Where We Are

I stared at the question on the big screen in church this morning: What do you need Jesus to be greater than in your life? I didn't even have to blink.

My plans.
My impatience.

I haven't written all summer. I'm realizing it's just so difficult to write a story when you're mid-plot.

It's been nearly a year since we started talking about adoption, a year since God smacked his plans onto my heart. And in our human estimation, we're no closer to adding to our family than when we began the conversation. Not on a waiting list. Not feeling drawn toward any particular kids. Not even doing paperwork.

In anthropology and folklore there's this idea that in the middle of a ritual there exists a phase called liminality, a period in which the participants are "betwixt and between" two places, separated from who they were, but not yet something new.

This is where we are.

I haven't met anyone else who's in this same place. You guys, I don't even have the words to explain this place. I haven't met anyone else whose journey looks like this. It's frustrating. Lonely.

It's also bursting with hope.

It's a little silly, how full of hope I am. This is it, the thing that sets us apart as followers of Christ. This is the gift. We are silly full of hope. Because we know--when God makes a promise, he keeps it.

Since the school year started, I've been reading through a new Bible storybook with our kindergartner. I keep noticing the same phrase over and over: But God remembered. But God remembered Noah. But God remembered Abraham. But God remembered Joseph. Sarah threw up her hands and laughed at God's timing, and I wonder how far Joseph felt from his dreams when he was languishing in prison. But look, I whisper to my five-year-old, Here's the best part. God didn't forget. Even when we feel very, very far away, God is always bringing us back to his promises. This good God who gives hope, he is showing me how he works--and giving me the language to share this with my kids. He remembers even when I forget. 

When we started talking about adoption, I started asking God to show us the way, to prepare our hearts. I don't recommend this. Don't even think about asking God to prepare you for something unless you're ready for some serious renovations. I am here to tell you, he will rub his hands together and go straight to work. And he's not going to come in and paint the cabinets that cute color you have in mind, either. He's going to rip them out and replace them with the cabinets you thought you couldn't afford. We can't DO that!, you will tell him, and he will grab your hand and keep right on working. This is what you asked for.

So even though I'm feeling so far from that first promise, even though adoption has been a series of doors in my face (sorry), I can feel God preparing us. He is always making a better way than what we plan. It's a little confusing to have God set your heart on adoption, then feel him gently guide you away from it. It's a little frustrating to focus your efforts on a kid somewhere out there who belongs with you, only to have God say, Not yet. We're going over here first. We are groping madly along, wondering where in the world God is leading. It feels like a detour to me. It isn't. I expect our story to look like the other adoption stories I've seen. It doesn't.

I stopped praying for clarity when I realized God is teaching me to be blind. He is inviting me to be wholly dependent on him, to give up my plans and let him plug me into this big thing he's doing in the world. He's asking me to believe that there's a better way, that there are some people I need to know and love before I'm ready to meet Evie. He's asking me to step out on the water and lose sight of everything but him.

I was embarrassed to write that we are no closer to adoption, until I saw these words from Jen Hatmaker a few days ago:

Do not be ashamed to hope. There is no shame in banking on God's love to prevail, His Spirit to win the day. That doesn't make you naive or foolish; this has been poured into your heart. Hope is the believer's response and gift......Hope is our anthem and we can sing it in the dark before even a glimmer of light arises.

How silly I was to think that our adoption journey was only about adopting a kid. It is, it always is, about God rescuing his people. His revelation to me was nothing less than an invitation to join him in his plan.
He is taking our expectations and exceeding them in ways only he can imagine.

What you can do:

You can pray with us. I don't mean this flippantly. You can pray that we won't lose sight of hope. That we'll accept with gratitude the responsibilities he's handed to us today and not dismiss them as less important than our own man-made goals, and that the only one we'll blindly follow is the one who has the power to remove the scales. You can pray that our obedience will yield peace in our hearts. You can pray for our girl. I don't know if she's "out there" somewhere or if she's even been born, I don't know when she'll come to us, I'm not even completely certain God wasn't being metaphorical and ironic, but because there's a chance she is an actual child who exists on this planet on this day, I cry out to God on her behalf. I would be humbled if you'd join me.

Where we are is not where I thought we'd be, but I'm okay. Do I believe that God intends to literally add to our family? Absolutely. Is he going to yield to my timeline? It's not looking likely. But I'll keep you posted.