Letting Go . . .

This is a tough post for me to write.  It is probably the second most difficult post I have had to pen, aside from the one where I let everyone know our initial adoption had failed.  That post was about our circumstances.  This post is about my heart.

I have to be honest:  I have not really let go.  I am sure those of you who keep up with this blog are saying sarcastically, Really? You could have fooled us. It is evident in everything that I write.  While the thoughts are not as frequent, the tears not as near, the heart not as broken, I am still clinging to the hope that one day JP can be part of our family.

In some way, that makes sense. August and most of September were filled with worry for JP and then anticipation of getting him into a safe place.  He is there now, and I can rejoice.  Our family can rest in the fact that we can support him to adulthood, that he can go to school, that he will be fed and cared for.

But, something else keeps my heart so tightly wrapped around that little boy. We told JP we would come back for him.  When given the choice between several different options, JP's mom chose us.  We warned her that the adoption may never be a reality, that it would take at least another year for him to become part of our family, if that was even a possibility, but she didn't waver. That is a heavy responsibility that is hard to let go.

In July, a few weeks after returning from my trip, I had the incredible privilege of having dinner with one of the nation's foremost experts in care of children from trauma, especially those in international adoption. Through an interesting string of circumstances, God placed her in our home for some good ole-fashioned chicken tenders and boxed mashed potatoes.   She was so gracious and welcomed our discussion, even when she was just wearing the hat of grandma that day. We asked her the one question burning on our hearts, "If we ever have the opportunity to adopt JP again, based on the trauma he has experienced, should we even try?"

Her advice has carried me through the last few months.  She told a sweet story of one of her babies, where she experienced the value of giving things over to the Lord.

She told us, "When faced with a difficult decision like this one, I always ask myself three questions."

"First, I ask,  Is it Biblical?"  Caring for the orphan is clearly outlined in the Bible.  Because we were waiting to see if family reunification was possible, we felt confident that we could say yes.

"Second," she said, "You need to wait to see if God lines up the circumstances for you to move forward."

I won't even get to the third question because this is where we are stuck.  God hasn't said, "No", yet.  He has said, "Wait."  And in that wait, I have to confess that I have not been trusting Him to work it out.  Sure, my behavior has come a little closer.  I feel I have not actively taken control in any situation, and I praise God for granting me self-control there.

But, as my grief changes and consumes me less and less, I have become more aware that my heart is still deep in turmoil, waging war against the peace God has for me. I constantly check the computer for updates (and when I say constant, ask my husband or any other adoptive parent for the obscene levels of email-checking that goes on through the international adoption experience).  I still experience full-on anxiety when I play worst-case scenarios in my head.  And, what has disturbed me the most is that I hold a little back in my worship of the Lord.  I still praise God for His goodness, but there is something in me that doesn't fully engage.

I know why. Inside me, there is this irrational and unfounded fear--to the point of silliness--that if I release this into God's care, that will be the end of it. If I fully worship Him, if I fully praise Him in spite of the fact that He has not yet answered this prayer, He will think I am over it.  He will assume it still isn't my heart's desire.  It will fall in the cracks somewhere, and I will always wonder and regret whether or not I should have done more. Everyone, including myself, will think we should just go back to normal and forget that there is a little boy, and tons of other little boys and girls like him, who doesn't have a family.  I will have given up on JP.

But, oh the sweet truth that settled on my today. Letting go is not giving up.  

Letting go does not change my or JP's circumstances.  Letting go doesn't even change the future; God is already there, directing it and guiding it and making it align with His will.  Letting go is a change in my heart. It is releasing my hand from the invisible control I thought I had on the situation and placing it in the Lord's.  It is a willingness to let Him lead and to understand that He only expects me to look to Him.  It is a belief in the promise from I Peter 5:7 to "cast all my anxiety on Him because He cares for me."  It is recognizing that God's control is better than mine, even when everything in me wars to hold on.

A sweet friend of mine, who is struggling with her husband's illness, described it as a "ripping from her hands."  It is not easy, but it is good.  I have to believe that He cares for me.  I have to believe that He is bigger than my illusion of control: that if I cry out my desires to Him, He delights in me.  I have to believe that He tells me to only worry about today because He has the future under control.  I have to believe that when I am weak, He is strong.  That when I am resting, He is fighting for me.  That He can direct the hearts of kings and use all circumstances for His glory.  That He has not brought me this far to leave me in this place--either He will provide or He will heal completely.  That His plans for me are greater than my fears.  That He will not put those who wait on Him to shame. He promises all of these things.  But, I will never see them--and they will never shine in me--unless I release my grip.

I wrote all of that on Friday night, when my daughter had a friend over and I could actually think.  On Saturday, she and I went to see the movie Grace Unplugged.  In it, an eighteen-year-old girl rebels against her parents and runs away.  Her father closes his grip on her so tightly that he threatens to hurt his marriage and his faith.  As an audience member, who knows that most movies end well, you just want to scream at him to chill out and let things take care of themselves.  But, then, it was like God came out of the movie and spoke to me.  At the end of his rope, he hugs his wife, looks up, and tells God, "She's yours."  He releases his daughter into the care of the Lord, because he recognizes he never really had control in the first place.

So, here it goes.  Sweaty palms, beating heart, tears streaming. It's amazing how real the illusion of control feels. I take a deep breath.  He's yours, God.  Do with him what is right.  I release him to you because you are  God and I am not.  You are able to do more than I can even imagine in his life and in my heart.