Last night, my heart broke in two. Again.
We had eaten dinner and were in various stages of after-dinner life...G was clearing the table, N was doing dishes, and R and I had moved into the living room drinking coffee. I have no idea where J was. Poor middle child.
At one point, everyone had left the dining room except little M who sat eating a sad looking leftover Christmas cookie.
Suddenly, we found her in the living room sobbing. Shaking. Her heart shaped lips puckered into the most heart-wrenching frown.
She was frantically wiping tears.
"What's WRONG?!"
And then I realized. She had been left. Again.
In countless ways, M is healing from her early life traumas, but a few challenges remain pretty constant. The biggest is her absolute FEAR of being left.
This is different than being alone. She can be alone just fine. She'll wander off and play (although she still much prefers to be with people - from temperament or a life of always being with others we'll never know). But when we are together or she is with a sibling and they leave the room or come inside she can panic.
When we first brought her home, she would just stand crying and shaking. Utterly helpless, with no clue how to make things right. Over time, we've taught her to FOLLOW whomever is leaving. This usually happens. But not without tears, and sometimes in full mourning.
People look at M and think she's "all better now" or that "she's so resilient." She plays like one of the other kids and she's talking so much more. Even we forget her needs sometimes - obviously! But inside is still a little heart that was broken. Twice. Once when she was left by her birthmother and once when she was left by the orphanage workers in our arms. I can't even begin to imagine her pain in being left.
I took her in my arms and held her. I gently whispered that she was never truly alone. That Jesus was always with her. That many, many people loved her and she could always look for them. And then I asked, "Were you ever left before?"
Of course I knew she had been, but I was curious to see if she could verbalize anything.
"Once I left in China."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" I had no idea what she would say. And it wasn't what I thought.
"I left alone at night. In the big room. In the dark. And the grammas not hear me. I hungry and cry and cry and the grammas not hear me. They sleep in the room down the hall with the babies. They not come. My tummy hurt. I feel worried. I feel scared."
And she sobbed in my arms. Again.
"Mama," she said, "Please not leave me alone."
People talk of the challenges in adoption. The expenses. The travel. The inconveniences. The unknowns. The sleepless nights. The long days.
R and I are no heroes. M's a hero. To come through such tremendous loss and still find a reason to smile is the very heart of courage.
And to see that smile, I would travel across the world, spend any amount of money, put off a career, lose sleep, and pray like I've never prayed before.
Because M and every other child like her is worth the cost.
