Dear Waiting Mom,

Dear Waiting Mom,

Congratulations! You’ve starved your fears, fed your courage, and followed a call to an incredible, awesome adventure. You’re adopting a child! Is there anything more awe-inspiring than stepping into the unknown and fully handing over the pen as God writes your family’s story in this breathtaking, surrendered way? Having a family pieced together through biology and adoption, I can tell you that both require their own unique kind of faith and trust … and both bring about the beautiful image of God’s plan for His people right there, around your own kitchen table.

Right now, you’re waiting. Waiting on paperwork, waiting on a country’s approval, waiting for a return email, waiting for placement, waiting for … something. Adoption involves a lot of waiting. And unlike the 40(ish) weeks of a biological pregnancy, adoption can stretch on for months, years. Agonizing, heartbreaking, soul-straining years that seem to have no purpose other than dragging out the inevitable moment when your child is finally, finally tucked in to bed for the very first time under your roof.

I remember that season. I remember the frustration, the impatience, the lack of control. Mostly, I remember feeling like time was being lost; that I was in an enforced idleness as everyone else around me did the real work (at a snail’s pace) of bringing our family that much closer to the vision God had for us.

In hindsight, I was wrong. And that’s what I– an adoptive Momma 4 years down the road from finalization– want to share with you. Looking back, I see clearly now that the waiting time is probably the most valuable part of the entire adoption process, because it’s during this lull that you can prepare yourself as much as possible for the path to which you’ve been called.

See, here’s the thing. Your agency is going to offer (hopefully require) training. They’re going to give you books, and websites, maybe even make you warm the chairs in hours of classes that you’ll approach with a certain amount of delight and fear. They’ll touch on topics that make you cringe and keep repeating words like “attachment” and “loss” and “abuse” and “delays.”

And you won’t hear them.

You won’t hear them because the image in your head of the perfect child God has handpicked for you is louder than any caution. You won’t hear them because that little boy is waiting for his Momma. You won’t hear them because your daughter is celebrating another birthday without you. You won’t hear them because the storyline being played out in your heart drowns out anything anyone can say that might give you pause.

I get it. I have been there. Every adoptive parent has, I think.

Here’s the reality: parenting a child added to your family by adoption is slightly deceptive. See, it feels so normal. On a day to day basis, you’re not processing “that’s an attachment issue,” or, “he’s feeling loss exacerbated by a need to understand his story,” or even, “this is because he’s testing to make sure I love him no matter what.” No. This is just another day, another bowl of popcorn, another chance to braid her hair. But the counselors and the professionals are right. There’s something special, something more about parenting a child whose beginnings have roots in loss. You can’t love it away, and you can’t sweep it under the rug with a simple, “You’re one of us!”

Then there’s the specter of special needs. I know: you didn’t check the box that said you were willing to parent a child who was alcohol exposed. You said mild physical delay. You know all about the behavioral issues children raised in orphanages manifest because you’ve been reading a woman’s blog for years. Your child won’t have autism. You never said yes to severe health issues caused by inappropriate feeding or even starvation.

Please— if you hear nothing else I say today, hear this: be prepared for every possible contingency. Don’t assume anything when handed a packet of information on a child’s background or current status. God is in this story, yes. But sometimes, His plans for perfect and your plans for perfect do not jibe. Ask me (and a zillion other parents) how I know.

Parenting an adopted child requires skill, it requires an understanding of a type of pain you probably have never even considered, and it requires a willingness to talk about hard things, vulnerable things. I’ve never met a person who just happened to possess those skills right off the bat. It takes time. A desire to learn. A heart of openness.

All of those things that you have, right here, right now as you wait for the day when your arms are filled. God is writing an amazing, magnificent story in your life. He’s bringing you the child He has had planned for your family from before the beginning of time. But He’s also giving you the chance to start with as much knowledge as you can gather in the time you have in front of you. Read it all. Talk to everyone. Store up the tragedy and the amazing and the warning signs and the joy. Hold it all in your heart under “just in case,” and keep looking forward to the day when you are called “Momma” by the child you have dreamed of holding.

And know that whatever the future holds– be it a perfect, healthy, chubby-cheeked newborn placed in your arms or a sulking, skinny pre-teen who doesn’t speak English– God knew. He gave you this call, He gave you this child, He gave you this time to prepare your heart and home. The road may be smooth, or it may be rocky … but He is there.

In Him,

A fellow Momma