"I wait patiently for the LORD...." -Psalm 40:1
(read the rest of Psalm 40 here)
The weekend was like a punch in the gut.
Ryan was out of town.
Parenting this boy, these boys, feels like I'm always on a steep, uphill climb.
I fear that people have tired of our drama. (Yeah, Kara, we get it, you have a lot of laundry and your kid likes to make you cry. Its been three years already. It can't be that bad)
I don't want to lament.
I'm paranoid that the world thinks I exaggerate.
Yet this burden is breaking my heart.
I've been fighting a lot of anger. Anger toward people around us that I feel have given up on my family. That don't believe or understand how much suffering happens between these walls. Anger toward my children that we can't function in the world at large. Or even in our living room.
Anger at God. There I said it.
Anger that He can't just heal this broken heart. That He's allowing my son to push me and hurt me and drive me down this dark, lonely road.
I took a midnight run in my sweats. My husband waited at the driveway, trying to protect me from a distance and guard his children that slept quietly in their beds. I waited on the Lord while I ran. Prayed for a sign, a voice, something to renew my spirit. All was quiet.
The next day, I took a 2.5 hr hike to and around a cemetery (Ryan's comment: At least you were safe there.). I waited on the Lord. Again, I called out for something to renew me. Instead, the dog glanced back at me, bored and tired as countless barn swallows dived around us. Still quiet.
And then my phone buzzed. A friend in Texas sent me a message that I was on her heart and she was praying over me. Again, the buzzing. A fellow midwife sent a text that she was thinking of me. Still another and another and another. God showed up in my friends from afar: CA, TX, PA, VA. And then, AND THEN, I received a text from a Rwanda mama I don't hear from often. I read these words.
"Seriously. World about to be rocked. I am looking at your son from the summer before you adopted him. At least I am almost sure of it."
Ryan and I set staring, tears streaming down our cheeks. This photo. That boy. That is our son, OUR SON, before he knew he was ours. When Got began etching him into our hearts. This is sacred. This is holy. For a child whose beginnings are so foggy, with so many holes in the first chapters of his story, this is unspeakably valuable. God is here. He has always been here. His heart is breaking over and over again for Etienne and for Etienne's mama.
Most of the time, I feel like this little island. Really near to my community, but not with it or in it. As close as I can get and still maintain the needs of my children. Are there other families out there that feel so isolated in order to survive? This separation, it's not a choice, it's a necessity. Even if it is lonely and distant, He is here on this island with me. Between the mean words and the hollow hugs, He is here.
I've realized that some of my anger, God used it to open my eyes on where my strength and my reliance is. Maybe my small group, my community of other moms, my coworkers, even my husband, I value too much. They could all (and sometimes do) be taken from me. But my God has not left me or forsaken me. My only strength should be in Him. Repeat. My only strength should be in Him. Repeat.