Down Deep

Today the temperature reached 50 degrees, and after a long, snowy, cold winter, it felt great to be outdoors. When I took Lucy out to do her business, I walked around the backyard a little bit. The snow has melted around the trees, and I was on the hunt...the hunt for signs of spring.

The former owners of our home were avid gardeners, and last spring we were happily surprised with all kinds of perennials that popped up around the yard. I know it's a bit early, and we've only had a few warm-ish days, but I was hopeful.

I peered down at the muddy mound around the tall tree. [I really should find out what kind of tree that is. It's very tall and the branches don't start until way up high. No nuts or blossoms...any ideas?] Brown leaves, twigs, and the remnants of dirty snow littered the ground.

I squinted my eyes and bent down closer to the earth. Nothing. Not a single shoot of green anywhere.

As I walked back into the house, I wasn't entirely disappointed. I know the daffodils and crocuses and tulips are down deep in the soil, waiting until just the right time to emerge.

It reminded me of the stack of books sitting by my bedside. The titles include Attaching in Adoption, Love in the Driest Season, and Parenting the Hurt Child.

Ken and I have been learning a lot about parenting an adopted child--basically we are told to take everything we know about parenting and do the opposite. OK, maybe it's not quite that extreme, but many of the practical parenting techniques your mom and dad used and you are using or will use--they don't work with kids who have experienced trauma.

I'm not just talking about trauma as we know it--abuse, neglect, that sort of thing. I'm talking about the trauma of your parents dying. Of not having enough food to eat. Of being sent to an orphanage and and having a different caretaker every day of the week. Of having to be extra charming to get the love and attention you desperately need. Of being adopted by white-skinned parents when all you've ever known are brown-skinned folks. Of moving to a new country where the people speak a different language, eat different food, and you don't know a single person. Of being expected to be grateful for being given a new family, when all you really want is your birth family...a mom that looks like you, siblings that understand your history.

It's not unusual for these children to act like a wounded animal, lashing out at anyone who comes too close. It's common for these kids to initially reject their new mother. After all, their first mother is gone...if they get too close will this new one leave also?

So how does this relate to me peering down at the ground, looking for signs of life? A flower bulb is basically an underground storehouse / flower factory. Within the bulb is nearly everything the plant will need to sprout and bloom at the appropriate time. But it does take time.

Kids from hard places may act like they don't want to be a part of a family. They may have so much emotional scar tissue surrounding their hearts that people wonder if they'll ever break through the walls. But deep down, there is a unique human being, created in the image of God, capable of loving and being loved. Capable of being a contributing part of a family unit. Sometimes it just takes some time to see signs of life pop up through the mire.


But this is the process of redemption. And when we take part in loving a hurt child, when we enter into their world in order to bring healing, we take part in something that is the very heartbeat of God. Redemption. That's why Jesus is called the Redeemer.

As we read through all these books, I hope to share more as we learn more. It's a lot of information to process, and it helps to summarize what we're learning. Hopefully it will also help you understand the possible struggles we as a family will face so you can better support and pray for us.

 Tomorrow, in addition to searching for green stuff on the ground, I will continue to paint some bedroom furniture for our girl's room. I started painting a daybed last weekend, and the spindles on the back of the bed were very nearly the end of me. But now I have a plan of attack, and a new paintbrush, so I am praying it goes better tomorrow and I don't get many more gray hairs. [By the way, why didn't anyone ever tell me that gray hairs would be wiry little sons-of-guns that stick straight up out of my part?]

The grandmother clock just chimed to tell me it's 11:30. Time for bed, friends. What's on your agenda for the weekend?

Luann