She

The words fail when I am asked what this is like. When I turn to the One we call Father–a familial term–to ask, to believe, for my family–to ask what? to believe what? The words fail when I describe her and this and I wish it were that easy.

My home is sprinkled with signs of a baby girl. We are attached and attaching. We have known of her as long as we have held her, which is to say, not long at all. We do not know how long we will be able to smell her and dress her. How long the honor of comforting her and bathing her is ours. We do not know.

Like most of life, this process of adoption is entering without knowing the location. Without knowing what you are about to do and how much you can handle. Without guarantees.

I know that this could be the beginning of a very long road of finding our daughter. I hope that this is the beginning of a long story together. I know that the labor pains are in the future, rather than the past. I know that the painful contractions of something yet to come and trying to be are going to be ongoing, going to hurt, and may not produce what we think. I know that things will become more intense before we are discharged from this stay. This undefined mysterious stay of Unknown.

It is a beautiful and tender time, vulnerability included. We may not have the words, but we are so thankful. We may not have any answers, but we believe for her good. We have her, for now, right now, and it is our pleasure and a grace. She reminds us that today must be enough and must be significant. That we are not masters of our own lives. That to love fully is to grieve and to risk. And that is life. She reminds me that some of the most sacred parts of life are the ones least accommodating to words, security and definition.

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