I want to start with this.
Some say 143. Recently I heard 153. But the number heard most frequently is 147. There are approximately 147 million orphans in the world, right now. And that's kinda sad that I have to say approximately because no one knows for sure how many there are. There are so very many that we can't even count them all. Let's say we're talking about socks or hand bags. Ok, we don't need to be precise. Even if we are talking about dogs, maybe it's ok if we leave one or two out of our final count. But these are children. With souls and dreams and eyes and bitty fingers each an orphan without family to wrap her loving arms around them and give them each what every single child should have... a home... a family. And we can't even count them all.
So we welcomed a daughter (and a son) into our family with excited and loving arms. I was given
this child. Because I was too fearful and distrustful of what the Lord said I could handle. I got
this daughter. She was 12 months old. Because I was fearful of older. Older would mean that I might have to deal with uncertainly. Could she love me? Could she love at all? Would she turn her back on me? Would she run from me, leaving me with outstretched arms, empty, longing to be held? So she was 12 months old only, because this young infant surley could be molded and with time and love... could love. She could be healed of the deprivation? Surely, I thought? I thought wrong.
But again, God knows. Not me. Again I am reminded of this. And this daughter of mine for only 20 minutes, did not love me. She loved noone. She wanted no one. She wanted the quiet solace of her own inner world. She wanted to be left alone. All alone. Alone was when no one saw her or attended her or touched her or cooed to her or sang to her or looked into her eyes to tried to get a glimpse into her soul. For days. For months. For years. Forever? This malnourished baby of only 15 pounds who never knew or felt love in her orphanage. Maybe it was there and she just wouldn't let it in her soul. Certainly she didn't know or feel the Lord's love. She turned her head from me. Turned her body from us. She did not smile. She certainly didn't love. She wanted to be placed in her crib, and she wanted us to leave the room and close the door. And that fact made me weep uncontrollably and
broke my heart. And in the beginning we obliged her. Being alone was her only peace in the beginning. We wanted her to have some peace at least. From my own naive experience, I will tell you, this was beyond orphan adoption adjustment issues. This was serious attachment life-altering stuff.
So we were left with a child, our beloved daughter, that knew nothing of love. She scratched her skin till it bled. She pulled out her hair. She dug in her ears till the blood came. She hoarded food. She did it all trying to avoid us and trying to avoid looking at and touching anyone, and most of all trying to escape any contact with her soul. When she started to be less silent, she screamed to get what she wanted. When she didn't get what she wanted she'd bang her head against the wall. She didn't want to look at us or be touched or held. She knew me and noticed me no more than the mail carrier and the random stranger in the checkout line in Walmart.
To remain sane, I borrowed a phrase often used in foster parenting. I adopted the motto,
fake it till you make it. I said it over and over in my head. So I faked my enthusiasm. I faked maternal joy during the many doctor visits. And I faked the fulfillment that comes with milestones achieved during 8 therapy sessions a week. I faked it around my family so they wouldn't worry about me... or my daughter. I got quite good at faking it. But sometimes I couldn't any more. And out would burst the fear, or anger, or countless tears. Hopefully they didn't see me do it too much because it's really hard to fake it when they see you cry. But I did continue faking it, honestly because
there were no other options. This was my chosen path after all.
And I came to realize something in the course of these months now turn years.
I can't fix her. I don't have that power. Despite 8 therapy sessions a week, nutritious meals considering of 4 food groups, with one meltable solid and one crunchy texture and 2 snack-times in between those 3 meals, despite consistency, and routine, and sensory integration therapy, and unconditional love, despite brushing therapy up to 5 times a day, and daily baby massage, and rocking her in my grandmother's rocking chair and reading her books, and so much research my brain hurt, and stress and lots of lost sleep, and the assistance of the Early Intervention program and the Arizona Department of Developmental Disability, and a preschool with a teacher/child ratio of 1:2, and so so many tears, and
praying with her and
over her as I tuck her in to bed each night, and wrapping her with a constant source of mama love, and a forever family that would never ever leave her, and despite 30+ years of previous parenting experience...
I couldn't fix her.
I don't have that power.
Only He can fix her.
Sure, I could lay the foundation and follow directions, but I'd never be able to fix her or make her whole or redeem her soul. Only God has the power to love completely and see her for who she is underneath all the issues and redeem her.
Now almost 3 years later, He has molded her. We have provided the foundation for her change, but
He has looked deep within her soul and let her feel His unconditional love, through a really ordinary mama and papa. She is transformed. She is healed in {not all} many ways. She is a glorious, giggly, get-in-to-everything lovely little girl. A sweet little thing that will patter down the hall and wrap her arms around her papa when he comes home from work each day. She has been transformed into my baby that will look for my eyes, and literally reach out her arms for the comfort of her mama when she falls and needs lovin'. She is {and always has been} my daughter.
Today there are 147 million orphans in the world minus 2
And
I am the most transformed of all. No, it's not that she's so lucky to have us.
I am so blessed and lucky to have her. I am transformed.
I'm not going to be talking about Tess and her adoption and healing journey too much anymore. 3 years later, she's loving us and letting us love her. Her delays are still evident, but it's ok. She's eating pretty normally, the hoarding is pretty much under control, and although she still occasionally bangs her head when she doesn't get what she wants, now she tries to find a couch, or carpet, or blankets, or some place soft, to do it. She's not hurting herself nearly as much anymore. She will still look us in the eye, and scream
I want to go away! when we tell her she can't have more candy or hit her brother. But more and more often she can be coaxed into my arms for comfort and mama lovin'.
Her My transformation is largely complete. A transformation of surrender to Him.
So any future posts about Tess will be a reflection of my sweet twirly bouncy girl. It's a celebration of sorts, or a letting go of so many fears.
Because they aren't necessary anymore.
And they really weren't necessary all along.
