A Mother's Heart. . .and a Father's Love

It has been two months since I said goodbye to my little boy and left the DRC.  I am not his mother. He has a beautiful mother who continues to seek what is best for him against nearly impossible odds.  But, he is my little boy.  I think it probably seems weird to someone who has not gone through the journey of adoption to "get" how you can feel so much for someone before he even lives with you. But something inside of a mother--when she knows that the care of a little one has been placed into her hands--tugs at her heartstrings so that she can't help but harness that fierce affection and concern and unconditional love that the Lord folds into our very core.

I don't think it was the first time we visited JP that I became his mother.  He bonded so well with Philip on that trip that I could just sit in the background and enjoy the idea of having him in our home.  I now recognize that it was on my second trip--when I traveled alone in February--that he became my little boy.  In the course of our visit to the orphanage, I nourished him and taught him and rocked him.  We shared smiles and that small recognition, even when he ran around and played with the other children, that he belonged somewhere, and that was with me.  It was that day that everything changed; even though I knew the struggle ahead, I was in it for the long haul.

Two months after saying goodbye, I have to admit that there is still an overwhelming ache in my soul.  I can't place it, but I feel it in that small spot, just above the stomach and below the sternum: the exact center of my being.  Sometimes, especially now that I am back at school and a routine, the ache disappears and I get back on with life as usual.  I am actually joyful and carefree.  And, then, sometimes, the ache is so deep that the floodgates open, and the feeling that we are so out of control of our little boy's life takes over. 

And, I know that is just part of grief.  I know it is natural. I know that one day I won't be so lost in my thoughts that, when I start to get in the shower, Philip won't say to me, "You just took a shower,"  and I won't actually have forgotten that not twenty minutes earlier I stood in our shower, nourished by the water, but lost in my own world.   I know that one day I won't go to bed thinking about JP and wake up thinking about JP, sometimes long before it is time to face the day.  I know that one day I won't wonder--each time we do something as a family--how much JP would have enjoyed it.  I know grief is temporary, and I know that suffering is part of life.  

But, right now, I am still his mom. And, I think about him all the time.  As much as anyone might think about their child, especially when that child's future is uncertain.  And, as his mother, I am the only one who really bears that weight.  My friends and family are extremely supportive, but honestly how many times can they say, "I'm sorry!" I know they mean it; I know that when I ask them to pray for JP, they are also praying for me.  And I am so grateful.  But grief is just a process, and in the end, there is really nothing they can do to "make it all better".  

Even Philip--who struggles with his own concern and worry for JP--cannot say or do or counsel enough to fix it.  He cannot know the right thing to say in each circumstance. He cannot be my knight in shining armor. He cannot restore my soul. That is too great a burden for him to bear.

I have found that songs often give me such clarity.  It is something about the melody and lyrics and quiet time overwhelmed by God's goodness.  Tonight, I was broken and encouraged by these words:

How great the love of God

That endures

That pursues

Even a sinner like me

How great the love of God

Determined

Bearing my burden

Restoring my soul

Unwavering 

Unchanging

Never resting

Never tiring

Full of goodness

and unceasing

How great the Love 

That covers me. 

What beautiful truths in the midst of suffering. And, I can say first-hand that I have seen these promises speak to me in the last two months.  Other people can do a great deal for us, but there are some seasons when the ache is so deep and the pain so solitary that only a relationship with the Creator carries us through.  He bears our burdens.  He cares for us without ceasing or resting or tiring.  He pursues me and covers me and endures with me.  He is nearer to me than anyone else. 

And, when I think that maybe He won't go the length with me, that maybe He will get sick of my constant pleas for JP and my heart, I have only to look to the cross to understand the depth and height and breadth of His love for me.     

A perfect Father's love for this mother's broken heart.