We are back.
And there are lots of questions swimming around about our trip.
How was it? When is David coming home? How are you doing?
The short answer is it was amazing.
It was amazingly good and joyous and it was amazingly hard. And amazingly we still have few answers about when David will come home. We are praying by the end of July but that is really more a desire than a time estimate. But feel free to join us in praying for that!
I hate that there isn't a better answer but there simply isn't.
And a part of me hates that I can't just beam with joy and say it was amazing because it was. But, to be truthful it was also hard. As we came face to face with the challenges of adoption in a country with little infrastructure and a unstable government it was a solemn reminder that this is a perilous road we walk. One where heartbreak is a real danger. And as we balance this tight wire I'm simply left to wonder.
David is our son. And we choose to trust God to bring him home. Even when others have faced the heartbreak of a failed adoption. Even when we see the concern in the eyes of those who know the challenges we face. Not because we are brave but because what other option do we really have? When God tells you a child is yours do you really have a choice other than to obey? And pray? And hope?
And I feel like I have even fewer easy answers to the question of how I'm doing.
For now I can blame the jet lag on my solemn demeanor...but its simply an easy scape goat. There is so much to ponder and process. I am full of joy to be with my three children here again. I'm relishing their snuggles and making fun memories as we reunite after being apart. But, my heart has expanded and it no longer is simply at home here.
I've got one foot in the black dirt of the midwest and one foot still covered in the rusty red dirt of West Africa and my heart kind of feels like its splitting down the middle. For some I'm sure they are glad to wash away that infamous African dirt. They are glad to be home. But you'll notice I said we are back. I couldn't say we were home because that term is so confusing to me right now. And it makes me long for Heaven when all the people and places I love won't be so spread out.
You see that red dirt that stains all it comes in contact with has definitely stained my heart. And I feel like I'm looking at my life through the rust colored lenses of West Africa.
As I hug my babies here I long for the child I can no longer hold. And I hurt for the many others who have no mamas to long for their embrace.
As I use my speedy internet to type this blog post or put a piece of cheddar cheese on my sandwich I consider the cost that our missionaries who serve there pay to bring Jesus to those who do not know.
As I pass church after church after church I'm overwhelmed at the presence of the church here and I ponder the pure spiritual poverty I see in West Africa. People without hope, without a Bible in their language, without a Christian in their village, without the presence of Christ in their lives period. And I'm overwhelmed by the huge need not just for food or clothing but for Jesus in a place where Satan has ruled for such a long time.
And in a moment of pure weakness I squeak out a confession to the Lord. I wish he'd called me to fall in love with an easier place. A place where the cultural issues weren't so complex and the spiritual warfare so dark. A place that doesn't chew up and spit out missionaries with the hardness of simply existing. A place with an established adoption program where others have forged the path. A place with less risk. Or at least a place with cool safari animals.
But, what do you when your heart is already stained other than to obey? And pray? And hope.
