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.

...

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.

Letting GO: The Tale of Little Leaf

by Luann Elizabeth Doman

[Based on a true story]

In the yard

by the house

on a street

with a hill

grew a tree

with a lovely little leaf.

The lovely little leaf and its little leaf friends gave shade to a lady bug,

a grasshopper,

and a caterpillar.

One sunny day, that spot of shade grew bigger.

The lady bug,

the grasshopper,

and the caterpillar

noticed the sapphire sky give way to shifty, shadowy clouds, and the scent of rain filled the air.

Three little leaves from the tree fluttered to the ground, and

the lady bug,

the grasshopper,

and the caterpillar

dove for cover.

A storm was coming.

Little leaf waved in the wind and danced to the rock and the roll of the thunder. It smiled to itself because it was young and brave and innocent.

But the twiggy branches that held the leaf started to 

bend and bow  

and curtsy and conga 

as hot summer raindrops jumped and splashed.

One by one, leaf after leaf shook and shimmied and surrendered to the now roaring wind. But the lovely little leaf held on, trembling as the wind pushed it to and fro and pulled it here and there.

“OH MY!” said the lovely leaf. “I MUST HOLD ON!”

The lovely leaf waited and waited for the storm to end, because storms always come to an end, even if it takes forever.

As sure as the summer rains fall, the storm came to an end. When the lady bug, the grasshopper, and the inchworm peeked out from their hiding places, they saw the lovely green leaf still perched atop the baby tree.

But it had changed. It didn’t wave or dance. It held on. Tight.

The little leaf said, “I will never let go. Never, no never!”

Even though the wind was no longer blowing.

Autumn came, and the vibrant greens of summer gave way to the russet shades of fall.

The ladybug flew off,

the grasshopper hopped away,

and the caterpillar became a butterfly.

The little leaf turned yellow, then orange, and still, it held on.

The delicious chill of autumn became chillier yet, and the little leaf turned red. Crimson, in fact.

Some say it was bound to happen. Others said it was embarrassed. But little leaf didn’t care. It refused to leave. “I must hold on! I will not let go! Never, no never! it whispered to no one but itself.

“Oh, little red leaf!” called the wind through the tree. “Come and play, dance with me!”
“Never!” replied little leaf.

Winter came, and a flutter and flurry of flakes began to fall. The little leaf shivered. Its edges curled, its crimson faded, and the slow creep of sepia made its way through the veins of tiny leaf.

Before long, powdery snow began to paint it a crystalline blue and white.

And for the first time in a long time, the little leaf began to dream. What else is out there? Is there more to this life than holding on, refusing to let go? Will I die right here, on this branch, never having seen the world?

Off in the distance a flash of red caught little leaf’s attention. It was a cardinal! 

It whistled, and little leaf turned and twisted and strained and sputtered, trying to get a better glimpse of its brilliance.

And that’s when it happened.

Before it had the chance to be brave, or not be brave, or really even think about it, the little leaf that perched atop the tree

in the yard

by the house

on the street

with a hill 

let go.

Just for a second.

The wind swelled up beneath it.  “Come and play! Dance with me!”

Little leaf turned and tangoed and jumped and jived and swayed and swaggered and boogied and bobbed and bowed and curtsied and waltzed through the yard,

around the house,

down the street,

and up the hill.

It flew so fine and frolicked so fast that even Cardinal could not quite keep up.

The leaf had let go—of its fears and worries—and of the twiggy branch that tethered it to the tree and its dreamless existence.

Nothing would ever be the same.

And that was okay, because little leaf was finally living the adventure it was created for.

THE END

Black and White

I'm sitting in Starbucks, where I should be working on a freelance project, but am instead staring at three little faces on my computer screen.

Joy and sorrow. Elation and grief. Every adoption is borne in tragedy and loss. A mother dies. A father dies. Children are left without the most basic need: someone to care for them. Someone to love them.

But God. ... He places the lonely in families. He cares for the orphans. He makes beauty from ashes. He turns mourning into dancing.

Today 168 pages of documentation have been sent to the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. Fifty-six pages for each child we are adopting...proof that they are indeed orphans. Testimony from witnesses who know their family and can verify their parents are dead and they are in need of care. Birth certificates. Death certificates. Official translations.

Ken and I knew much of the children's history, but there's something about seeing their parent's death certificate in black and white.

A  mother died. I wonder what her final thoughts were. I try not to think about it too much. The thought of it is almost too much for my heart to bear.

But joy... The documentation also includes baby pictures of our three Ethiopian children, pictures I had never seen before. They are black and white, and photocopied on the world's worst photocopy machine. But I see their eyes. I see their little ears and mouths and all the things a mother loves.

Tears of joy, tears of sadness.

The next part of the process usually takes 12 weeks, and then we're getting really close to the Big Day. Twelve weeks from today would be just before Christmas.

I can't think of a better gift.