Last night, as we slept, you were taken to the U.S. Embassy in DRC to be “interviewed” so that your Immigrant Visa might be issued.
My stomach is in knots; few things (ok – nothing) have gone as planned with your adoption process and I’m praying, praying that this might be the first.
I wonder often how much you understand about your precious life. Do your caretakers tell you that they love you? Do they hold you and kiss your tears when you cry? Do they talk to you about me and your dad and your sisters?
I want you to know that you weren’t born with the job of fulfilling some “rich”, white, American family’s dream to “rescue” an orphan. You’re not some token of our good deeds. No, dear one, you are a precious child of God and we are the lucky ones to have been chosen to be your parents and siblings. We don’t believe in luck, though. We believe in the divine providence of the One who made you, the One who loves you best. Each hurdle, each heartbreak, each moment of joy in this process has not happened by chance but, rather, by design. Most days, that truth is our only source of comfort, the only thing that enables us to take the next breath, to face the next day.
Just like I did when I was pregnant with your sisters, I dream of how life will be when you’re finally home. All of our lives are about to change dramatically; it’s been nearly a decade since I’ve lived with a toddler and I’m
I’ve poured over adoption blogs lately and read about all the challenges of parenting a child of a different race. I’m determined to keep my cool when people ask stupid questions and I promise to do my best to keep your hair and skin healthy and moisturized at all times. I’ll learn to make rice and beans just the way you remember them and we’ll incorporate fufu into our monthly menu. Your dad and I will learn everything we can about DRC and make sure to teach you all about your heritage and the Congolese culture.
I often wonder if Trigger will scare you. I would imagine that the concept of a giant dog as an indoor pet is beyond foreign to you. I know he’ll just love you so much, maybe too much. Maybe he’ll have to go live with Papa and Honey for a while.
I wake up in the middle of most nights and think of you. I talk to Jesus about this crazy adoption process, about you and I try to take back my request for more patience. So far, He’s said no.
I spend more time than I probably should grieving every moment that you haven’t had a mama. It’s excruciatingly unjust that nearly one and a half years have passed since we said yes and almost as long since you legally became our son and, still, you are a world away.
Should things go as I desperately want them to, as they should, your visa will be printed on Tuesday, November 5th and we can book flights for the following week.
Whether we arrive this month, next month, next year, it will be a miracle. Had I known how long and hard this process would be, I would have chosen it over and over again. You, my precious and handsome boy, are worth it.
I love you Jecoah and, oh my soul, I cannot wait to hold you, to squeeze you, to kiss. those. lips.
You’re almost home.