My Overthinking

Philly Area mom, Life forever changed by adoption

Archives for December 2014

Lucy Joy #2014top10 #9

I met her in March, a shy little girl with beautiful braids someone painstakingly created each morning.

Find her a family. She’s very clever.

She sang me a song, recited a poem, and did math problems aloud at her ayi’s command. Her presentation ended in a stream of tears, her sweet spirit anxious at having to perform and prove her cleverness for a foreigner. I took noted and promised I’d try. But, by the end of the week, a scurry and buzz among the working staff at my mention of her name revealed that they had just learned that day she had a family afterall.

Four months later, I got a message in my inbox:

When you were serving at the orphanage, did you happen to meet this little girl?

Instead of me finding a family for HY, her family had found me. We spoke on the phone, and I talked until my throat was sore, sharing all I could about their sweet little sparrow and the place that was her home. They thanked me over and over and said I was blessing them. I went to bed happy that night feeling like all was well with the world.

When I returned a few months later, last month, I brought something with me, a special delivery made out of photos and paper that I carried like it was precious treasure. This time, instead of HY giving me a presentation, I had a presentation of my own for her.

On Tuesday afternoon, I pulled that treasure out of my bag and with trembling hands and voice handed it to my dear friend.

Mama. Baba. Jie Jie. Jie Jie. Ge Ge. Di Di.

pws068

pws074

Her eyes got big as she pulled the photos close. Her first reaction of quiet turned into words, and she echoed me.

Mama. Baba. Jie Jie. Jie Jie. Ge Ge. Di Di.

and again.

Mama. Baba. Jie Jie. Jie Jie. Ge Ge. Di Di.

She smile a smile like none I had ever seen before and looked up at her ayi and said:

I miss my Mama.

She owned the moment and breathed in the joy herself at the realization that her family was coming for her.

Lucy Joy. Your name is Lucy.

The same buzz and scurrying I had seen in March ensued and I could her her name repeated over and over as if in an angelic chorus. Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. 

And, then she said it herself.

Lucy.

Her spirit sighed as her very breath formed the word of her name—Lucy. 

It was now her turn to scurry and flutter around, showing giggling staff and admiring friends her new family and telling them her name—Lucy! Lucy! Lucy! 

They shared her celebration with thumbs up and pats on the back. Children still waiting jumped up and down for her. Children who would never have that moment themselves hugged her and told her how beautiful her mother was.

It was a highlight of my last trip, an experience I will never forget, one I have told my children about and one I’ll tell my children’s children about. It was the day I got to stand in the gap in the sacred place of transition for a little girl who was moving from an orphan with little hope of a future to a beloved daughter. It was the day God showed me a glimpse of what selfless love looks like as orphans celebrated their friend’s story with genuine joy that she was no longer alone even they will remain.

Lucy laughs

Lucy Joy. 

You’re almost home, precious girl. They’re coming for you.

note:

story and photos all shared with permission

from Lucy’s mama

who now has her home!

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My Psalm of Response #2014top10 #10

Kelly in park with fave

O Lord, Sovereign God, maker of all things, sustainer of life.
You know all things; nothing exists that you do not know.
But, you don’t stop there. You don’t just know all things; you are engaged with all things.
You are always present, always active, always working.

Lord, it was you who nudged me. It was you who stirred my spirit.
It was you who gently led me and fully provided.
It was you who picked me up and carried me across the world as your ambassador.
It was you who whispered encouragement in my ear and into my heart and upheld me.

You said, “This is my servant. I am her God. I delight in her,” proving yourself faithful not because of who I am but because of who you are.
Your song over me and your joy in me sustained me when my knees were weak and lifted my spirit when I was weary.

You led me on a path I did not know, a path I thought would bring your light to a dark place.
But, that path led me to you, father to the fatherless, companion to the lonely, the One true friend to the seeking.
You were already there, already at work, already drying tears and healing broken hearts.
You were already closing the gaps on tiny lips and in people’s lives.

You don’t need me to bring you there. You don’t need me to be a savior.
I lay down before you knowing I am unable, aware of my frailty and my own need to be saved.
But, you lift me up and welcome me as your child to be a part my Father’s work.
You invite me to love with my heart, head, and hands despite of myself.

You are higher than the mountains, louder than the cries of humanity, bigger than the greatest walls man can build.
You show compassion to those without a family and those who grieve not cradling their children.
You guide the hands of even those who do not yet know you to do your work. You give glimpses of you.
How can I not know you more, crave you more, love you more?

O Lord, Sovereign God, maker of all things, sustainer of life.
You know all things; nothing exists that you do not know.
Thank you for calling me, saving me, loving me, using me.
You are the only sovereign Lord, and I am your servant.

China group shot
China picture
Kelly holding child

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To comfort, to remember, and to believe

I texted her a question on Christmas Eve morning, nothing real important, just a question. She answered it with this.
Screen Shot 2014-12-31 at 1.19.51 PM
Christmas Eve morning. Just like that. He took him home, her dad, at the age of only 61. And, at that moment, life for her changed.

The last two days held the services that she planned for her dad. I watched as she smiled and greeted people she hadn’t seen for years, hugged many and comforted her own children. As I did, I thought more deeply about what it all meant, what it means to “pay respects” and “honor.”

Hundreds of people gathered over those two days at viewings and a church service and at the cemetery and for a meal. Some drove from across town; others drove across states. And, as different as everyone was, there was a unity between us all.

We gathered to comfort. 

My friend’s tears flowed freely, but she was not alone. Her mother and brothers, her husband and children, all grieving a great loss, none of them stood alone to face it. Friends and family dropped everything, putting life aside for a time, to hold them up. It’s what we do. It’s how we’re made—recognizing the significance of relationship and the pain that comes when a relationship is lost and knowing that in relationship, healing can begin. We need each other. My friend needed all of us beside her, and we needed to be there to say, “we know your heart is broken, and our hearts are aching to see it.” There is great comfort and hope that swells in relationships with people who cry when you cry, especially when there is no other reason for their tears except for your own.

We gathered to remember. 

The photos posted around the room of a father and grandfather throughout the years told stories, ones most of the people there will never hear but gave glimpses into the life of the man. People who hadn’t seen each other for years hugged and smiled and recalled old memories. The dichotomy of the tears and laughter felt somewhat familiar and oddly comfortable. At any given moment, a family member could be crying; the next moment, the same person could be laughing as someone reminder her of that time when…. The Bible uses some form of the word remember 231 times. There is something very significant about intentionally remembering. It helps us see everything more clearly. It helps us understand His hand in our lives and in a bigger story. When we remember those stories and special moments and when we listen as others remember, we better understand how He works and how we are created, how our earthly, horizontal relationships reflect our heavenly, vertical relationship with Him.

We gathered to believe.

I love attending weddings. I enjoy celebrating with a young couple in love, but I admit that I love more being reminded of our own wedding vows and the picture of the gospel that marriage provides. I always cry, and I always go home happy. I don’t love attending funerals. The emotions are high, and it is simply hard in every respect. Yet, there is something spiritually redeeming about funerals. We gather to comfort and remember, but we also gather to believe together. We gather so that we can borrow faith from each other and encourage each other to believe that even when we cannot make any sense of something, we trust the Sensemaker. As I watched my dear friend say goodbye to her dad, my belief grew in the One who made him, who used him for His purposes on this side of eternity, and who is enjoying him now as he also enjoys praising Him for the rest of eternity. In a most beautiful redemptive way, what could be a dreadful and sad event becomes a testimony to Him and an opportunity to say to all of those there who don’t know Him yet, “Hey—don’t miss this—there’s more to life than what’s right in front of you. This isn’t all there is.” The family can proclaim it. Every aspect of the service can proclaim it. And, somehow, that funeral becomes an outreach event allowing yet another opportunity for that person no longer here to do some real evangelism to everyone close.

Life will be different. Things will be hard; the pain will remain. The tears aren’t over.

And yet.

And yet.

There is comfort. There is joy in remembering. And, we believe.

purpose of funerals

I invite you to go by Nicole’s blog or Facebook page and give her your own words of comfort.

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Where He Was

It’s his first Christmas home, his first Christmas with a family. It will take but a few minutes for him to learn that ripping pretty paper leads to special treasures. I’m sure his little Christmas jammies, sticky candy cane lips and fingers, and the smile that fills his face will speak of only delight.

We could focus on his joy and wide-eyed excitement. We could choose to sigh a happy sigh as we see him running around with his sisters and brother, experiencing it all for the first time. But, we must also remember.

He wasn’t here last year and the year before that or the year before that when he was just a helpless newborn baby boy. When he was found alone, he was taken here like other children like him in that area go. He was put in a crib that belonged to others before him where he likely lay crying until he no longer cried because the energy required to do it didn’t earn a reward. The working staff fed him as they fed the others with watered down formula to meet the goal of keeping them alive; the government gives subsidies only for living children. The wood palate in the crib was visibly wet with urine as was the layers he was bundled in as he laid tied down to keep him from climbing out as he physically grew, his body using every little bit of nutrients given and wanting more. They’d take him out and show him off when the rare visitor came; he was one of the healthier ones. When the visitors left, he went back in his crib and the ayis who only resembled parents left and locked the doors.

That’s where he was.

It’s the type of picture in my head I want to erase and replace with the joy of Christmas morning complete with a Mom and Dad who are taking hundreds of pictures with a lit up tree in the background. But, putting it out of my head doesn’t put it out of existence. His story didn’t start with them; it started in the womb of a woman who did not keep him and continued at a place that is not safe for children to be, at an orphanage much harder than ones I’ve ever seen. It was bad. The picture is messy and reeks of broken hearts and lives. But, it’s also compelling; it also demands a response; I cannot simply turn away.

The incarnation is like that. God Himself, the One creator of the universe, could have found another way, couldn’t He? He spoke things into being, surely He didn’t have to enter into our mess. Surely the One who parted the Red Sea and brought manna down from heaven to sustain His people could have done something spectacular to save us from ourselves. And, I guess He did, but not in the way any one expected. His spectacular was messy and ugly and smelled like manure and moldy hay when He became one of us and laid down His sweet head in a feeding trough for cattle.

The nativity we’re used to seeing with an angelic little Christ child complete with halo and a drape to cover his little parts, the nativity scenes that fill our home this season just don’t seem to do that event justice. God became man. And, honestly, the depth of that is so entirely hard to understand that it seems easier at times to simply focus on the pretty little nativity scene and sweet sounding songs than to dare to look longer at the reality of it all. I want to turn away from it, acknowledge that it happened and it’s true but then stop looking at it because it’s just too hard to understand the hows and whys of it all. But, I can’t turn away. It demands a response.

The joy of Christmas. The glow of the colored lights of the tree reflecting on the windows. Laughing with my family about Christmas memories from our childhood. Seeing all our Christmas cards filling our dining room with pictures of families with children from all over the world. Staying up late with my husband painstakingly making Christmas trees out of peanut butter cups and one more batch of Reindeer eyes. I am going to enjoy all of it, all that has come to fill our Christmas. But, just like how we can’t forget the reality of the earlier parts of his story even though it’s hard, I can’t and won’t forget the reality of the Christmas story even though it’s hard. Only then, when we just glimpse at the reality of the incarnation can we have a merry Christmas.

nativity scene

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