Providence in the Wait

This is a story about how small the world is, and about how the smallest kindness can sometimes be the thing that keeps you sane.

It was the summer of 2015. For months, we'd been waiting with no news about Baby Girl J. We knew she was ours, but we had no idea when she would finally finally get to come home to us. The waiting was interminable, but the uncertainty was worse...

You see, there should have been no uncertainty. We had official records on Baby J--where she was, how she was doing, her history. But then something happened. Starting in March of 2015, I had gotten into the habit of emailing our agency every other week to check status. I wanted to stay on their radar, since they were the only ones with the ability to email ICAB and say "can you tell us what's going on?" Typically, I'd get a "no news" message and go about my day. But in June of 2015, the messages changed.

I had requested the ability to Skype with Baby J. It's allowed as long as the caregivers have the technology available, and many of them do. So the Skype request was part of my regular check-in ritual. In response to one particular check-in I received an email included the following:

...unfortunately, it won't be possible for you to Skype with Baby J, as the foster family caring for her lacks the technology...

Um, what? Everything we ever read about Baby J told us she was in an orphanage. Not just an orphanage, but an orphanage on a hospital campus, where she could be treated for her medical concerns. A foster home? What happened? What's going on???

I emailed the questions to my agency, and the response I got was, in my view, unacceptable. There was no urgency in it; no clarifying information; nothing. Just "we'll get back to you."

I was beside myself. I turned to a private group of adoptive parents for some prayers and support--had anyone else experienced situations where their child had been moved into foster care while their adoption was being finalized? No one had heard of such a thing. I got more nervous, which was maddening because there was nothing I could do.

One of the moms messaged me privately asking where my daughter was supposed to have been living, and I told her. That was a big day for providence: July 28, 2015. This wonderful woman connected me with another woman, and she saved my sanity. She was in the Philippines with her own adopted daughter, bringing treats and supplies to orphanages around the country. It just happened that the orphanage NEXT on her list was my daughter's orphanage. 

My request of her was simple: would she see if Baby J is there? Could she just tell me if Baby J was doing alright? It's a big orphanage (70ish kids!) and honestly, I had no idea if she'd actually find my baby or not, but she promised to try.

She did better than try.

The following Monday, I received pictures in my inbox of my sweet Baby J, smiling and happy, and right where she should be. Pictures of this wonderful woman who barely knew me, loving on my little girl in my place. Pictures that taught me the first thing I ever learned about Baby J: she loves spaghetti and chocolate cake! Oh, how I cried!

It would be two more months before I would finally be able to put my own arms around my sweet baby girl. And it would be another two weeks before my agency confirmed for me what I already knew--that my daughter was where she should be, and that the confusion was merely a mistake on their part. They were talking to me about a different family's child. 

Frustrating in and of itself. But all those frustrations and countless others were made easier to bear by the incredible, simple kindness of a woman I may never meet, who understood what a little bit of knowledge can mean to a waiting mother. 

It's an awesome thing when you can actually see the world getting smaller right before your eyes. That's what I think about when I remember this moment in our adoption journey. That, and how the power of women working together never ceases to amaze me. 

Adventures in Toddler Nesting

For over a year now we've had basically no control over the adoption process. All we can do right now is wait, and wait, and pray, and wait some more.  For someone like me, who plans contingencies for her contingencies, it has been all kinds of maddening.

Naturally, all that energy had to go somewhere. So I turned my attention to converting one of our guest rooms into a room for Little J. I spent hours pouring over bedding sets, room themes, and color swatches. But eventually, I landed on a little piece of history. 

Baby J's wall mural, and the kitchen Howie is sure she will love to play in.

Before we knew that Howie was going to be a boy and chose his airplane pattern--Jake: "His Dad is a pilot. How else would we decorate his room?"--we found a pattern for a little girl we just adored. It was girly but not traditional "girl colors," cute but something a baby wouldn't outgrow for a while.

It came up in conversation as I was scouring the bazillion baby sites on the web--not super thrilled with any of them--and it just clicked. Not only was it something we loved, but it was also in a color scheme that is very similar to the place where Little J is now. We are hoping the room will be comfortingly familiar to her. 

We weren't sure we'd be able to find the pattern, though. After all, it had been six years since we first picked it out! It took some serious internet digging, but eventually I was able to piece together the whole set. I found a great little company to make wooden letters for her; I found a woman on Etsy who made a beautiful set of matching wall decals for her; and by serendipity, a Houston artist of whom I'm a fan had done a beautiful piece of artwork in exactly the right colors to compliment the rest of the room. And as an added touch, Howie decided that his kitchen would look great in Little J's room (such a sweet big brother!).

Bookshelves in need of filling. We're working on it!

We picked out some furniture for Little J's room, then got to work on paint selection. Jake and I have this entire process of elimination we go through with paint samples before we land on a color. Usually we wind up going through thirty or more swatches. But this time around, even as we observed our whittling ritual, I think we both knew that Little J's room was going to be yellow. Jake was a little uncertain of the color when it went on the walls--"it's really bright!" he said, as though he hadn't spent quite a bit of time in the colorful city that is Manila. But once everything was in the room, he changed his tune. 

Getting the room together was not without its challenges. For instance, the furniture that we ordered arrived in boxes. Unassembled boxes. While Jake was on assignment in Louisiana. Of course they did!

It took hours and hours, but I'm more than a little bit proud that I put it all together myself! And it made me chuckle because exactly the same thing happened six years ago--Jake was gone, and I put together Howie's furniture too! So I guess now it's a tradition I should prepare for; if furniture needs assembling, Jake is sure to be gone!

The other issue, of course, is that the eighteen-month-old in my head isn't eighteen months old anymore. She's three! (Yep, that's how long this process has taken!!). My baby, but not really a baby anymore. Instead, a small walking, talking person. So, what started out looking like this:

We started with a crib but...

Had to be converted to this:

Now Baby J has a toddler bed.

I have to confess, I was a little heartbroken to change it, thinking about the missed years and missed milestones of her life the change represented. I let myself have a five-minute pity party and a few tears. Then I reminded myself to look ahead--I choose joy.

So, with this (relatively) minor change, we're ready! So very, very ready! And with the room finished, I'm now looking for some other place to channel all my most frenetic energy. (Suggestions welcome!) So far my usual "fill the schedule" ritual isn't really working. Also, it's slowly starting to drive Jake just a little bit crazy. 

Then again, this entire process is kind of crazy-making. Lord, give us patience! 

Also, please let us bring our baby girl home soon!

To My Sweet Girl on Her Birthday

Our Sweet Baby J,

Today is your birthday. Three years old! It's the second birthday that you have passed since we asked to become your parents.  It's a long process, and it's definitely weighing on me. I'm ready to have you home! Ready to stop waiting and start building our new life with you in it.

But I hope it's not weighing on you. I hope you passed the day happy, playing with your friends, noshing on your beloved spaghetti. I hope your third birthday is bliss for you!

You're so loved, baby girl. Even as I feel my heart breaking that you are still 9,000 miles away from me, it's filled to the brim with how many people are praying for you, harboring hopes for you, ready to embrace you wholeheartedly when you do finally come home. 

You aren't just getting a family, sweet little one, you're getting a village! And oh, the strength and the heart of this village!

Your Kuya Howie is so excited to love on you. He talks every day about the things he will teach you, ponders what you will like to eat, what toys you will play with. Let's just say he's really hoping that chocolate and super heroes make your "likes" list! 

He made a beautiful doll for you with painstaking care. Okay, so a very nice lady in San Jose actually made it; but he poured over every detail--she should have hair like Baby Sister, with a flower. She should wear orange--Howie is sure that you will love orange--and blue so you'll have his favorite color too. 

Howie was hoping to give your new little friend to you for your birthday, but things didn't go quite as we hoped. Instead, you will meet her when you meet your brother (hopefully soon!). He's so very excited to see the smile on your face! And he's a hugger, so you should prepare yourself!

I got a little something for you too, Baby J. What can I say? I couldn't help myself! It's nothing big, just a little bit of shine that is all your own. Peridot is something of an odd birthstone; I hope you like green! It reminds me a little bit of the tropics where you've been spending your days. I can't wait to spend some time there with you as a family!

You'll find I really like to shop with a cause, sweet baby, and this necklace I chose for you is a special one in that regard. It was made by people who have overcome their own challenges, just as I know that you will overcome the ones that are in front of you!  I'm in awe of your strength, little one, to have endured so much in your short life, and still to wear a smile.

You're three, so I doubt this little trinket is one that will last very long. But I can imagine the smile on your face as you open the little box--a gift that is all your own!

I don't know when we will get to celebrate with you, Little One. I hope that soon we will all be together, and that your Kuya, Daddy and I can love on you in person! Learning to be a family is going to be, in itself, a journey. It may be a wild ride sometimes, but we're ready! We can't wait to finally finally be a family of four that is all in one place! And we can't wait to introduce you to our incredible village.

But in the meantime, we are sending you every ounce of love in our hearts. We are thinking about you, we are praying for you, and wishing you the happiest, happiest of birthdays sweet Baby J! 

I hope you can feel all the love and warm wishes all the way on the other side of the world!

When the Going Gets Tough, Hit Your Knees

My God,

It was a year ago today that I first laid eyes on her. She was so tiny, so sad and beautiful, and leaping right off the page at me. We loved her even before we knew she was ours.

It was a dangerous proposition, but we trusted You. Now she’s officially a Hicks, and we are so incredibly grateful for this wonderful, indescribable blessing. Thank you, God.

I know it’s Your will. You’ve told us that care for orphans is “pure religion.” And by adopting us all, letting us call You “Father,” You demonstrated exactly what it looks like when love makes a family. 

But even more than this, I know that adoption is Your will for our family.  We have seen You move through every step of this long, winding process with us. We’ve watched You direct our steps as we navigated the sometimes rocky path, as You brought us to this point in our journey.

We’ve trusted You through the long years of waiting for the unknown, and now through the year of waiting for the known—a call that we can finally go pick up that tiny piece of our hearts 8,700 miles away.

We’ve prepared our home; we’ve prepared our daily lives, our friends and family. And oh, how we yearn for the day we will finally stop preparing, and start being.

I know that Your timing is perfect—things happen when they should.  I know it, but that doesn’t stop my heart from aching or the tears from falling. Why must we wait so long? I’m struggling to see Your plan. I don’t understand.

I can enumerate the long list of reasons she should be home now, but You know them all (and not just because I’ve told you a million times!). If “not yet” is the answer, I know the reason is good. Help me believe that. Help me really believe it, when I say it.

Give me peace, oh God. I need peace. More patience; greater trust in You. Help me lean on You. Help me loosen my Type-A stranglehold on the situation before I drive myself mad.

Help me get outside of myself and serve You while I’m waiting. Help me let go of how things “should be,” so that my heart is open and ready for the things that will be.

Help me wake up each morning and push through the ache in my heart for what’s missing, so I can focus on what’s here and now. I don’t want to miss it!

Most of all, help me remember to be profoundly grateful. She is ours, wherever in the world she is. She is loved, and will be all the rest of her days.

And when the time comes, when the call comes to finally bring our missing piece home, help me remember where every good and perfect gift comes from, and say “thank You.”

I offer this prayer for my daughter in Your sweet son’s name,

Amen.

"Ready," Set, Glitch

I never thought I would hate any word as much as I hate the word "Ready" right now. I've seen it so many times that the word has lost all meaning at this point. I would really love to banish the word from my vocabulary entirely, and I will just as soon as I find a suitable alternative (suggestions welcome). But I'm getting ahead of myself...

Howie:
"Big Brother Whale is giving Baby Sister Whale a ride."

We received confirmation from ICAB of our formal match with Baby Girl Hicks on March 12, 2015, but we had no idea when the official documents--match certificate, birth certificate, medical records, etc.--that we needed to continue the adoption process would arrived in Houston. In international adoption, you have to get your "approval to adopt" renewed annually, and we were coming up on the expiration of our approval (end of April 2015). Since we had no idea when the documents would arrive, we started the process of getting our approval renewed. 

Because this was our second renewal, we had to submit all new documentation, new background checks, an all new home study, new finger prints: the works! Fortunately, our local agency handled the background checks, and we were able to get the documents gathered and schedule meetings with our social worker for the home study update really quickly. But that still left fingerprints which, if you've been following me all along, you know is quite the process.

And because nothing is ever simple, this time around Jake was away (again!) when his fingerprint appointment was scheduled (of course he was!) and we had to mail off for a new one. Fortunately, he was able to make the appointment the second time around. Additional bright side? At least this time he wasn't in Afghanistan, where the military police had to do paper fingerprint cards and mail them home, praying that they would (a) actually arrive, and (b) be accepted by USCIS.

Meanwhile, Baby's documents arrived in Houston on April 6, 2015. Read: we didn't actually need to jump through the renewal hoops after all because we filed before our old documents expired (!!). But we were already so far along, we completed the process anyway. 

As soon as the documents arrived, I got right to work. First, we had to fill out an I-800 petition to have Baby designated as our relative (i.e., our daughter) for immigration purposes. We also had to fill out an I-864 petition to prove that we could care for Baby (financially, medically, etc.). Between them, the two applications were well over 100 pages, but we managed to get them compiled, notarized, and sent off by April 10, 2015. Meanwhile, we also had to send information to ICAB so that they could apply for Baby's Filipino passport (still in the works at this point).

Both the renewal and the I-800 were approved on May 15, 2015, and on May 21, 2015, the State Department sent us a letter letting us know that Baby's application for a visa had been submitted to the U.S. Embassy in Manila.

I was thrilled! After three years of "hurry up and wait," we had made a ton of progress in a sixty-day period. I started thinking that maybe we would have Baby home this summer! Especially when I saw this:

Redacted by me because the internet

So, really exciting, right?!?

Sure. Until four days later when something caused the entire global visa system to glitch. For nearly a month, not a single visa could be issued. Anywhere. Well, you can imagine the backlog from a technology failure like that. In many parts of the word, including the Philippines, the issue is still not fully resolved.

I check the State Department system every day, and every day I get the same screen I've been seeing since June 5. So that's where we are now--"Ready."

"Ready?" READY?!?! Well, yeah! Ready...and about to pull our hair out that an entire immigration application process can take the same amount of time we've been waiting just to get a visa and actually bring our daughter home! 

Ready...to do any kind of planning whatsoever for our family's process of going from a threesome to a foursome. 

Ready...to know something--anything???--about what's going on, when this will resolve, and how our Baby is doing in the meantime. 

Does she know about us? Is she wondering where we are? It hurts my heart, but I kind of hope the former answer is "no," just so the latter is too! 

The past week, several of our friends who were also stuck in the "Ready" holding pattern saw movement on their files. It's so wonderful, and it's giving us hope that our file will be moving again soon, too. But in some ways, it also just makes me even more impatient with the "Ready."

If that's even possible. I guess we'll see when I check status tomorrow...

The Interminable Wait

Seven Months. That's right, seven. Honestly, I thought we had the whole waiting thing on lock. I mean, we've been in this adoption process since 2012!! We know all about waiting!

But none of the other waiting prepared me for the void that followed our request to be matched with that tiny little girl with the tiny little profile.  It was July the first time we saw her on paper--this little bitty person with the huge, sad brown eyes staring right at us, a stark contrast to her pink floral ruffles and puffy white sleeves. We could see her entire, sad little story in the glance captured by that single picture. It remains, to this day, the only one we've seen of her.

It was the first week of August before our caseworker finally got a response from the Inter-Country Adoption Bureau (ICAB) acknowledging our interest in this little girl. But immediately, there was a hiccup--one of her special needs was not listed as "accepted" on our "acceptable special needs" list. When we got word of this issue, Jake was in Kansas (of course he was!) and I was traveling for work (of course I was!), and so the corrected form didn't arrive until three days later. Then came more silence. 

We heard silence all through August and all of September. The first thing that is supposed to happen after you request to be matched with a child is to receive their comprehensive file, and then state definitively "yes, we want this child." But two months had rolled by with no files, and we were beginning to think well, if they won't even send us files on the child, odds are they are not going to pick us for her.

On October 8, 2014 we finally received the little girl's full file. It contained the same picture we had seen previously, plus details about her history (sad indeed, and for a different post), as well as details about her medical issues. 

It was more information, but nothing that differed from what we learned about her through the little paragraph that originally accompanied her picture. We immediately notified our caseworker that "yes, we want this child," and she conveyed our response to ICAB on the same day. Which is a good thing, because we were given a deadline of less than a week to respond!

After that...More waiting. The rest of October passed us by, and half of November, too! On November 20, 2014, our caseworker received an email from ICAB asking if we were still interested in  the child, and noting that we must reply within three days. More hurry up and wait!! But it was an easy question to answer; in fact, my email back had only one word and five punctuation marks in it: 

"YES!!!!!"

After that email exchange, guess what happened next? Yep! More waiting. Thanksgiving passed us by, and then we rolled into December. When we were headed toward Christmas, I became convinced I was getting news as my Christmas present.

Never convince yourself that something out of your hands is going to be your present. Ever. It was a super rough holiday, and I did it to myself.

Christmas passed with no news, as did New Year's Eve and Day. It was two weeks into the new year, on January 14, 2015, when we got an urgent email from our caseworker, with loads of questions to answer about our family.  ICAB wanted to know more about Howie's medical history; they wanted to know more about our home dynamics; they wanted more information about Jake's service and his retirement plans. It was a ton of questions, but none directly related to the little girl we requested, which was a bit confusing. We didn't know if this request was about her, or if ICAB was just updating family files.

And, again, we were given a very short time frame in which to respond. 

There's nothing like waiting forever to be thrown into the frantic, over and over. 

We cobbled together answers to all the questions (read: the wordsmith in me poured over them endlessly until I thought they were perfect), got a letter from Howie's doctor regarding his medical history, and managed to get it all sent off within four days. I'm actually really proud we managed to respond so rapidly. 

...And you know what happened next. 

Honestly, these in-between places sometimes feel like a game of Jeopardy that will never end, theme song on a perpetual loop, when all I want is for someone to shout the right answer!! Anyone? Anyone?

On February 25, 2015, we received a FedEx package from our adoption agency containing, among other things, the news we had been waiting for...

"The Inter-Country Adoption Bureau has approved the placement..."

Oh the joy! I laughed and cried and would have been dancing in my office, if I weren't still trying to prove to my then-new coworkers that I was sane and well-adjusted. (Although I have it on good authority, however, that others were crazy-dancing on our behalf).

I was so excited about the news that I *almost* missed the fine print. The letter from ICAB was dated February 9, 2015. And the first line of the second paragraph read:

"Non-receipt of the couple's decision on the placement within fifteen (15) days...will be deemed a rejection of the proposal."

Anyone catch the math? We got the package on Day 15 in the U.S., which meant that Day 15 was already over in the Philippines. 

Our caseworker had been traveling on business for the adoption agency. No one checked her mail while she was gone. And now, after months of agonizing over whether we would be picked as this little person's parents, we were facing a blown deadline. 

And just like that, the fine print squashed our joyous celebration like a bug.

I don't know if I've ever felt that sad and that furious all at the same time. I raced to put together the materials required to accept the proposal. It was no small task! There were detailed forms to fill out, cashier's checks to obtain, doctors' notes to obtain, things to be notarized, not to mention a slew of things to collect to send to the little one (pictures, stories, etc.). 

Fortunately, I had already been working on a storybook for her, which was basically ready to go.

| Design your own photo book with Mixbook's easy online editor.

We threw everything together as quickly as we could, sending the acceptance first digitally and then by overnight courier to our caseworker, praying that ICAB might still let us bring home our girl.

It was another two weeks of waiting and wondering before we finally got the news--despite our missing the deadline, ICAB was going to let us proceed with the match. 

On March 12, 2015, ICAB confirmed receipt of our documents, and let us know that the things I sent for the baby were being forwarded to her caregivers.

I'd love to stop right here and stamp the whole story with a "happily ever after," and then pepper your social media feeds with pictures of our little brown-eyed girl. But it's July and we still only have one, rambunctious, boy-of-a-child running around our house, so you know the story isn't over.

No, we learned that the official match was only the beginning of a whole new process (and a whole new round of waiting!) to get from a match on paper to a child in the home.

Stay tuned...

The "Special Home Finding" Do-Over

After our heartbreaking near-miss with the adoption Special Home Finding (SHF) list last spring, I thought for sure that I had learned caution and expectation management. Falling in love with a child, then not becoming her family is, after all, sufficiently grueling to leave a lasting impression, right? No. I was giving myself way, way too much credit. 

It all started off well enough. We received profiles of SHF kids from our case worker in May and June, reviewed them pretty dispassionately, and passed on them.** Perhaps, we thought, our prior "incident" was telling us to be patient and wait for a match through the "healthy kids" track. So we waited, proud of ourselves for being patient, for not rushing into another match scenario right away.

But then July came with its own crop of SHF profiles. This was a big group: we were used to getting 15 profiles at a time, but this group was 25, at least. It was a little daunting. In fact, I almost didn't look at them. We're waiting, I told myself, quit being impatient.

I waited all of fifteen minutes from receipt of email. The profiles just called to me, like maybe I knew there was an extra something special in that giant pile of information about the many children in need of homes. So I started flipping through the profiles one by one.

She was in the middle of the group, by far the smallest child, with by far the smallest amount of biographical information. I felt that familiar pull on my heart, but I resisted. This is impatience, I thought. Besides, she's probably already matched just like the last one. I just need to keep waiting.

That lasted all of ten minutes. I decided to get Jake's opinion uninfluenced by me. So I sent him the entire group of profiles to look at with (what I considered) a rather casual note about looking at them when he got a chance. I decided that if he randomly picked the same child, then that must mean something. Sort of like picking a guy out of a line-up! If he picked her, she was bound to be meant for us, right?

An hour later, I still hadn't heard from Jake, and it was nearing the end of the day. I called Jake, who was headed to the airfield to fly. He'd been planning a mission and hadn't checked his phone. 

"You need to look at those profiles and tell me if any of them jump out at you."

"Now??"

"NOW!"

He got off the phone so that he could check his email. I waited.

Ten minutes later, he sent me back the same tiny profile of the same tiny girl. Calm down, woman! I thought to myself. She may be matched already. The match could be rejected for other reasons. She's probably not yours.

But by this point, I was completely ignoring my voice of nay-say. I immediately called our caseworker, who didn't answer the phone. It was a Friday afternoon, late enough that she may have been gone for the weekend. But just in case, I emailed her too; just for good measure.

Sure enough, it was Monday before we heard anything. Our caseworker responded that she had passed along our request to be matched to the Inter-Country Adoption Bureau (ICAB), and now we just had to wait. 

This time, we didn't snap into planning mode, though. No talk about decorating a room or planning for her first few months home. No discussion of how to talk to Howie about this child. So maybe we actually did learn something from being burned--let's not get our hopes up until we hear something. 

But weeks went by and we heard nothing. And as the silence grew in length, my resolve that this child belonged to us grew deeper. In retrospect, it seems really backwards, like my heart was asking for trouble. But so it was that my certainty grew in the absence of news to the contrary.

Which is really dangerous, because it would be seven long months (and some self-imposed heartache) before we heard anything more about this tiny little girl with her tiny little bio.

**For an explanation of the different adoption "tracks," check out this post.

Match, Interrupted

Those of you who know me know that I tend to write our life on delay. Partly, that's for security reasons. But it's also because I'm a big-time processor. I (usually) want to give things a lot of thought before I write. In this particular case, almost exactly a year of thought. But don't worry! In the coming weeks, I will bring you up to speed!

When it comes to our adoption, we've gotten very used to the waiting. After all, we started this process in early 2012! So waiting and the Hicks family are old friends by this point. Still, what makes the waiting bearable is hope--that there will be good news at the end of all of the waiting. It's really only the hope that keeps you going on the tough days. And when it's not there? Oh boy!

Last year, on the Wednesday before Easter, Jake came home from nearly ten months in Afghanistan. It was an extremely joyous (if a little complicated) time for our family. For a brief few days, we were over the moon excited to just be together and have some fun. But as if having Jake home from a war zone wasn't enough, though, we had other things to be excited about too!

When you adopt internationally, you can do so in basically two tracks. On the one hand, you can be on the (long) waiting list to be matched with a healthy child. On the other hand, you can receive lists of "special home finding" kids, and choose a prospective match from those lists. In the Philippines, "special home finding" typically means one of three things: (1) the child is over five years of age; (2) the child is part of a sibling group; or (3) the child has a special need of some kind. The list is typically published monthly, and it is long.

That's why, since early 2013, while we have been on the waiting list for matching with a healthy child, we were also receiving the special home finding list from our caseworker. Or rather, we received child profiles from the list that roughly matched our family's file. If a particular list had 100 kids on it, we would receive about 15 profiles. At that many profiles a month, you can imaging how many kids whose stories we read.

The same day that Jake got home last spring, we received the April Special Home Finding profiles from our caseworker. As we were all snuggled up together before bed, we looked through the profiles, and found one that really struck us. She was a beautiful six year old girl, almost two years to the day older than Howie. Her story spoke to us, and we were certain we were the family for her. We contacted our caseworker and requested to be match right away. 

The messages we got about the match were very positive, and we started to get excited--planning her room, how to handle school readiness, how to get Howie ready for a big sister. It was both exciting and overwhelming all at once. And for someone who researches and plans...well, everything, it was a time when I hopped into overdrive!

Four weeks later, I was at the airport waiting for a flight to Lexington for work, and I got the call. There was a long conversation about the "why," but the gist was that the little person we'd been building our plans around was being matched with a different family. 

I just fell apart. I found myself sobbing on the floor in the United Club bathroom. I missed my flight, which led to a (now) hilarious, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-esque race to get me to Lexington in time for my meetings. It was terrible. Calling Jake to let him know was worse--running through it all again, falling to pieces again. He handled it better than I did (he usually does), but it stung. Really stung. 

I can look back now and just be thankful this little girl has a family. And when she crosses my mind, I say a prayer for her. But it still makes my heart ache.

A few days later, I collected myself and I called my case worker again to find out what happens next. She began the conversation with "if you don't want to proceed with this any longer, certainly I understand." The statement struck me: was she asking if we'd given up? Did she think we were done? 

I talked to her and learned that many families reach a point in the adoption process where the emotional toll is too great, and they have to walk away. I thought about me, crumpled on the floor, and understood. But it gave me resolve that I didn't realize was there before. "This little one was not meant for us," I told her, "but it doesn't mean adoption is not meant for us." See, Jake and I have felt from the beginning that adoption is something we were called to. No one said it would be easy, and Lord knows we've had our challenges. But absent some insurmountable roadblock, we just know adoption is our path.

"We're in this," I told her. "Perhaps there will come a day when we decide that, for our family, enough is enough. But today is not that day. Not by a long shot."

A year and a dozen challenges later, it's still not that day. Not by a long shot!

To be continued...

This is My #MilKid

Yesterday was Howie's birthday. His FIFTH birthday. I can't tell you how mind-blowing that is to me. Where did the time go?

This year Howie's birthday was a really low-key affair. Jake is gone (again, though thankfully, not to a war zone this year), and so we had a party for Howie a couple of weeks ago before he had to leave at the Antique Firehouse, where Howie and his friends (and the dads) got to dress up like fire fighters and go for a ride in a vintage fire truck!

So for his actual birthday, I just took rainbow cupcakes to Howie's school as a treat for him and his classmates. Being the birthday boy, he got two cupcakes: chocolate, with the brightest blue frosting I've ever seen.

I think it's pretty safe to say he enjoyed them. And I enjoyed the fact that HEB's VERY brightly colored frosting washes out of clothing easily with warm water.

Early in the day though, before school or any discussion of sweet treats, Howie woke up and came running down the stairs with an exuberant "It's my birthday!!" 

Then a brief pause, followed by "It is my birthday, right Mommy?" The poor kiddo still does not understand why one might celebrate a birthday on any day other than the actual birthday, so having his party early has thrown him for a loop.

After a small amount of convincing, we turned our attention to getting ready for school. Before we left the house, Howie decided we should document the moment ("Take my picture Mommy, I'm showing you five!"). After I snapped his picture, I said "Let's make a video, baby." I wanted to make for myself a reminder of the way my sweet boy's mind is working at five years old, because he won't stay there for very long.

I asked Howie to tell me about his favorite things, thinking he would talk about his Ninja Turtles or his Legos or his airplanes. His answers, though, really floored me.

Floored. I ask Howie about his favorite things, and he doesn't talk about things at all. No, what came to his mind was Daddy. Flying airplanes with Daddy. Playing Legos when we visited Daddy at Ft. Riley. Wanting Daddy to be home. Wanting Daddy to be safe. As I watched the video back with Howie, I was struck with pride that my little person understands what's really important (time with loved ones). But I was also just a little heartbroken that someone so small has already learned absence, and how to worry about someone else. 

That is what it is to be a military kid. It means understanding, way too soon, that moments with our loved ones are precious and life is far too short. It means shouldering emotional burdens that are difficult for adults to bear, yet somehow maintaining the spark of childhood. And although I'm completely in awe of this sweet boy of mine, I know that he's not unique in this respect. We've been at war for over thirteen years. There are milkids who have spent their entire childhoods walking this path.

It really makes only one month of recognition seem wholly inadequate. So to my little hero, and to all of the other little heroes out there, facing more of war than most grown-ups in this country, all I can say is that you are awesome. Truly, unequivocally awesome.

Praying Our Way Through Another School Year

It's that time again! Today is the first day of school in Houston, which means excitement and nervousness for kids, parents, teachers and administrators. You could feel the buzz in the air yesterday as we talked to many of our friends sending kids to the classroom, and quite a few headed back to the classroom themselves. 

Last year our church started a new tradition--every kid headed back to school gets adopted by a family committed to praying for that kid to have a great school year. Last year, we chose a little boy named Kevin, and I wrote a prayer for him. This year, we adopted a set of boys--Syd and Scout--but we also decided to keep Kevin too. 

Last year, I issued the following challenge:

So here's a fun exercise. I would like for every one of you who reads this post to find one person (or more, if you're feeling ambitious!) among your FB friends--a child going back to school, or a teacher trying to guide many--and say a prayer specifically for that person. You can borrow the below prayer, or you can say your own. And feel free to share! Let's see what happens when we are intentional about putting this 2013-14 school  year in God's hands!

And I'm doing it again! Find one (or more) kid (or teacher) from among your FB friends, and pray for them to have a great year at school this year. And let them know! Maybe it will make the whole process feel just a little bit less daunting. Below I have written a prayer for our "adopted" boys you are welcome to borrow if you want. And if you want to tell me in the comments of teachers, kids, or maybe even parents who need praying for this school year, I'm happy to add them to my own prayer list as well.

Heavenly Father,

We find ourselves, yet again, at the beginning of a new school year, and I'm coming to you, asking that you will be with Syd, Scout, and Kevin.

Please watch over them, Lord, as they get to know new teachers, new classmates, and perhaps even new schools. This whole process can be very exciting, and very daunting, all at once. Please calm their nerves, Lord, and help them focus. Give these boys peace as they face so many new, unknown things; help them know that You are their navigator, and nothing is unknown to You.

Please encourage Syd, Scout, and Kevin; guide them to good friends and good influences, and give them strength to resist the bad ones. Help them to recognize the difference when that is a hard thing to do.

Please be with the boys' teachers, Lord, theirs and the many others working so hard to reach and teach our children. Please give them encouragement on the rough days, help them feel appreciated, and give them wisdom to know the best way to reach our kids, and teach them to love learning.

Most importantly, Lord, please help Syd, Scout, and Kevin to know that you are there, with them as they face every new challenge, make every new friend, learn every new passion that this year has in store. Watch over them all and keep them safe.

I ask all these things in your sweet Son's name,

Amen

Family Trip Malfunction

We had one of those 'it could have been a lot worse' moments recently.

A couple of weeks ago, we took a family trip to Arkansas to surprise Jake’s grandmother for her 90^th birthday. We took the trip in Jake’s little Grumman Tiger, as we have so many times before, but this was special because it was the first trip that we’d taken together in the plane since Jake got home from Afghanistan. To say Howie was thrilled might be the biggest understatement on the planet. It’s all he talked about for over a week before it was time to go.

Jake flew from Kansas to Houston (or rather Cleveland, Texas) to pick us up, and the three of us flew together to the small airport in Saline County, Arkansas, not far from Little Rock. We usually land at Saline County Airport because it is a small airport (hence, typically no traffic jams), and it is near where Jake’s dad and stepmom live (Papa and KayKay to Howie).

On this particular trip, we were coming in to land just before sunset. It was an absolutely perfect landing, but when we turned left onto the taxi-way, the airplane started veering right for some reason. We didn’t know what was going on at first, so Jake had me hold the brakes while he jumped out to see what was going on. 

Flat tire. That’s what was going on.  In the middle of nowhere, at 8:45pm on a Friday night. Ugh. And we could see Papa parked near the entrance, about 1.5 miles away, but he didn’t have the code to get into the airport after hours.  Double ugh.  We called to let him know what was going on, but he could be of no help to us at the time.

After a few minutes, we saw a red truck driving our direction. It was a local pilot, just finished flying for the evening, coming to check on us. “The same thing happened to me two weeks ago, and someone came to help me” he said. “Lucky for you, I think I have the tools you need, and I’m looking to pay it forward.”

The man (who’s name I never caught, although I’m sure Jake did; I’ll just call him the Good Samaritan) went back to his hangar to get tools and returned a few minutes later to let us know that he needed to run and refill his air tank. He wanted it ready just in case the tire would hold air long enough to make it to the parking area. About that time, Jake suggested that Howie and I start walking to the airport so that we could let Papa into the gate to come help.

We walked along in the now-pitch dark with only my flashlight app to guide us the 1.5 miles down the taxi-way to the airport. I held my baby’s hand as he jumped at every nighttime sound he heard. I reassured him with “It’s just cicadas, sweet boy,” and “It’s only an owl” and “It’s just the frogs,” while praying that he couldn’t hear the coyotes in the distance.

When we got close to the airport I noticed what will likely forever be one of the most annoying sights I ever beheld: Papa, parked inside the security gate. He let himself in when the Good Samaritan left to go get air, but hadn’t driven down the taxi-way to find us. We hopped in the car and drove down to the plane. By that time, the Good Samaritan had returned and they were working on the plane.

Knowing he was staring down the barrel of hours of work, Jake told Papa to take us home so we could get Howie into bed, and so he could get more tools to help. We unloaded our bags from the plane into the car, and Papa took us to his house, where KayKay had some dinner waiting for Howie before bedtime.

Two hours later, Jake and Papa made it back to the house. They basically had to jack up the plane and then drag it down the runway to the parking area where it would sit for the night. The Good Samaritain told Jake and Papa if they came back to the airport in the morning, they’d find help fixing the plane.

The next morning, we had to divide and conquer. I had an interview with Fox at 7am in Downtown Little Rock, and Jake had to be back at the airport to deal with the plane. So Papa took Jake back to Saline County, while KayKay took me to my interview. She dropped me off and took Howie to the park while I tried to sound less nervous than I was. We all made it back home by lunchtime, and fortunately the rest of the weekend was much smoother sailing.

When Jake and Papa arrived back at the airport, what they found was the local pilots’ weekly breakfast club meeting. The pilots invited them to the table like they were old friends, fed them, and then fixed the tire for them in about twenty minutes flat. One of the pilots even gave Jake the tube to put in the tire free of charge! They saved us hundreds of dollars in repair charges, and hours of wasted time waiting for a mechanic to come from Little Rock and fix it. We really couldn’t be more thankful, or ask for more kind, generous people than the perfect strangers who saved our family weekend from ruin!

So this was quite the ordeal, but it is yet another instance in which, to us, providence in the situation is clear. See, apparently airplane tires are like bike tires—they have tubes. And whoever installed Jake’s tire tube did it incorrectly. The tube had been pinched. A blowout was going to happen, and it was only a matter of time.

In the time since Jake had the last set of tires installed on the plane, he has taken it on more flights than I can remember. Some of those flights were with us, but most of them were across country to see us, and they mostly involved stopping in remote places to refuel and keep flying. Just like with large aircraft, take-offs and landings in small planes happen at high speeds, and malfunctions during take-offs and landings can be extremely serious.

But Jake’s tire didn’t blow on a take-off or a landing; it blew when we were going about ten miles an hour and could easily stop the plane. And it didn’t blow at 9pm when he was refueling in [I can’t remember] Oklahoma, or 7am in [I’m not sure it’s on the map] Texas—it blew at a place with which we were familiar, with family nearby, and with me there to help.  In other words, the inevitable blowout, albeit terribly annoying at the time, could not have happened at a better place, or under better circumstances.

It’s too bad all of life’s little catastrophes can't be minimum-inconvenience ordeals. 

My Little Trooper

When I look at this picture, my heart warms and breaks all at the same time. It was taken during my Army Spouse of the Year photo shoot several weeks ago. We had just come from a park, where Howie was super happy (see yesterday's photo), to the U.S. Army Reserve Airfield in Conroe, where he certainly was not. 

It really took me off guard. Howie loves helicopters, and always loves visiting Jake at work. I thought for sure that he would be happy to be at an airfield again for the first time in months. I was wrong. 

Airfields mean "Daddy," and Daddy wasn't there. I had prepared Howie for this fact, but when the truth truly set in, I could actually see the heartbreak wash across his face. He didn't want to be there without his Dad. He hugged his Daddy Doll tight, leaned into me, and let the tears roll. Such is the life of my Little Trooper. 

You heard from me yesterday about Howie's resilience (in spite of my own shortcomings). But since April is the Month of the Military Child, let me tell you just how strong this Little Trooper really is.

For all of his four years on this earth, Howie has been a geobach kid: Jake has always been stationed away from us. Howie has never known a time when he could consistently come home from school and find his Dad waiting there. Normal is not having Daddy there to help him get ready for school or church, or to tuck him in at the end of the day. Ordinary is Daddy not being able to make school functions, or take Howie to friends' birthday parties. Typical is telling Daddy after the fact when Howie gets to do something cool.

This year with a deployment has been especially hard. But long before Howie could tell you what "deployment" means--and boy can he! Just ask him!--he understood what sacrifice meant. It meant that Daddy was working to protect everybody, and that means having to be away from us. It meant we can be sad when we have to say good-bye, yet again, or upset about driving for hours just to be together, yet again, but that it would happen. Daddy loves us, but right now he doesn't belong to us. Howie has known this his entire life.

Until Howie was two, Jake was stationed at Ft. Polk in Louisiana. It's about three hours from Houston, and so every Friday we would make the drive there, or he would make the drive here, so that we could spend the weekend together. If you do the math, that means that in each of those two years Howie spent less than a third of his time--about 120 days--with his Dad. Howie hated Sunday good-byes, but honestly it shocked me just how young he was when he picked up on "Daddy Math"--he learned to count to five so that he could count down the "in between" days. 

"Only four days, Mommy!" 

"Only three days, Mommy!" 

I would smile and count with him, even as my heart ached at the percentage of time that was "only" in the way of being together. He was wishing away his littleness. So was I sometimes, and I hated it. I still hate it.

At the end of 2012, Jake was transferred to Ft. Riley, Kansas. Now, Daddy is a three hour flight, plus a two hour drive away. We changed from an every weekend family, to a twice-a-month family. About five days out of every thirty between Christmas of 2012 and July of 2013 belonged to us. Except in May, when pre-deployment training meant we didn't see each other at all. 

Howie can't count a month's worth of days, and had a very hard time at first. He was frustrated, and didn't understand why Daddy Math was failing him. Why "Friday" no longer meant our family would be together. Howie started asking me which were "Daddy Fridays" and which were "not Daddy Fridays." In a week with a "Daddy Friday," he would do Daddy Math. But he decided that he didn't like "not Daddy Fridays," so he started asking me about Mommy Dates instead. 

"Mommy, is it a Daddy Friday this week? Or a Mommy Date this week?"

A shift in thinking. I could not believe my little boy's wisdom, and willingness to take Monty Python's advice about the bright side. He could be sad Daddy wasn't there, but he'd rather be happy that Mommy is. I never thought I would learn so much about perspective from my little person.

In July 2013, Jake deployed to Afghanistan, and yet again Howie had to adapt. No Daddy Fridays--no Daddy at all. For 260 days, through Thanksgiving and Christmas, New Years, and birthdays, Daddy had to be "far away in Gas Can, helping people." And Daddy "can't come home until he finishes helping people."  So Howie would explain his life to people who asked.

There were times filled with lots of talking through questions, and lots of tearful hugs. It was hard to watch Howie miss his Dad so much, even as I too was missing him. But Howie amazed me again with his ability to adapt. "Daddy is a hero,"  he asserted, "and heroes have to go far away sometimes, even when they don't want to, because it's important to take care of people."  He loves Superheroes, and he decided that Afghanistan must be, like Superman's home planet or Green Lantern's planet, very far away. One time he told me:

"we're okay, Mommy, that's why Daddy can help other people. Because we're okay." 

Floored. Sometimes, the kid has ten times my emotional maturity. Or more likely, he has his Dad's servant heart and desire to help other people.

For months he relished the Skype dates and occasional cards from Jake, and loved making boxes to send Daddy; he would have conversations with his Dad on his play telephone, and occasionally I'd catch him kissing Jake's picture with a quiet "I miss you!"  He told me stories about what Daddy must be doing in 'Gas Can,' and made plans for what they would do together when Daddy came home.

What I never said, and what he never would have understood, is that homecomings, joyous as they are, are fleeting for a geobach family. It's days together after months apart, and then it's right back to being apart.

I haven't even tried explaining that to him. I don't want him thinking about the next good-bye, or the many that will follow after that.

I wish I could make it so that my sweet baby boy never had to say good-bye ever again. I wish I could make that huge empty space that so frequently finds its way into our family go away forever. But I can't. No military family can; "mission first" is the life we live. Military kids are resilient because they have to be; they have no choice.

What's incredible is just how resilient they are. Over 99.5% of American adults choose not to serve and make the sacrifices that these kids are called to make, that Howie makes. Yet they just do it, and often better than the adults do! Awe-inspiring is what that is.

By the time Howie turns five next year, our journey with the military will be over, and we will finally be together. No more Daddy Math, or Daddy Fridays; they'll be replaced with Daddy Everydays, and I can't wait! And Howie is so young that Daddy Everydays will quickly become his new normal--when he's older he may not even remember what it was like to always be apart; how much he had to give up; how often we had to say good-byes or how much his Daddy had to miss.

He'll never know just how tiny he was when he learned to be brave, and put this whole country's needs in front of his own.

But I will remember. My Little Trooper is one of the strongest people I know.