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.

A Love Story . . .

We can all picture it.  The couple who meets, falls deeply and madly in love, and then goes through a series of mishaps that include missed cues, missed schedules, and missed communication.  It looks like everything is lost:  that these two people who were fated to be together will just miss one another.  But, then, right when the audience can take it no longer, the music swells as they both show up at the same coffee shop or bookstore or top of the Empire State Building.  They run around frantically, certain that if they find this one person, life will be as it should. There is a pause in the music.  He turns around, and she is there.  Time stops. She feels him watching her, and they meet one another's gaze.  They tilt their head in this way that say, "I knew it was you all along."  And, in that moment,  they embrace, sure that their "happily ever after" has just begun.

Oh, how Hollywood fools us.  How writers know how to create the most predictable chain of events and still have us sitting on the edge of our seats.  How they create unrealistic expectations of how life and relationships actually work.  And, I have to admit I was drawn in.  Throughout our journey, I have been kind of hoping for the same thing.  Not a romantic love story, but I have hoped that one day, we would have our own family love story.  After all of the drama of this entire adoption, we would have this magical moment where our friends and family come to the airport to see us carry JP to his new home.  Things would move in slow-motion; there would be a beautiful, emotion-filled score to highlight each moment;   JP's smile would run from ear to ear, and there would not be a dry eye around.

Wonderfully, that scene does happen in real-life, and it is a moment to be cherished.  But, it won't be our love story.  This journey has been about a different kind of love.

It has been about a God who redeemed me.

It has been about a God who started a small seed in my heart, one that was obedient to His will.

It has been about a God who closed the obvious doors and opened other doors and left me with only faith to walk through them.

It has been about a God who took me to a different place than my anxious heart wanted to go.

It has been about a God who said, "I know what the world says is good and right, but I have a different plan."

It has been about a God who cried with me, because He has been there.

It has been about a God who used tangible encouragement to show me He was still there.

It has been about a God who did not leave me alone, but who spoke to my heart through His word and song and the care of others.

It has been about a God who answered specific prayers to show me His might; and it has been about a God who did not answer specific prayers to show me His wisdom.

It has been about a God who slowly exchanged my thoughts about what is just and merciful and replaced them with His own.

It has been about a God who saved me from my own spiritual poverty and a God who saved a little boy in the Congo from physical poverty and a God who knit our two hearts together in the most beautiful way for all of eternity.

It has been about a love story with my Creator and Savior and ultimate Redeemer.

And, I will never be the same.


On Thursday night, we received the news we were certain would come but had not yet been said out loud:  With all that is going on with adoptions in the DRC, and with the issues that have arisen in your case, we think the best thing for JP right now is that he stays in Congo.  We were sad.  We were still a bit worried for JP.  But, we agreed.  And, we know it is by the grace of God that we can have faith that He has and will continue to care for our little boy.

That same day, I received a book from a friend (I Will Carry You:  A Sacred Dance of Grief and Joy by Angie Miller).  My sweet friend has encouraged me to read this book for the past year.  It is a book about a woman's journey through grief and saying goodbye to the romantic notions she had of life with one of her children, a little girl who was diagnosed with a terminal condition in the womb.  It is not all sad:  the Lord walked her through her season of grief in the same way He has guided me, with love and patience and mercy.  But, I knew receiving that book on that day was no coincidence: there are no mishaps with God. It was just another part of this love story.

As I cracked open the book, I read this quote by Kahlil Gibran:

And the cup He brings,

though it burns your lips,

has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter 

has moistened with His own sacred tears. 

On the night I learned that God was not going to take our cup, on the night I realized that the prayers we have prayed for the past eighteen months were finally receiving the sweet voice of "no" from the Lord, on the night when our wait was over and we did not get what we wanted, I found comfort.   I was reminded that my Savior has been there. That he cried out to God in the garden, "Lord, please take this cup. . ."  But, for our sake, God didn't.  The cup was not easy: but, it was created for our good and His glory.  Our Lord spent the next day in utter despair.  He bore the entire wrath of God, facing pain and shame and death. But God did not leave His child there. Three days later, He showed that, in the grip of God's sovereign hand, no trial can overtake us.  

And, so, it is time. It is not time to move on, but to move forward.  To determine how we can best help JP thrive in his home country. To help him know the Lord. To investigate whether we can free his mother and sisters from the poverty and bondage so many women face.  To allow God to use this season to make us more compassionate and giving and open-handed; to make us less fearful of trials and the uncertainty of the future; to make us trust Him so deeply that we find our "happily ever after" in Him alone.  

So, we end where we started:  a desire to give an orphan hope and a home, a desire to add one of the world's orphans to all this love in the Bell home.  God answered that prayer for JP and for us, and He has graciously used this journey to do so much more. Through the 'narrow place' of suffering and loss, we can happily say on the other side that He is truly good, and He really does do good in all things.     

To all who have followed us on this journey, thank you for praying for us and bearing with us and loving on us. My fervent prayer for you would be that He takes the cup when He can; that He leaves the cup when it will bring you more of Him; and that He writes his own purposeful and meaningful and eternal love story into your heart.

When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire, 

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze.

For I am the Lord, your God,

the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

Isaiah 43:2-3

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.