I used to be a writer...until I ran out of words. 

I used to love writing. The little quirky things that happened in a day's time. Deep thoughts and sudden realizations. Updates on what I was doing, where I was traveling.

In fact, it was when I was in the Middle East, blogging about having been baptized in the River Jordan, that Ken and I really first connected. He was a fellow-blogger, and we fell in love with each other's words before falling in love with each other's hearts.

And then, when I became a mother, I wrote about the joys and sorrows of having a child. Of losing my mom just a few weeks before I became pregnant. Of funny little things my son did and said.

But then we attempted an adoption of three siblings from Ethiopia, and all my writing centered around that. Other things were still important, but we lived and breathed that adoption for six years. It was all I could write about. At times, it was all I could think about.

As that dream died a long, slow death, I ran out of words. I lost my identity. I became unsure of all that I had once been so sure about. My faith floundered, replaced by a heart-wrenching grief.

I quit writing.

It all seemed so futile. Everything wise that could be said was already being written by bloggers who were making money off of clicks or promoting their books. Their words were so eloquent, so far above what my pen could put on paper. So I linked to blogs. I retweeted others' tweets. I read and thought, but I didn't write. I occupied myself with being angry at a system that favored the strong and took advantage of the vulnerable. I buried myself in painting and art and Pinteresting DIY's.

...

But I think my words might be coming back. This morning, still in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about writing. But where to start? What to write about? How do you jump back into something you loved and left?

...

So here I am, jumping in.

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I like to describe forgiveness as a two-step-forward, one-step-back process. Oftentimes I think I've moved past something, that I've truly forgiven, only to have something trigger my anger, my disappointment. Sometimes it takes a long walk or a drive in the car to work through those feelings. Sometimes it's five steps forward...and then ten steps back. Very rarely has forgiveness been a singular act for me. It's more like a continuum.

Grief has proven to be a similar process in my life. Sometimes I feel like I've gotten over something...like the disappointment of a failed adoption. Several weeks ago I told my therapist that I was doing good, that I was content and had reached a place of okay-ness. I was able to communicate with our kids in Ethiopia nearly every day via Facebook messenger, and we even had video chats every once in a while. It wasn't how I imagined our family, but it was sweet in its own way.

But then our 16-year-old, Dawit, got mugged on his way to the market, and they stole his phone. His sole line of communication with us. Thankfully he was not hurt, but since then we've only been able to send quick one-liners every few weeks--when he is able to borrow a phone or go to an Internet cafe.

And I miss him. I miss his updates. I miss the girls. I am angry, again. It's not fair. It's not good. Three orphans living in an overcrowded orphanage with a mom and dad who want them..and the government won't allow it because of their pride and their stupid change in laws.

I didn't realize how angry and unsettled I was until I saw two separate social media posts about parents bringing their adopted children home. Instead of being happy for these families, my stomach clenched, my heart pounded, and I quickly scrolled on.

I realized I still have work to do.

I am constantly telling Jack, our 8-year-old, to be happy for others--even when they have something he doesn't. It's easy to vilify others for no reasons other than jealousy, grief, and unforgiveness. It may even be normal. But it's not healthy.

...

As I write this, I am keenly aware that I am again writing about adoption, the very identify that I became lost in not long ago. Maybe that grief--that disappointment--that journey will always be a part of me. I pray it will make me better, not bitter. I hope that that particular grief has become only part of my story, not my identity.

You won't see me walking in downtown Wheaton with three brown-skinned beauties. I won't be known as the lady who adopted three orphans from Ethiopia.(<<-- That's hard for me to admit, because I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be a difference maker--partly to make a difference and partly, I confess, to be known as a difference-maker.)

So here I am, just me. Mom to Jack, wife to Ken, quasi-mom to three kids in another country. A sometimes-writer who is finding her words again. Giving up the feeling that I have to compete with all the gifted writers I read. Enjoying art and painting and reading and sitting on the couch with the two laziest dogs in the entire world.

Pushing ahead two steps in this process called life, realizing there will be missteps and backtracks, and being okay with that.