Eleven years ago today I rode in my first ever limo to a church where everyone I loved in the world assembled to celebrate a new marriage – mine.  I stepped into the dress that I’d spent an entire summer making.  I remember getting in line at Baer Fabrics with Aunt Cheryl at 6am, holding a bunch of bananas for the Louisville Zoo, the entry fee for a day of 40% savings.  Earlier in the week, we’d scouted out the Aloncen lace and white doupioni silk for the dress of my dreams.  Like a good costume design major, I’d researched the period (1860s bustle) that was my inspiration, torn modern dresses out of magazines, doodled and sketched, and finally designed THE DRESS.  I spent the entire night before the banana sale pacing the floor in Aunt Cheryl’s sitting room.  She’d given me pieces of doupioni and shantung and I felt and scrunched and played with the fabrics all night, trying to decide on the right drape for THE DRESS. 

The next morning, we were fifth in line at 6am, with two other brides ahead of me.  When they opened the doors, I ran straight for the lace and Aunt Cheryl raced to the silk, and we met victorious.  I loved that fabric store.  I grew up going to summer camps there.  Every time I visited my aunt, we stopped at Baers for a piece of fabric, an inspiring swatch of warp and weft, the beginning of an idea. 

Baer Fabrics is no longer here.  But my marriage is.  Eleven years ago today, I slipped into the dress of my dreams.  And I walked down the aisle to the man of my dreams.  Eleven years later, he still is.  We have a whole lot of reality these days, but still an awful lot of dreaming, and we love it that way. 

We almost didn’t get there.  About a year into our dating relationship, we almost broke up, because I did not want kids.  Ever.  That was not in the plan.  I was doing one of two things.  I was either heading straight to the mission field, going overseas and submerging myself into another culture.  Or, I was heading to grad school for an MFA in Costume Design, becoming a professor, and never, ever, getting near anyone under the age of 18.  Growing up, I didn’t play with dolls.  I made clothes for them.  I never put a doll in my baby buggy.  I filled it with office supplies and pushed it around like a mail cart.  But Alex always knew he wanted to be a daddy.  We almost ended right there.

I’m so glad we didn’t.  We decided to table the discussion for awhile, and I agreed that maybe kids would happen…later…much later.  I have to laugh now so that God isn’t laughing AT me, but laughing WITH me.  He took the most child-adverse female on the planet and morphed her into ME, a chick who’ll bust down closed door after closed door to chase after my little ones.  The Holy Spirit flipped some mommy switch in me and I can’t – and don’t want to – turn it off!

I remember clearly right around our sixth anniversary sitting on the patio overlooking the Trader Joes in Alexandria.  We were trying to decide if we should keep trying.  We could walk away from this whole kid thing.  Dig into our careers.  I could do grad school.  I could have my dream, and I wouldn’t even have to feel guilty, because we really did try, harder than most people have to.  We could walk away into our DINK-lifestyle (double-income-no-kids…although who am I kidding – I was in theatre, so “income” is kind of stretching it!) and never look back.  We sat and talked, drank Starbucks, watched people coming and going from Trader Joes.  Something had changed.  I had changed, and so had Alex.  Because he gave me the space to make that choice.  And we didn’t look back.  We sprinted full force into parenthood.  Not gonna stop fighting for it until we’re Mommy and Daddy.  

In the inferno of infertility, our marriage heated up.  It was painful, melting away in the flames, but as we writhed in the unbearable pain and loss and strain of it all, we forged into something stronger.  If the ceremony in the church named us One, then through infertility, we became One.  He drove me to every appointment.  He held my purse, my hand, my whatever needed holding.  And then he held our son.

Parenting has brought on new challenges and triumphs.  New reasons to hold hands in bed at night and cry out to our Father together.  Africa and adoption have brought us to an even deeper level of commitment.  More praying.  More hand holding.  More feeling helpless together equals more depending on God together equals more togetherness.

I love my graphic designer, video gamer, God lover husband of mine.  I’m grateful for eleven years.  When I think about how much we’ve grown and loved and laughed and DONE in eleven years, I’m blown away by how much more there is to come.

Every day I open up this blog and try to write.  I’ve been staring at the screen a lot lately.  I’ve been going through Beth Moore’s Esther study, and last week she preached it, PREACHED IT, about fear.  Facing our fear.  She said “We can protect ourselves right out of our calling.”  Oh God, how I want to live a dangerous life for You.  I don’t want to live my life motivated out of self-preservation.  I want to be brave!  To live boldly.  So last week, I stared semi-courageously into the face of my fear.  Not passing court before rainy season.  Having my daughter stuck in limbo without her family indefinitely.  Having this heaviness weighing on me for more months and months and months.  The ache.  Her face, her eyes, staring at me through the computer screen.  Not getting to kiss her boo-boos and rock her in the big orange chair and watch her fall in love with her big brother.  What if…the waiting continues…for a lot longer…then…GOD.  Then God.  Then God’s still the same.  God’s still the lover of my soul and the giver of good gifts.  He’s still the author and perfector of my faith.  He’s still worthy of all my praise.  He’ll still make the sun rise every morning and set every evening.  His mercies are new every morning.  What if…the worst…then…GOD.

So last week was fear.  This week was…get ready for it…WAITING.  Did Beth Moore write this study for adoptive mamas who have encountered major snags in the process?  Did she write this for me?  WAITING.  Today she busted out in her awesome accent, “If we cannot wait upon the Lord, we will not fulfill our destiny.”  God, I want to fulfill my destiny!  I want my waiting to bring glory to the King of Kings.  She ended with an observation from Isaiah 40.  “Those who wait upon the Lord” or “Those who hope in the Lord” will renew their strength.  They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.”

I first encountered this passage at FCA camp in 9th grade.  There was a song…yes, and some hand motions…which I still know….  The song was very happy and energetic.  But waiting and hoping don’t feel energizing.  They’re EXHAUSTING.  I’m completely depleted.  So today, Beth talked about waiting on the Lord renewing our strength, how waiting on an event, on a person, on my CHILD, doesn’t renew my strength, but waiting on the LORD will renew my strength. 

So I’m not waiting on ESD.  I’m waiting on God.  I’m throwing my hands out in total surrender and total expectation that He will do great things.  I’m waiting on Him to move.  I’m still totally exhausted, but His mercies really are new each morning.  Every night I run out of hope, and every morning, He gives me more.  He renews my strength.  My prayer is that He’s renewing my daughter’s strength, too.  That His mercies are new every morning for her.  That as the sun rises over Addis and beams onto my daughter at that high elevation, that she will feel its warmth, see its light, and have renewed hope in a loving God.

The pile that my daughter’s file is sitting under JUST. MOVED. a smidge. a tiny smidge. But it’s a start. Weird combo of heart pain, angst and joy jiggling around inside me.

At the same time I heard the news, I received word that our homestudy update has been approved, hopefully in time to get it to immigration before everything expires.  Every time I start to toy with hopelessness, the situation slightly shifts and I see specks, not rays, of light up ahead.  I’ll take specks! 

Tonight before bed, Elliott prayed, ”Dear Jesus, please bring my sister home and please help her to get here.  Amen.”  Really, is there anything else to say?  The heartcry of a brother longing to start brothering.  I can’t wait to make that first introduction.  “Elliott, meet your sister.  ESD, this is Elliott.  He prayed for you before he even knew you.”

HopeChest is coming to Atlanta tomorrow night for the Free to Live tour, with Desperation Band, Meredith Andrews, and Tom Davis!  I’ve heard Tom speak and I promise you will not want to miss the opportunity to hear him live, right here in Atlanta. 

Free to Live is a night of worship, speaking, and a call to action to join the movement to protect victims of the sex trade.  Please come check it out and find out what you can do to make a difference!

Thursday, May 12, 7pm

The Tabernacle

1580 Agape Way

Decatur, GA 30035

Visit freetolivetour.com for more info.

My journey to motherhood has been long, with many bumps along the way.  For five painful years I worked to become a mother.  Each Mother’s Day my empty arms mocked me as I watched other women stand in church to receive praise and gratitude, flowers, brunches, and handmade cards. 

I remember my last not-Mother’s Day.  After four failed IUIs and IVF looming in front of me, I was a desperate, needle-crazed lab rat longing for a belly bump to call my own.  I drove myself to Krispy Kreme and bought two donuts.  Empty calories filling an empty body.

The following year, the doctors delivered my healthy son from my broken body six weeks early…just in time for me to celebrate my first Mother’s Day.  It wasn’t pretty.  There was no laying the baby on my tummy after a natural labor.  I remember a cadre of doctors, a pharmacy of drugs, and a sense of failure…I didn’t do it right…My body tried to kill my baby…It wasn’t supposed to be this way…I took prenatal yoga and natural birth classes and read all the right books…why?

But then there was Elliott.  This four pound gift from a loving God who heard my cries, loved me in my barrenness, and reached down and made life in my lifeless womb.  My loving Father bathed me in His grace and bestowed upon me the title of Mother. 

My first Mother’s Day the angry incision across my abdomen stung, my uterus cramped, my swollen breasts leaked milk, and I held my tiny miracle baby and took in the wonder of his beautiful wide-spaced eyes, his perfect nose, his wrinkly skin.  He didn’t seem to hold it against me that my body tried to kill him.  And in that spirit of forgiveness, we set forth as mother and son.

Today I thanked my boy for making me a Mommy.  He said, “You are very welcome.”  The five years it took to bring him into the world fade, beautiful layers to the watercolor of life.  His birth, the laying down my plans for his life, the first true act of selflessness as a parent. 

Today I long for my next child.  Through the uncertainty of birth and now waiting, in limbo for her unknown family as we watch her grow up in pictures.  I don’t know why God has called me to this motherhood of waiting.  But this morning with my daughter’s face around my neck and my son’s hand in mine, I was filled with love for a Savior who loves me enough to lead me to my children.  God reminded me of the journey, of His timing, of His utter faithfulness.  My God who opened my womb to my son has opened my heart to my daughter and she will come.  He will bring her.  And it won’t be the way I planned it. 

Just as my son’s birth defied all the books and classes and preparations that I’d made, my daughter’s adoption is defying all the stories and blogs and average wait times that I’d heard.  I wouldn’t trade one moment of my journey to Elliott, because it led me to my Elliott.  I feel the same way about ESD.  Everything has led us to her.

And I will continue this motherhood of waiting.  Each day God reminds me of His faithfulness when my miracle baby walks into my room and wakes me up for another day of fun.  My children are worth the wait, and my God is worthy of my trust.