Today we received word that our care package to Levi has been
shipped in China. We are using a third
party service that will personally guarantee its delivery to the orphanage. They will put the package together for us,
translate a letter for us to Levi, and label pictures of us in a book for the
nannies to read to him. Included in the
package is a Mickey Mouse baseball hat.
I get giddy thinking of him in it.
Happy as I am about the package, I can’t help but look at it
all with sadness, too. I’m reminded of a
care package we so carefully put together for Violet 3 ½ years ago. One that included an outfit especially picked
in blue, her favorite color….a letter that gently shared who we are and how we
were coming….pictures of all of us….and also gifts and treats for nannies and
kids.
And she never got it.
We don’t know if it made it to the orphanage but wasn’t shared,
if it got stolen somewhere along the way (it happens), or what. We are well aware that there are mixed
feelings in the adoption community and orphanages about whether care packages
are a good idea or not. Imagine how the
children NOT being adopted feel when they are received. We have heard stories of horrible bullying
that happens to children who receive packages, the response of children who
have no idea how to grieve their own loss, jealousy, and confusion. We get that.
On the other hand, some kind of connection to the child you’re about to
take half a world away seems appropriate.
I don’t know what the answer is, but what I do know is that we parent a
child
Who never knew we were coming.
As we talked about Levi getting the package, Violet shared
again that she had no idea where she was going or what was happening when, at 6
years old, she was put into a yellow taxi with two orphanage workers and driven
2 and a half hours away. In fact, she says
they
Never said a word to her. The whole drive long.
I’m confident, knowing our Violet, that she never said a word
for the entire trip, either.
It’s no wonder that when she walked into our hotel, literally
stepped through the revolving door and saw us, she burst into tears.
It’s the scene that haunts me.
The pain on her face was so very, very real. It was terror. And utter brokenness. I can see her turn her head every which way,
looking for someone to save her. I can
see her clinging to the hand of her nanny, the only person she knew in this
strange place. I can see the nanny
telling her what’s happening. My stomach
churns and I feel sick. Outwardly, I smile. Inwardly, my heart breaks into pieces that remain broken today.
“This is wrong! Stop!”
I scream in my head. “Someone tell her
it wasn’t supposed to be this way!
Someone hold her and tell her what’s happening. Tell her we’ll take it slow. Tell her she can trust us. Tell her we will love her forever. Someone wipe her tears!”
How many, many times has she cried tears like this before? Tears of abandonment. Tears of confusion. Tears of loss. And how many times was she treated as if she was a commodity? Noticed when cute. Ignored when convenient. Traded when possible.
Violet has memories that would cause most of us to weep. She thinks those experiences are normal. Yet, the pain I saw on her gotcha day shows me that deep down, her heart knows they’re not. Deep down, her heart knows that she was made for more, is worth more.
And so I wait for Levi.
Hopeful, expectant, but very much aware that he will also come to us
with many years of life without love. No
amount of letters and pictures in a care package will take those away. The scars will be deep. But we will love him fiercely. We will pray over him and with him that the God who sees will heal. Will comfort.
Will guide.
We’ll put on the squeaky shoes and the Mickey Mouse hats, we’ll
build the sandcastles and make the memories.
We’ll hold during the tantrums.
We’ll snuggle in the night. We’ll
take the roads less traveled and find new paths until he believes he is worth
it. Until all our kids believe it.
Because Levi, Violet, Mia, Gabriel, Joseph, and Noah are
Wanted. Redeemed. Loved.
