I'm sitting here in my office, staring at the clouds in the sky out the bay window, and thinking about Easter and Good Friday and the death and life of Holy Week.
But not really. Because in every breath, in every movement, there's a thread of maybe in my bones that I haven't felt in years and I don't know how to act — how to believe in the midst of this week. It's hard to believe when there was a time everything you knew for sure collapsed underneath you.
In the past month, Russ and I have had more movement in our adoption than we've had in the past two years. We still haven't heard anything. This isn't an announcement. There's still nothing official and come later today or next week I may be wanting to erase this post from existence.
But right now, my reality is a mangled hope attempting to find its breath again.
I told one of my best friends the other week that there's a barbaric cynicism preventing me from truly hoping — from letting myself go there — probably because I know the pain a broken heart brings, however expected, and I try to avoid that thank you very much.
And yet, with a single email, our lives can shift into an anticipatory wait rather than purposefully ignoring the changing table stuffed in our closet.
This is what happened on Saturday. I was shopping, my mind on anything but this, when my inbox startled me with words like birth mom and hospital call and showing your profile.
I had no idea how to handle the information. I laughed, actually. Laughed and blinked and hit the home button of my phone, dropping it into the pocket of my shorts.
Out of sight, out of mind.
But not out of mind. Not really. Not in the least. Almost instantaneously these thoughts and emotions and feelings came swirling up my chest, greeting me in the throat.
Pain. Hope. Grief. Excitement. Frustration. Anger. Beauty. Love. Fear. Doubt. Cynicism. Belief.
This is normal. Talk to me about our adoption on any day of the week and I'll be detached and formal. It's easier that way. Just give you the facts, shrug when I get to a difficult moment because that's easier than crying, and swallow the emotions.
Talk to me about our adoption in the midst of a maybe and you'll find an emotional Elora who doesn't know how to handle the situation because how do you? How do you hold space for the grief of a family separated and the hope of one brought together? How do you believe on the behalf of your heart, barely beating with the rhythm of motherhood, at the same time you're bowing your head on behalf of people you've never even met?
And I mean, let's be completely honest. How do you hold the weight of a decision when it's not you? How do you hold the anger and the frustration and the grief and ALL OF THE QUESTIONS because what's the purpose of going through this time and time and time and time again when every single one of them is a no?
It makes you exhausted. It makes you question. It makes you cynical.
Until the next maybe — the next email — when all of the sudden every single emotion reminding you of your hope and desire reappear against your greatest attempt at stuffing them away for safe keeping. And just like that, every breath points back to this child you don't even know and yet miss with every waking moment. Just like that, you're looking around your apartment and wondering where you would put the crib and how you could,rearrange your space for the little bundle taking up residence in a swing or changing table or blanket on the floor in the now-open-space where the dogs used to wrestle.
And you're doing every single one of these with the hesitancy of a wounded heart.
Because it's one thing to live a maybe by yourself, in the privacy of your mind and soul, and it's something entirely different allowing others to see your vulnerability. Please just let this be it becomes your prayer not only because of you and your tired waiting arms, but also because you really don't want to share the thousandth no with everyone who waits and inhales and holds their breath along with you.