Yesterday was an overcast, gloomy day. Trinity was not in a very good mood. Unfortunately, it turns out neither was I. By the end of the day, I was feeling quite discouraged.
As the sun rose this morning, I read this part of a comment on a Facebook post by my wife; "It's an honor to serve your family and partner with you in ministry". My eyes fill with water as I typed that, even after reading it a half dozen times. Ministry. I haven't heard that one before. "You're a saint". "You're a hero". "I admire you." Other sentences, phrases, and catchwords that are supposed to be supportive, but leave me hollow, like I'm on a different team. But that simple comment makes me feel accepted and supported, part of a team. Not some lone wolf "Wayne X", radical, counter-culture revolutionary. It may be that I am, but it feels good to not feel alone.
At breakfast, I ask my interpreter what he thinks. "Is she bonding with me? Is she accepting me?" The reply is yes. He reminds me of what my expectations were. That I was surprised at how well she crawled. Amazed at how much she wanted to walk. How much she acted like a 3-year-old.
At the orphanage, she entered the room as before. Happy and Excited. The workers don't leave the room and I find myself searching for a way to keep Trinity's attention so she won't try to keep going to the workers. One of them asks if they can look at the picture book of the family that I brought. (Thank you, Jen!!!) I grab the opportunity to have their attention on something other than Trinity so that she will be attentive to me. We walk around for awhile. She plays with a plastic duck rattle.
The nanny starts asking questions about our family. How big is the house? Do we have a yard? Is it a warm climate? (points to a picture of G without shoes) I look through the pictures hoping to be able to show her what I am talking about. I am asked if we have a trampoline. I say a small one. It is square. Maybe a meter on each side, with a handle for the children to hold on to while they jump. There is a picture of us in the backyard. I point to the post of the playset and try to describe what it is. I find a picture of Seth and explain about his more severe cerebral palsy. That he is 6 (oops he is actually 8) and that he can walk, but he can't clap because his fingers are (Lack of words here so I try to show how is fingers are always bent). He can't really hold toys to play with.
The workers leave the room and I put full attention back on Trinity. We walk around the room some. I skootch (is that a word) her up the plastic covered foam ladder and help her slide down the slide a few times. She goes back and finds the plastic toy duck rattle and start shaking it. And it occurs to me, she may want to be a 3-year-old, but in some ways she is still but a baby. So I start rubbing my fingers along her cheeks and under her chin while making mouth noises. She starts laughing and smiling the best she can. My heart leaps. I feel connected to her again. After a while I start playing the Mozart cube and dance my fingers up and down her torso, across her face and through her hair. All the while she still is laughing and smiling as best as she can.
The nanny enters the room. The visit is almost over. I am told that the workers are comfortable now leaving her alone with me. That we are bonding. How excited she gets while they are getting her ready for visits because she knows she will see me. That they believe that it will be good for this adoption to take place. Thank you very much. I didn't know how much I needed your approval. To again feel like I am on a team trying to bring hope, happiness, and life into a world filled with death, disease, and despair.
So this is my "Orphan Sunday" message from those who have not been accepted by the world:
As the sun rose this morning, I read this part of a comment on a Facebook post by my wife; "It's an honor to serve your family and partner with you in ministry". My eyes fill with water as I typed that, even after reading it a half dozen times. Ministry. I haven't heard that one before. "You're a saint". "You're a hero". "I admire you." Other sentences, phrases, and catchwords that are supposed to be supportive, but leave me hollow, like I'm on a different team. But that simple comment makes me feel accepted and supported, part of a team. Not some lone wolf "Wayne X", radical, counter-culture revolutionary. It may be that I am, but it feels good to not feel alone.
At breakfast, I ask my interpreter what he thinks. "Is she bonding with me? Is she accepting me?" The reply is yes. He reminds me of what my expectations were. That I was surprised at how well she crawled. Amazed at how much she wanted to walk. How much she acted like a 3-year-old.
At the orphanage, she entered the room as before. Happy and Excited. The workers don't leave the room and I find myself searching for a way to keep Trinity's attention so she won't try to keep going to the workers. One of them asks if they can look at the picture book of the family that I brought. (Thank you, Jen!!!) I grab the opportunity to have their attention on something other than Trinity so that she will be attentive to me. We walk around for awhile. She plays with a plastic duck rattle.
The nanny starts asking questions about our family. How big is the house? Do we have a yard? Is it a warm climate? (points to a picture of G without shoes) I look through the pictures hoping to be able to show her what I am talking about. I am asked if we have a trampoline. I say a small one. It is square. Maybe a meter on each side, with a handle for the children to hold on to while they jump. There is a picture of us in the backyard. I point to the post of the playset and try to describe what it is. I find a picture of Seth and explain about his more severe cerebral palsy. That he is 6 (oops he is actually 8) and that he can walk, but he can't clap because his fingers are (Lack of words here so I try to show how is fingers are always bent). He can't really hold toys to play with.
The workers leave the room and I put full attention back on Trinity. We walk around the room some. I skootch (is that a word) her up the plastic covered foam ladder and help her slide down the slide a few times. She goes back and finds the plastic toy duck rattle and start shaking it. And it occurs to me, she may want to be a 3-year-old, but in some ways she is still but a baby. So I start rubbing my fingers along her cheeks and under her chin while making mouth noises. She starts laughing and smiling the best she can. My heart leaps. I feel connected to her again. After a while I start playing the Mozart cube and dance my fingers up and down her torso, across her face and through her hair. All the while she still is laughing and smiling as best as she can.
The nanny enters the room. The visit is almost over. I am told that the workers are comfortable now leaving her alone with me. That we are bonding. How excited she gets while they are getting her ready for visits because she knows she will see me. That they believe that it will be good for this adoption to take place. Thank you very much. I didn't know how much I needed your approval. To again feel like I am on a team trying to bring hope, happiness, and life into a world filled with death, disease, and despair.
So this is my "Orphan Sunday" message from those who have not been accepted by the world:
"To all of you who have chosen to love me in spite of my disabilities, shortcomings, and I imperfections. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. It feels good to be part of a family."
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