We are nearly ready. You can tell by the suitcases lined up in my bedroom in various stages of being packed. You can tell because I’ve gotten my brows waxed and my toes painted China Red and I’m going to be wearing the same outfit tomorrow because everything else is packed. You can tell because I’m nesting-putting her little rails on her bed, setting up a little diaper changing station in the family room, calling everything that pertains to her little. You can tell because my heart has started to race a bit faster as we get closer and the kids have mentioned that they are a little scared, but mostly excited. You can tell because we can’t think about anything other than her and getting there and doing this thing.
We fly out first thing Wednesday morning, ready or not. Her car seat will be installed and her suitcase will lay atop ours. There will be four Smalls with backpacks filled with junk food and coloring books. And four Bigs with stress and happy written in equal parts across their faces. And this process, which has been so sweet, but so so hard will be reaching it’s zenith. For nine months I have dreamed this, good and bad, but the reality is that nothing I’ve done up till now, not the exhaustive paperwork, not the massive checks, not the worrying about why her eyes look empty and her feet limp, it all pales in comparison to climbing on that plane and going there.
Father is stretching me. Stretching me long. He knew that the papers and running around would be nothing compared to the actual doing. That hard is the barrel I’m staring down. This is where I strap on my trust shoes and walk. Onto the airplane. Into a culture and cuisine that frighten me. All the way to a teeny orphan whose world we are about to ruin. And then redeem. The trusting was easier before the travel and the actual act of getting her were a reality. But I’m ready. And I have a supernatural peace. That has seen me through unpacking countless boxes and settling my family in. Through packing us and preparing to leave. This peace that passes understanding, it blesses me. And confounds me, no matter how many times I feel it. Always confounds me. So, when I kick the trust shoes off and begin listening to the wrong father (little f), to that father of lies, that author of deception, when I begin to sink and feel the warmth of panic creep up my neck and blush my cheeks, when I doubt that we can or that she should or that He will, I sin. And so, I’m working today on focusing my eyes on Father so that I can walk. Because she is waiting and so is obedience and they are both worthy prizes.
And I’m trusting that my dad will find healing for his back and our TA will arrive before we fly out and that a million big and small pieces will fall into place before Wednesday at 9:56. And if they don’t, well, God will still be on his throne. And we will still be flying to her. Jesus, such a kidder that one, having one of my Smalls be born in Asia. Such a kidder.
This is me (and four Smalls and a whole lotta baggage, real and imagined, and a keloid scar named Steve) being real. Wondering where you’re walking in your trust shoes today?