‘Til his Bita comes home

News came Sunday morning—early— that Babita’s I-20 had made its way around the world and was safely in her hands. Christopher told me as he came back to bed in the wee hours after someone’s nightmare, or potty trip, or needed hug. I heard it (“I have an email from B. She has her I-20.”) as I wrestled Jude out of his third (fourth?) screaming jag of the terribly restless night and back into a sweaty, unhappy sleep.

And so it was that hours later, sitting at our fellowship lunch, speaking to a sister in Christ, that the words I was about to say hit me. Hard.

“Yeah. She could be here … this week.”

She could be here this week.

I said it, and I wanted to giggle inside because, guys. She could be here this week.

The I-20 is her ticket to a visa interview. The visa interview is her entrance stamp to the United States. And that stamp? That is what makes us purchase a plane ticket with our daughter’s name on it.

 

There are many points of prayer still yet. That Babita is brave, answers with confidence, and feels God’s peace. That someone with a “yes” in their heart sits at the interview window in the embassy that day. That God is honored in the entire process. That this happens.

But we’re all getting giddy. We’re all close enough to taste the fact that a very real hope exists. Babita might be here in a matter of days. Oh, my heart.

People ask all the time what it’s like for our other kids to have a sister that they know mostly via letters and phone and Skype. They ask what it is to say that someone who you’ve only spent a few weeks rubbing shoulders with is one of your tribe. The question always takes me aback, because the rest of our children have never once doubted that Babita is ours, that she belongs under our roof, that she’s cut from the stuff that God made Schwarzens out of. And right now, just as my husband and I are anxious, they are waiting, too.

Perhaps Simon— sweet, 3 year-old Simon— has summed up the hope of this moment best of all. This morning, he snuck his beloved “Bita shirt” under his church button-up. The orange t-shirt, which was a gift from his sister, sports the letters and sounds of the Nepali alphabet. He has adored it since the moment she gave it to him, taking special care to take it off when it might get stained or ruined. He can tell you exactly when she gave it to him, and exactly how much he longs to sit on Babita’s lap and sing songs with her again. When we returned home yesterday afternoon, he asked to leave the treasured shirt on.

“Sure,” I answered.

“I’m gonna wear it,” he asserted. “I’m gonna wear it every day until ’til my Bita comes home.”

And you know, I think he will.