This month is flying by. It's disconcerting.
I love September, and it's already half gone and October
will slide by just as quickly and then boom, it's Thanksgiving and then
Christmas and then everyone is exhausted, hungover and never wanting to see
another Christmas ornament again for the rest of their life.
Except for those neighbors that never take theirs down.
Anyway, September is half gone, and we haven't heard from
our adoption homestudy agent. I sent her an e-mail this morning, wondering
where we were in the process.
Surely we are towards the end. The year is sliding by; I'm
starting to feel the pinch of it. We have to get this show on the road, who
knows how long it will be before we're matched with a birthmother.
The nightmare scenario is that we'll be matched at the same
time the Army moves us to another post. It's not a deal breaker exactly; it
just means we'll have to do the homestudy all over again in another state, and
in a massive hurry.
I keep remembering our homestudy agent lifting her hand in
the air and snapping her fingers. "You'll be matched like that," she
said, with the easy confidence of twenty years’ experience. That seems too much
to hope for, but it has happened like that.
Yesterday, Keith opened the door to the nursery, in order to
store something in there. He paused in the doorway.
"Hey, this is a nice room," he said, surprised by
the sight of it.
I sometimes forget that it's there, too. It's part of
surviving the process.
Yesterday, at the commissary, I threw some Johnson and
Johnson No Tears baby shampoo in the cart. I usually feel like an impostor when
I do this sort of thing. A part of me feels like some stern, Germanic looking
nanny type will come striding up to me and tell me that I can't buy that; I'm
not really a mother.
This nanny police person will remind me that I don't have a
baby and tell me to put it back on the shelf for the real mothers, who actually
Mothers are getting younger and younger, have you noticed?
They are beautiful in their young strength, those mothers. They are an entirely
different generation from mine. They were in grade school when I was in high
school; they were non entities, below the radar, running around in ponytails
and now they are populating the world and looking stylish and beautiful at the
As for me, I have been hollowed out and polished thin.
Persistent longing has worn me down and softened all my edges, like water that
runs and runs over stone, wearing it as smooth as silk.
God has some mysterious inspiration in mind for the shape of
me; He keeps me close the wheel, spinning me out, elongating me, pulling and
smoothing the edges.
I wonder sometimes that I don't hate Him for this. Why
wouldn't I? Isn't He my jailer, isn't He the rock wall behind which hides all
the treasure I desire, treasure He is storing up and jealously guarding,
unwilling to let even the one good thing fall from His fingers into my empty
But I find that I can't. I trust Him too much. It's so weird.
Where did this trust come from? It doesn't make any sense. Maybe the pleasure
of being in His hands is greater, in its own way, than the answered desire.
Anyway, how much do I suffer, really? Sooner or later, there
will be a baby. I must simply be in the process and it will come about. God is
weaving the brokenness of my life into the brokenness of someone else's; I am
being woven into the larger picture.
And He does open His hands and treasures are constantly
tumbling out. There is the blue of my husband's eyes as he looks at me so shyly
from under his ball cap, the warmth of his shoulders under the soft cotton
There are all the colors hidden behind my cupboard doors; I
open them and my eyes are filled with the glow of orange, green, red and
We went to a small town rodeo on Saturday night; we sat on
the metal bleachers and watched the cowboys get tossed out onto the soft
Georgia soil, their hats spinning away.
There was one horse; he was cream and white and wild and he
kicked his rider off in a fury of offended dignity and then went surging and
plunging by the fence, still kicking, still tossing his fierce head.
"The hell you will," I knew he cried. "How
dare you dream! I'll toss you all off!"
That stallion was also my gift. As he went thundering by, my
spirit rose up in fierce joy with him.
Everything in that moment got all tangled up in joy; the
evening sky that was melting into night and the hazy wooded hills and restless
crowd, the children huddled in rows near the fence like sparrows, wide eyed and
chattering, all the lights high up on the poles shining down onto the tossed
soil, the gleaming chaps of the cowboys, their faces shadowed under the broad
brims of their hats.
Maybe that's why I trust Him. He's the only one that can
spin me in His hands without breaking my spirit.