Mother’s Day
I became a mother in Ethiopia, Africa. There was no pushing and panting that led to a climax of delivery. There was no hospital or full round tummy or maternity clothes. There was no ultrasound or hearing a heartbeat for the first time.
My motherhood journey began two years before I ever set my eyes on a little child sleeping in a tiny metal crib. It began with an conviction, then prayer, and paperwork. It continued with waiting and trips to Chicago and fingerprinting. We had days full of wondering and nights we stayed up asking questions that we may never have an answer for entirely. The time passed slowly and in this time many of my friends became pregnant, carried their sweet babies and delivered them into this world. Jason and I would go and visit with them, we would rejoice in the new life, and we would return home to wait more, to continue on with our journey.
I knew that somewhere in Ethiopia a story was taking place. In this story would be loss and tragedy and sickness and hurt. I knew that a day would pass by in which a child would be somehow and someway become without a family. I would sit on my front porch and sob. I would pray a covering over each day asking God to be in the unfolding story, to protect this child. What would I be doing the day that my child is abandoned? I wanted the answer to that question to be ‘praying for him’. And, so I did.
After we received our referral call our social worker sent me an email that had two pictures of Mussie attached. I opened them, my heart beating faster than it ever has before. I sat there in silence looking at his face, his eyes, his cheeks. I can not tell you what it feels like to receive an email, which normally delivers such ordinary news, and have it display the face of a child you have longed for. My child.
I remembering clearly thinking in my head, “You made it baby boy. Whatever happened to you, however horrible and hard, you made it.”
We printed off his pictures and would sleep with them next to our bed. At night we would cry together and talk to his little face. “We are coming for you!”, we would proclaim. Weeks later I boarded a flight that would take me on the first leg of my journey to Ethiopia. It was all a blur. The night I landed in Ethiopia the sounds of the Mosques and animals filled my head. I slurrped down some tea and a roll and crawled into bed. I was just moments, just a ten minute walk, from my son who had previously been across the world from me. I wondered if he knew at all down in the deep parts of his tiny spirit that his life was about to change, that he would once again have a family?
He was asleep when I arrived at the orphanage. I did not want to wake him. I waited and waited, just watching him. The years of waiting overtook me and I scooped him up into my arms, pulled him close to me, and when he began to whimper my voice comforted him. Imprinted in my memory, treasured, is that moment when he curiously glanced over my face as I said to him, “I am your Mommy….”.
I had a son. He had a mommy. Jason, thousands of miles away, was a father. Through soft singing, kisses, lots of hugs and holding him close trust was born. Each day that I returned for him, that we built memories, that my hands fed him that trust grew into reliance and affection and eventually the deep bond between a child and a parent. I will never forget the day that I walked into Layla House and the look on his face spoke that he knew I was coming for him, that to me he was the world, he was chosen, spoken for, cherished.
There was a time that he would not sleep unless we were touching. First, he had to be on my chest, tightly wrapped in the covers with me. In time he would sleep laying beside me as long as my arm was around him. More time passed and he would sleep holding my hand tightly. One night he clung to my hair and slept above my head on the pillow. Now we give hugs and kisses and smiles and songs to one another. He sleeps confidently in his own bed and wakes up cheerful, not afraid or alone or uncertain.
I have never once, not even for a moment, mourned that I was not able to give birth to him. God delivered him right into our arms, there is nothing more powerful than this.
I have mourned, at times, for what took place in his life before we became us. Today, especially, as he is sleeping happily in his bed with Grover snuggled next to him, thoughts of his birth family are in my heart. I want them to know that he is happy, safe, and adored. I want them to know that he is intelligent and compassionate and funny…that he loves to run around naked…that he pulls the cats tail…that he can count to ten. I want them to know that he snores at night when he sleeps and that he wakes up talking about Elmo and cars and Daddy. I want them to know that he loves to garden and watch airplanes fly by and he run in open spaces. I want them to know that at night as we prepare for rest we pray for them. I want them to know that pieces of them live on in his face, his eyes, and his features and this makes us proud and so eternally grateful for their lives.
Motherhood is the absolute hardest thing I have ever done. But, being Mussie’s mother is the best part of being me. He is my treasure and I truly am boastfully proud that he is ours and we are his.
Happy Mothers Day, me. The journey, the waiting, the travel, the adventure made me the momma of a precious child who’s kisses and giggles and boo-boo’s and love is mine each and every day. What a special celebration today that my husband and son gave to me. My heart is overjoyed.
Happy Mothers Day also to a woman somewhere in Ethiopia. Thank you. If ever those words held true gratitude and emotion they do now. Thank you. Thank you.
