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 . . .