A Miracle Lost

"Two months, three days and twenty-one hours." That was my answer when a friend asked how long it's been. How long it's been since our life was actually together. How long it's been since grief hadn't permeated every hour of the day. How long it's been since I last felt like me.

A miraculous event set us on this journey. A letter bringing the situation to our attention. After some weeks of praying, the miracles were here. Two of them. Sweet, beautiful babies in need of a place to live and some "normal." The simple fact they'd been located and were now with us was a miracle in itself. But, the opportunity to teach these children about God's love and plan for them? It was too much for words. For weeks I wept with joy throughout the day. Having them with us was a tangible reminder of God's mercy for them and His grace toward us. 

As months became years, they "became" ours. -- in our hearts, to our other children and their children, to our friends and neighbors. Sunday dinners, holidays, school spirit and tuck-ins. It was all so vibrant and normal. The encouragement of many uplifted us and love surrounded us. We planned and lived our lives as though it would never end. The agency that employed us repeatedly asked our thoughts on adoption. We never wavered -- Yes! We were told it was imminent.

And then it wasn't. "Prepare the children to leave," I was told days before. There had to be some sort of mistake. On a sunny day, just after lunch, with only a few of us present we said our goodbyes. I would never pretend to know the grief of a parent who has lost a child, but if this is a glimpse, you have my undying sympathy. The first days passed with us awaiting the phone call: "There's been a terrible error. The children will be returning at..." The following week, reality had begun to set. We spent golden sunlit days of Autumn mired in the same despondency as the gloomy ones. Finding toys and crumbs and fingerprints -- all painful reminders of where life had been just days before... And then, not finding them at all. The weeks after that were filled with hours of my inner voice telling me it's time to get past this. "You have other children who need you. Christmas is coming, a celebration of the greatest Gift to mankind. Get with the program! Find the positives in all of this. This is only the life you had before -- stop being so ungrateful!" On and on my warlike optimism droned. And, as life moved forward, so did it's details as well. The appointment with the pediatrician that needed to be cancelled. The mailing list at the children's library that I still haven't brought myself to cancel. The letter terminating our contract with the agency. The bus driver who unknowingly teased me about getting some "free time" without them. The Christmas gifts I'd purchased ahead of time. Every good thing in life seemed to mock my emptiness.

And worse than all of this was my relationship with my Savior. It wasn't the same. It hadn't been the same. I clung to the hem of His garment hour after hour because I knew I had to, but I longed for the days when I would want to again.