend who found out that his dreams of taking his family to Africa this summer, in hopes of preparing to become missionaries there, have been dashed.  And, as I encouraged him of God's sovereignty and love for us, I heard the echo of my voice in my own heart. Really, it was the echo of God's voice, that small whisper he has spoken to me, His child.  

But, I have bristled at the thought of moving on for so long.  A friend sent me Jesus Calling, and I have read it almost every day, loving the days when I read about trusting God to bring about miracles, hating the days when it tells me to seek God above all things.  I have watched the journey of my heart change through the music that speaks to my soul.  From "Oceans" to "I Find You on My Knees" and "Though You Slay Me" to "Tapestry", it has been a journey from faith, to sorrow, to acceptance.  I wrote about trusting and praising God in this season, and I am thankful for the heart to do so, despite my inner turmoil.  But, still, there was a small huge hope in me that everything could change. That the world could turn back to what it was before the Embassy called last July.  An ounce of faith, and a mountain of uncertainty.  

And, now, I have finally realized something very important: we can't go back to the way it was.  That world doesn't make sense either.  Even if I received a call today where I found out, "All is well. You can adopt Jean Paul," it would be another year or two before he could come home because of the suspension in the DRC and inevitable backlog of adoption cases when the country reopens.  He would then be almost 7, and he would have been living with a Congolese family for two to three years.  He would have built friendships in his small village; that would be home. 

While our moments with him have been etched into our minds and hearts forever, I have had to come to the difficult realization that, given his age, it is likely he does not even remember us. This week, a friend, who is also adopted, helped me realize that the Congo is all he knows.  What a gift that the Lord would give him a family there.  He can now understand trust and security and love for the first time.  While we are blessed to continue to make a difference in his life, our repeated entrance into his life as possible adoptive parents will just add to his trauma and confusion. 

Despite all of our efforts, the circumstances have changed.  Praise God that my heart is finally ready to change, too.  

This week, a friend posted a verse that spoke to me through another difficult season:

"Those who cling to worthless idols,

Forfeit the grace that could be theirs."

Jonah 2:8

Over the past few months, I have been so fearful of penning words of acceptance, any hint that we may actually move on.  Each post has been honest but has also included an attempt to give just enough to not have to let go.  

Today, I know, it is time.  Words cannot express the gratitude that I feel for how passionately the Lord has pursued my heart in this season.  There are no tears today. Only hope.

Wow . . .

So, I have to say. This week has been unexpectedly strange.

Yesterday, I sat down to my computer and found this piece of writing opened on my desktop.  I remembered drafting it in September of last year, thinking to enter a writing contest in a magazine I was reading.  I was recounting the evening I arrived in Kinshasa on my own last July. Because of a seven-hour delay in Brussels, we arrived well past what would be considered safe. When I drafted months ago, I got writer's block, closed it down, and honestly, completely forgot about it. Until, it randomly showed up on my computer as I sat down to check my email or Facebook or CNN. I am sure my kids had something to do with it. And, unexpectedly, I reread these words--

                 I threw the last dilapidated suitcase into the back of our already-crammed minivan.  The feeling was overwhelming.  It was not butterflies in my stomach; it was a raging buzz across my entire being.  I was encased in fear, and only the shuffling of my feet and the nonrefundable flight tickets propelled me forward.  Then, blonde hair that sits atop a bouncy five-year-old boy appeared at my left hand.  He grabbed my fingers and kissed the back of my palm.  “In case you miss us . . .” he said.  Ah, The Kissing Hand. For me.  We both had hid our trepidation of what lie ahead so well, but I could not hide the wall of tears ready to flood down my cheeks, my little boy saying so much in so little. He didn’t say, “Stay,” although I am sure that is what he wanted. I know that is what I wanted, but we both knew I had to go.

                Thirty-six hours later, I arrived at my destination—Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo—and found myself alone at three o’clock in the morning, unfamiliar with the city, and in a car with two drivers who spoke only Lingala and French.  I should say I only spoke English, as I was in their country, and it was my duty to learn their language.  But, I learned Spanish in school, and so I sat in the van, a thirty-five-year old, praying that my parents would never find out I had betrayed their one condition to their blessings on my travel:  Don’t go out alone at night.  A newcomer to foreign travel without a companion, and until this year a newcomer to any travel without the comforts of Western society, my mind raced with morbid possibilities.   My phone sat comfortably in my backpack, long out of battery.  As the last passenger was dropped off, leaving me alone in the car, all I could do was sit quietly in the backseat, encased in darkness and utterly alone, praying that the Congolese sunrise would find me safe. 

                When my drivers pulled into the dark courtyard of what I hoped was the hotel where I had reservations, I saw no one.  At first glance, it appeared that we were at a deserted warehouse, and all of the images of every horror film I had ever seen entered my mind.  But, these Congolese men were kind, even if we don’t speak the same language.  They walked with me to the patio and knocked on the door.  My heart was pounding so hard that it might be visible to them if they could see in this pitch dark.  Moments later, we heard a man grumbling himself awake on the patio.  I later learned this was Jack, who acts as the hotel’s bartender by day and sleeps on the patio to protect the patrons and welcome late-arrivals at night.  Aged and slightly rackety, Jack quickly opened the doors, turned on lights in the foyer, and led me to my comfortable room at St. Anne's.

                Tired and overwhelmed, I quickly slept.  I did not know my need for courage was just beginning. 

Then, today, I saw this blog post shared on a friend's Facebook page, written by a man who was abducted two weeks ago from an almost exactly similar scenario I faced last July (despite a harrowing experience, thankful he was eventually safe):  Abducted and Robbed in the Congo. 

And, I am just thankful.  Thankful for the Lord's protection.  Thankful that I knew about the only reliable airport shuttle in the country because of my travel months earlier and a wonderful organization here who does all it can to keep us safe. Thankful that a man from World Vision overheard me express my fears to the flight attendants in Brussels and vowed to get me to the shuttle safely.  Thankful that those two men driving me to the same hotel ensured that I arrived.  In the palm of God's hand, neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither today nor the worries of what is to come, can separate us from His love. Wow . . .

All That Remains. . .

So, I just finished my last act of obedience in this journey.  Our petition to the U.S. government to adopt any child from the DRC expired on April 24, 2014. Philip and I decided that we would not close the door; we would let that be the Lord's doing. So, we updated our home study and sent our request for a free 18-month extension.  Yesterday, we received our approval letter.

So, there is nothing more to be done.

And, yet, one thing remains.

From the moment I met Jean-Paul, I have had a deep desire for him to come to know the Lord.  This desire has not lessened over the year, even if our present circumstances mean he likely will not hear it from our family.  In February, the Lord sent a sweet reminder of who controls man's salvation, even in difficult circumstances. Our church is affiliated with an orphanage and church ministry in Kenya.  The Kenyan pastor spoke to our home group, and as I heard his testimony, I had to fight back the tears.  Much like Jean-Paul, he was forced to live without a father, and his mother had to make money however she could. Eventually, an uncle agreed to support him so that he could attend school.  Years later, a missionary family he met while in Kenya sponsored him so that he could attend college in the United States.  Now, he leads his own ministry in Kenya, where he focuses on helping prostitutes and street boys see hope in the beauty of the Gospel.  At dinner, I thanked him for his testimony, telling him how much it spoke to my anxious heart.  He smiled, "I have seen God raise up those street kids to be amazing men of God.  It's like God uses that heartache in a beautiful way to bring those children to Him."

What a gift of the Lord. To his life.  To my soul.  To what I hope will be Jean-Paul's future.

But, the Lord came to seek and save a people of every tongue, tribe and nation for himself, and over the past few months, I have been deeply moved to pray for another person's salvation: that of Jean-Paul's birth mother.  I have seen how in-laws, governmental entities and community members disguised as mentors have all used her as a pawn for their own purposes.  I know that men use her, and that they use her daughters.  I have wept for her salvation; I have regretted that I did not share more in my visit with her; I have pleaded with the Father to send someone to share the true Gospel with her.  Not a religion of rules and shame, but one of grace and peace and forgiveness.

When I sing these words, I think of that tall, broken woman and pray for God to heal and to save and to redeem--

Everyone needs compassion
Love that's never failing
Let mercy fall on me

Everyone needs forgiveness
The kindness of a Savior
The Hope of nations

Jesus, He can move the mountains
Our God is mighty to save,
He is mighty to save

Forever, Author of Salvation,
He rose and conquered the grave,
Jesus conquered the grave.

I know that His arm of compassion can reach into the depths of her despair. So, I pray that He saves her, that he sets her feet on a rock, that He gives her freedom in Christ, where there is no condemnation. I pray that he replaces her guilt and shame with His perfect sacrifice, where she can see purpose for the days ahead, where she can lead other women to understand God's grace, and where I can hug her as a sister in Christ, in this life or in the next, without the shame of her struggle or the tension of the last year's mess. Where we are both just daughters of the King.

And, so when all is done, all that remains is salvation, the finding of the lost coin.

And, when I think about it, it is all that really mattered in the first place.

"Indeed, we count all things as loss,

For the surpassing worth of knowing Jesus our Lord."

Philippians 3:8

Overlooked and Pushed Aside . . .

This week has been somewhat tough for me.  While I did not express it at the time, the last few weeks came with some tough news.  Since November, we have stopped even thinking about the possibility of readoption of JP, even though his mom relinquished him again in September and he will likely live in foster care or an orphanage for the foreseeable future, perhaps his entire childhood. At this time, the DRC international adoption world is too volatile and our case too complicated.  Just a few weeks ago, we found out that there were some ripples that could even affect JP's future at his current home. With that news came some emotions of fear and insecurity.  Another small part of me that has begun to look for miracles in hardship thought, "Ripples could be a good thing. Although it looks scary at first, God works in the scary and unknown." And, I received a renewed fervor to pray.

Now, it seems that things have again gone silent, and the status quo remains.  The status quo is okay--it's not optimal, but it is the best of a bad situation.  But, sometimes I still get frustrated that we were the case that failed.  Every family who went this road with us--even though they faced their own share of troubles--now has their little one(s) at home. Families who were behind us in the process are now starting to realize the fruition of all their waiting. I thought (and in my heart of hearts, still think) it was the best decision to pull back, to let things take their course; but, sometimes, I still struggle with the fact that if I had fought for him, he would be six months into a life in our family. I know this isn't Biblical or spiritual, but it is my human nature. So, while I do celebrate with other people who are celebrating, that doesn't mean the celebration doesn't come with a little bit of regret and loss and feelings of being pushed aside.

Tonight, my family and I read the Jesus Storybook Bible together (I highly recommend that book; it is amazing).  Kate chose the story--The Frail Girl and the Elderly Woman.  I had honestly forgotten the story and was halfway paying attention, when she got to a part that struck home with me.

The story comes from Luke 8:40-53. In the story, a man named Jairus went up to Jesus and asked Jesus to come home with him because his only daughter was dying.  On the way to Jairus' home, an elderly woman touched Jesus' cloak, and His power immediately healed her. Jesus stopped. He turned around, questioned who touched him, and when he discovered it was the woman, confirmed that her faith had healed her.  At that moment, someone came from Jairus' home and said, "Your daughter is dead. Don't bother the teacher any more."

I can imagine how Jairus might have been feeling at the time.  The story doesn't focus on that moment, but today during Kate's Bible reading, I just stopped to think.  Jesus was on the way to heal his only daughter.  If this woman had not touched him, if Jesus had not stopped to inquire who she was, Jesus may have saved his daughter. But, in that instant, it seemed He was too late. I am certain that there was a moment in Jairus' heart where he, even if for just a moment, sank at the imperfect timing, where his anxiety got the best of him, where he celebrated at the miracle for the woman but he desperately wanted one for himself.

But, Jesus turned to Jairus and said, "Don't be afraid; just believe, and she will be healed."

Honestly, that is breathtaking.  Right when Jairus was told it is hopeless, Jesus turned to him and said, "I am the One who gives you hope." Right when Jairus was told time had run out, Jesus turned to him and said, "I am not limited in my miracles." Right when Jairus was told his daughter had gone too far to be saved, Jesus turned to him and said, "There is nothing too far or too complicated or too late for me." And right when Jairus was told not to bother Jesus any more, Jesus turned to him and said, "Have faith, my child. I have miracles saved just for you."

Reflecting on 2013 . . .

I can't believe the difference a year makes.

On January 1, I am normally planning to keep things more organized or eat healthier or exercise more. That's why I was a little put out last year when my former Bible study leader texted me with a New Year's message that essentially read, "Wishing you blessed suffering in the coming year."  Suffering wasn't on the horizon. We were excited to put a 'completed' stamp on this adoption thing in the coming weeks.  Days earlier, we had received notice our adoption was complete in the DRC.  We were officially JP's parents.  2013 would be a year of homecoming and bonding and restoration.  Suffering would have to wait.

But, anyone who has followed our story knows that, within a few weeks of receiving that text, we were thrust into a year out of control, full of uncertainty and loss. I don't know if my friend was prophetic; what I do know is that she was preaching the Gospel to my soul right before I needed it.  In fact, she has spoken that Truth to my heart for the past several years, neither of us knowing how much I would need it.

And, I am thankful for her.  I am thankful for her courage and willingness to speak that Truth.  I am thankful that she did not tickle my ears with words I wanted to hear, but that she knew the Lord deeply enough to know that a life in Christ involves suffering.

The beautiful thing is that Christ's suffering is different than the world's suffering: it is always accompanied by hope.  In fact, it produces hope (Romans 5:4).  According to Hebrews, Christ's suffering was not a flaw; it was actually that which makes our salvation perfect. And our suffering is a privilege (Philippians 1:29) to make us likewise perfect, not lacking in anything (James 1:2-9).  I especially love how 2 Corinthians describes the goal of our "momentary" afflictions:  to teach us to fix our eyes on what is unseen, to look toward the future, eternal glory that awaits us.

And, I can tell you that is exactly what happened through the worry of this year. January and February brought panic and anxiety as we saw the first glimmer of the troubles to come, and I faced the fearful task of traveling to DRC without Philip. I cried out to God to prove His faithfulness.  June and July brought an adventure I could not have imagined a few months earlier--packing up in a matter of hours and heading to DRC completely alone.  Amidst shaking hands and whirling thoughts, I prayed for courage I could not muster alone.  And, the most recent season has forced us into an acceptance of a loss that may not be restored this side of heaven.

I can tell that my reaction to songs reflects the state of my soul.  In August, I heard a song by Shane & Shane.  I did not like it at the time.  Honestly, it is a song of acceptance, and I was not ready for it.  You can listen to it here. My heart rebelled against the lyrics, "Though You slay me, Yet I will praise You. Though You take from me, I will bless Your name. Though You ruin me, still I will worship. Sing a song to the One who's all I need."  I didn't believe it; I needed more. But, one day months later, the Lord brought the song back to my mind.  I went to YouTube, and I played it.  My heart still stirred against it, but I also felt a need to listen, to make room in my heart for the opportunity to praise.  Just a few weeks ago, I was at my computer, listening to that same song.  New tears streamed down my cheeks.  My once rebellious spirit was filled with overwhelming comfort and peace.  Not only had He had sustained me through the difficulties of the year, He had revealed Himself to me and changed me in the process.

2013 was a year of suffering. Our family has suffered.  Through this experience, I have met so many women who have suffered the loss of their children, both literally and figuratively. We have cried and prayed with close, young friends who lost the illusion of control and security to disease.  We have watched the DRC close adoptions for an uncertain period of time, leaving so many families like ours to long and worry for their children for the next year.

2013 was also a year of immeasurable growth.  It was a year of incomprehensible dependence.  It was the year I thought I knew God, and then I got to know Him.  It was the year I learned that true praise does not come cheaply.  That the Lord can make us cry tears of grief, only to sustain us for tears of joy.  It was the year that I saw Him turn mourning to dancing, not because our circumstances had changed but because He invited us deeper into the fog so we could see Him more.

Some may expect that we want to put 2013 behind us.  But, I want to do the opposite.  I want to place this year before us.  I want to place a stone of remembrance around 2013, to remind us of God's goodness to us.  I want to remember God's sovereignty this year, to know that He does not leave us alone but walks through our trials with us.  I don't want to be lulled back to a desire for a slimmer figure or more organized home; I want to gaze at a God who knew and knows suffering.

It is likely that someone reading this will have a rough year.  I have the same message for you, "Wishing you blessed suffering."  If you are like me, you will bristle at the thought.  And, I get that.  I will probably bristle again when our next season comes.  But, I hope I will go back to this year.  I hope I will remember that God is faithful.  I hope I will remember that He will sustain.  I hope, on those days I don't want to get out of bed, I will remember that He will get me through this day and the next day, and though the journey of grief is long and exhausting, it is strangely beautiful in its metamorphosis.

And, I hope I will remember the value of the desert, the wilderness, the sackcloth and ashes--that suffering is not something that has gone wrong in this world, an imperfection to be overcome.  In God's world, suffering is what makes things perfect, what makes us perfect.

And, I hope I will remember there is a world beyond this one, where suffering will be no more.  Where tears and pain and sadness will cease.  Where, Lord willing, I get to hang out with my Congolese little boy for all of eternity.