When the situation looks hopeless, it is difficult to hope. When all looks impossible, finding the silver lining reminds me of Him. God is there, always there. He is never lost even though we can be.
At the end of June I thought all hope was lost. Our agency sent and email saying they had to shut their doors. That was a Thursday. By Saturday, their phones were dead, the website was down, and with it, all of our paper work, process, and connections to our kids seemed to vanish.
It was bad when in September of 2013 the DRC put in place a suspension on adoptions. It was bad when the process of adopting our two became longer, more expensive, and more uncertain. But I still had hope. I still believed that we would someday bring them home. We had plenty of steps to complete in the process, so it seemed ok, at least until we would catch up with the system; that is, until we were ready to travel with all of our paperwork in place, the suspensions didn't seem hopeless. We took in big breaths and felt like we were supposed to keep going. Jeff and I both have felt like until God gives us a new direction, we are supposed to stay on this course.
So in late June when everything seemed to disappear before our very eyes I was crying out to God while riding my lawn mower. I felt frantic, and a bit reckless. Well, the mower died, and I had a bunch of people coming over for an outdoor birthday party. I did all the tricks that I know to do with no luck, and sat back on the seat and cried. I wasn't really crying about the lawn mower, well only partly, but I was crying about the loss of Sarah and Isaiah. The suspension was bad enough. Now it seemed I would never see them, never hold them. It felt like they had died. What are we supposed to do Lord?
I heard a clear whisper in my heart. "Let go." There was no questions as to what the words were, but of course I had to question their meaning. "Do you mean I'm supposed to let go of mowing the lawn? or are we supposed to let go of Sarah and Isaiah?" Cause having a messy lawn is bad, but nothing compared to letting go of two children that I have loved since you first gave them to me Lord. "I can't let go. I can't." and more blubbering. That conversation went on in my head for quite a few days. God seemed silent and distant to my repetitive questions and protests. "What did you mean? What are we supposed to do? I can't give up on them. I can't let go of them."
Finally, an answer. "Let go" meant to continue to trust. Let go of my control on the situation, because obviously, like the mower, there was not a thing I could do to fix it, I really had no control at all. Let go of trying to work so hard to bring them home when I am helpless thousands of miles away. Let go of fear, of anger, of worry. "Trust me." I can let go because He never lets go. I won't fall because He has been holding me all along. He's got us.
More importantly, He's got them. They are His children so much more that they are mine. They are being taken care of. They aren't home yet, but I still have hope. There is always hope when God is in control. These two precious children, once orphans, now have someone praying for them, loving them, and providing for them. They now attend school, and eat three meals a day. They have running water, and clothes, and hope for a future. Even if it is not the best of situations--here home with their family-- there is hope; there is a silver lining.
At the end of June I thought all hope was lost. Our agency sent and email saying they had to shut their doors. That was a Thursday. By Saturday, their phones were dead, the website was down, and with it, all of our paper work, process, and connections to our kids seemed to vanish.
It was bad when in September of 2013 the DRC put in place a suspension on adoptions. It was bad when the process of adopting our two became longer, more expensive, and more uncertain. But I still had hope. I still believed that we would someday bring them home. We had plenty of steps to complete in the process, so it seemed ok, at least until we would catch up with the system; that is, until we were ready to travel with all of our paperwork in place, the suspensions didn't seem hopeless. We took in big breaths and felt like we were supposed to keep going. Jeff and I both have felt like until God gives us a new direction, we are supposed to stay on this course.
So in late June when everything seemed to disappear before our very eyes I was crying out to God while riding my lawn mower. I felt frantic, and a bit reckless. Well, the mower died, and I had a bunch of people coming over for an outdoor birthday party. I did all the tricks that I know to do with no luck, and sat back on the seat and cried. I wasn't really crying about the lawn mower, well only partly, but I was crying about the loss of Sarah and Isaiah. The suspension was bad enough. Now it seemed I would never see them, never hold them. It felt like they had died. What are we supposed to do Lord?
I heard a clear whisper in my heart. "Let go." There was no questions as to what the words were, but of course I had to question their meaning. "Do you mean I'm supposed to let go of mowing the lawn? or are we supposed to let go of Sarah and Isaiah?" Cause having a messy lawn is bad, but nothing compared to letting go of two children that I have loved since you first gave them to me Lord. "I can't let go. I can't." and more blubbering. That conversation went on in my head for quite a few days. God seemed silent and distant to my repetitive questions and protests. "What did you mean? What are we supposed to do? I can't give up on them. I can't let go of them."
Finally, an answer. "Let go" meant to continue to trust. Let go of my control on the situation, because obviously, like the mower, there was not a thing I could do to fix it, I really had no control at all. Let go of trying to work so hard to bring them home when I am helpless thousands of miles away. Let go of fear, of anger, of worry. "Trust me." I can let go because He never lets go. I won't fall because He has been holding me all along. He's got us.
More importantly, He's got them. They are His children so much more that they are mine. They are being taken care of. They aren't home yet, but I still have hope. There is always hope when God is in control. These two precious children, once orphans, now have someone praying for them, loving them, and providing for them. They now attend school, and eat three meals a day. They have running water, and clothes, and hope for a future. Even if it is not the best of situations--here home with their family-- there is hope; there is a silver lining.