Behind the Mask

One hot day, the first of August, I kissed my precious daughter good-bye and watched Ruth carry her away to a taxi.  I remained strong, partly because I had to (I would be traveling for over 24 hours by myself and needed to be alert), and partly because I knew that we would be reunited come September or October.  

Fast forward to December.  She's still not home.  

I miss Rose with every ounce of my being.  Sometimes, as if out of nowhere, I begin to cry.  Even as I write this, tears stream down my face.  

But mostly, I hide behind my mask.  It's safer there.  Because if I'm honest, I am afraid to let many people in.  So few understand the heartache and many ups and downs of adoption and are seemingly unable to relate.  Some still question why we have chosen this path.  And others, I fear, may become weary of hearing about this tumultuous journey to our daughter.  

So I hide.

But today, today I am removing my mask for a moment...

Decorating for Christmas was bittersweet.  Darin and I loved watching the boys decorate the tree, but missing Rose prevented us from truly enjoying the moment.  We embraced and cried quietly as our boys worked around us.  

Jonathan is struggling; he longs for his sister to be home.  Sometimes he has a far away look in his eyes, and we know he's thinking of her.  Sometimes he cries (but don't tell him I told you so).  He and Owen pray for her daily and don't understand why she's not home yet.  And really, I don't either.

The monthly progress report today said that Rose is standing and trying to take steps.  I never even saw her crawl.

Worse still, she had pneumonia and had an IV for five days.  And I wasn't there to hold her and comfort her.

And then I read that her attachment to her nanny continues to grow, and that they have a beautiful bond.  I witnessed this connection between them, and the excitement on both of their faces when they saw each other.  And I love it because I know how well Rose is loved and cared for at the baby home. But it breaks my heart to know that soon I will take her away from all that she knows and from the amazing woman who has been a mom to her since she was two weeks old.  I know that Rose's leaving will devastate her nanny.  And that causes an overwhelming amount of grief to well up in my soul.   

I know that if I had the opportunity, I would choose adoption all over again.  Because no matter how difficult the journey, adoption is beautiful.  Messy, but beautiful.  

And so tonight, I weep.  For Rose.  For her nanny.  For our family.  And for the brokenness of the world. 

But I will once again put on my mask and hope for an ounce of normalcy as we pray and wait for Elizabeth Rose to be home.  For good.