I prepared for this moment.
I thought I prepared for this moment.
You have a son. His name is Abraham. He is 5 months old.
Five months old.
My heart literally feels swollen.
With Joy. Anxiety. Grief. Expectation. Hope. Fear.
I am entangled in a web of intense emotion.
A lump setting up permanent residence in my throat.
My mind is constantly transported to the moment he is home. Yearning for that day to come soon.
I prepared my heart to be ready for a season where we are all alive and squinting at the same sun, yet separated by the thousands of miles between us.
But, nothing can prepare you for the feelings that you feel when you see them for the first time. Know their name. See their face. Their tummy. Their ears. Their arms.
It takes your body completely over. A new powerful wave of love.
And you know that every single day that they are alive, they will do something new. Maybe sit up. Maybe giggle for the first time. Roll over. Taste something they don’t like and wrinkle their nose. Take a first step. Fall and hurt their knee.
And you will miss it.
I will miss it.
I. am. missing. it.
There is no amount of prayer, writing, meditation or counsel that can prepare your heart for this feeling.
For the next however many months it takes for us to have him home with us, I have to wake up in the morning, go about my day and rest my head on my pillow at night knowing that I have no control over how he is loved, cared for.
I cannot see if his cries are being answered. If he feels scared. If he is happy. If his tummy hurts.
I will never know if he had a fever today. Or cut his first tooth. Or said his first gurgle. I will never know his first word.
It is something that I thought about so much when Emara was a baby. There were so many moments where I pushed this thought to the back of my brain because I couldn’t handle the idea of missing so much of Emara’s life. I couldn’t imagine not being the one to soothe her cries at night. Not rocking her in my arms. Not knowing how she likes to be held.
It was unimaginable. So, I couldn’t go there with the child we had in Ethiopia.
And now I have to.
And it feels claustrophobic. Because I can’t change it.
I HAVE to be ok with not knowing. With missing out.
And, right now, I am not ok with it.
Right now, I am so so sad.
And for today, I am going to sit in the sadness for a bit.
Because if there is one thing that I have learned about grief.
You have to live through it. Talk through it. Feel every single feel.
Only then, can you find the hope that is on the other side of it.
Abraham is on the other side of it.
And that tiny little kiddo?
Well, he is my hope.