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Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Six months today since we walked into the mint green room and waited.  Six months since we spotted the workers coming through the door with two scared littles, one by hand and one in arms.  I can't describe it, how it felt.  It's like giving birth and finally seeing that sweet baby face, but different, because you have fought tooth and nail for this one.  And have traveled across the world and filled out thousands of papers and paid tens of thousands of dollars and you have wondered all this time if it would actually lead to this.  You've been pinching yourself since landing in this very foreign land, sure that something is going to happen to make it all fall apart.  And then, there she is and it's you that's falling apart.  Because she's orphan no longer, the minute they place her teeny, weak body in your arms and something in you dies, but it's good because it needed to.  It's a bit of your selfishness and your innocence.  This is what I learned six months ago today:
~You can't unknow what you know.  We took off from Hong Kong and I wept silent tears watching out the window as a country that once terrified me became smaller and smaller.  Wept knowing we were leaving millions behind who, like her,  need food and love and forever.
~It's hard.  They'll tell you that, but they'll sugar coat it in the same way women at a baby shower tell you you'll probably be tired some.  The don't divulge that you'll be so exhausted you'll think you might die of it.  Adoption is like that.  There are days still I'm sure I'll die of it.  But I'll happily go down with that ship for the sake of one less.
~It's good.  They'll tell you that too, but they'll get it wrong.  How can they describe what it's like, possibly? Just like how you can never find the right words to tell a new mom how great it'll be.  Just can never find those words.
~It's the work we are called to.  Not just me, all of us.  Don't you doubt it.  It's laid out in black and white, clear as a bell.  This has hit me upside the head lately, since all our children have asked for a Chinese brother for Christmas and my China mamas are chewing on going back for one more.  Just one more.  And one asked, how do we know if it's right? and another said, it's adoption.  If it's not a clear no, then it's a yes.  If it's not a clear no then it's a yes.  Kapow.  See what I mean?
~It's a step forward and two steps backward.  Maggie is walking all over the place.  Awesome.  But if a friend comes over who is a mommy, she'll choose her over me every time.  Not awesome.  She said "help" tonight.  Awesome.  But it took me 45 minutes to feed her enough to feel ok about it.  Not awesome. One forward, two back.  It's a strange dance and one that leaves my muscles aching most days, but she's just about the sweetest little partner, so I'll stay on that dance floor till I drop.
~It has wrecked us.  All of us.  The kids would rather fly to China and snatch up another sibling for Christmas than open a pile of packages under the tree.  Except Lu, who, according to her pictorial list is really longing for a cheeseburger and a bag of balloons.  And if it was between the new American Girl carriage with bells and working lights, it'd be a toughy for sure.  But at the core of it, they have been wrecked and are longing to hear stories of children set down into forever families.  It's part of their vernacular now.  They play orphanage on their home days, wonder aloud if any of our friends will decide to adopt, set lofty goals for how many times they're going to adopt when they're grown up.  This.   Is.  Beautiful.  I would do this whole thing over just for the side benefit of growing kids whose hearts have been broken for the orphan.
~I get it now.  This whole salvation thing.  Get it with a clarity that has brought me to my knees more times than I can count in the last year.  Maggie and I share a birth story.  You do too.  Redemption stories always start in the ugly.  It just makes sense.  Hers did and so did mine.  The poverty, the dirt, the yuck, the whole thing.  It's how it starts until a Father who longs to call us home enters in and invites us into his family and suddenly the ugly is made beautiful.  And when Father says that he desires to set the orphans in families I think he just might be talking about you and me too.  Redemption is his most precious work and it ought to be ours too.  The redemption of orphans through adoption and fostering, the redemption of lost neighbors and family and coworkers.  All of this life is meant to be working toward redemption and if we're not working too, then we are just standing in the way.  
Adoption, dude, it's a killer.  Yours and mine and hers.  Literally a killer.  There is a Jesus with nail scared hands that prove your worth, that pay tribute to your adoption. And if you haven't signed on yet, then you are still an orphan, despite an incredible Father who longs to make you his.  Please, join this family.  We are waiting for you.
This is me being real.  Thankful for redemption in my own life, thankful for it in yours, blessed to my toes to be a part of Maggies.  And pretty sure she would rather have had a family who came from a more temperate climate, but we will have to do.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014


This life man, it's no joke.  I have to keep remembering that Father never promised us a rose garden.  Quite the opposite in fact.  No matter how closely you're following: trouble.  That's what he promised.  Trouble and new mercies everyday.  They're sisters, Trouble and Mercy.  Never one without the other, thank goodness.  We've felt them both in spades these last months.  And I've been trying to keep my eye out for Mercy when Trouble is hanging off my back and driving me nuts.  Trying just as hard to not keep a keen eye for Trouble when Mercy is making my day sweet because nothing is a Mercy buzz-kill like a Trouble sighting.
These days, they are so full.  Hours are spent distracting Maggie with board books with one hand while I shoot food into her mouth with a syringe.  She cries and I wonder for sec how I'll pay for this later, what weird attitudes about food she'll develop that will have to be therapized out in her teen years.  But then I remember that she's too small to really know and remember and by the time she's old enough to begin collecting memories, she'll be healthy and the syringe will be a lost in the funhouse that is repressed memories.  Until then, she's stubborn, but I'm stubborn-er and it's survival.
I have committed to myself that these lovely afternoons while she is napping and on which Lulu is often at school, depending on how much fight I woke up with in me, I will spend time at rest.  Which often looks like napping, but really I'm laying down and talking with Father.  We've had sweet times He and me, reading through my Bible study, chatting, sharing a cuppa.  It's becoming a highlight.  And we've worked a few things out:
~This work, it's Kingdom work.  And, as such, it's going to come under attack.  It's going to be ugly and expensive and it'll probably break all my nails, but it won't break my spirit because it's the work Father has called me to, so He's providing.  In lovely and surprising ways.
~Where I've gone very wrong is self-medicating myself through these long, sometime brutal days with food.  Have done that my whole life and am doing it still.  And it's sin, plain and simple and it needs to stop.  Because if I really believe that my body was created to be a temple and if I believe further that this work I'm doing (wife-ing, mothering, friend-ing, etc...) is my Kingdom job, then stuffing it full of junk, making it lethargic and slow, wearing a cloak of shame as the numbers rise, wearing a cloak of shame at all, it's the opposite.  It's damaging to the work.  And if I do the math, then anything that's hindering the work is sin.  Black and white.  Calling it anything else is the devil's kool-ade and that's one thing I'm not putting in my mouth.
~Women have this incredible capacity for circling the wagons.  They make meals and text encouragement and offer to pick up kids.  This circling?  This linking arms?  It might be amongst the most vital Kingdom work around.  It matters big. And if you're making it your work then you are doing right.
This post...I've written it dozens of time in my head as I've muddled through the last year and now I'm saying it poorly, but perhaps being the most eloquent in the room is less important than being the most honest right now.  And if so, then let me say it plainly: it's hard.  And I've chosen wrong ways of coping often.  But where there is Trouble, there is also Mercy and as long as they come packaged together it's all manageable.  If you're in a Trouble place, court Mercy on bended knee.  And while you're at it, invite Thankfulness and Humility to the party.  If you're in a Mercy place, be vigilant for Trouble, but take Service's hand and go looking for someone who needs Father in flesh today.  Always, always go forth and do this work with the most grace and brokenness you can muster up.  It's precious, this work we're doing.  It matters.
This is me being real.  Wondering what I can do to encourage you in your work today?  And eager for Lu to hop off the bus in an hour since last I saw her she was screaming in her teacher's arms while reminding me of her grievances against Kindergarten.  Namely, the boys being "incest" (obsessed) with fighting and her having to color inside the lines.  Not telling what's going to hop off bus 22 later, but pretty sure I'm going to get an earful.  Kindergarten is her Goliath, she reminded me this morning.  Indeed it is.  Food is mine.  What's yours?

Monday, September 29, 2014


I washed and folded her new footie pjs, placing them in her Matilda bag, along with her favorite board book, a lovey and a new toy.  There is a water bottle in there and formula and some almond milk.  And now there are some tears as well.  Because I've been so blessed through twelve years of parenting to never have to hand a baby over to a surgeon, but tomorrow I will.  Will place her in capable hands, even if they aren't mine.  Will whisper a prayer over her sweet forehead as my lips brush her brow.  Will do what millions of much braver parents have done so often, and for much trickier reasons.
This baby, she has consumed my time these past four and a half months with feeding and holding and bonding.  She has exhausted me, blessed me, thrilled me, humbled me.  I have worked so hard.  We all have.  Hours of feeding a day, each meal lasting so long it melts into the next, dishwasher filled with baby spoons and formula stained water bottles.  Her little tongue works so hard with every bite, every swallow, to push the food and drink past her cleft and down her throat.  It's all so effort-full.  And nursing her through a cold brought a new reality: food is only one facet of her difficulties.  Poor baby had snot running out her mouth.  And she sneezed in her nose, mouth locked tightly shut as it always is.
We thought about this beforehand.  Wondered if we wanted to put a pic up this way, but until you see it, you can't know.  This is what it looks like y'all.  It looks like we're forcing her mouth open, but that's Tessie's hand on her forehead, patting it, not holding her down.  She's happy to show it off.  That cleft is the width of my finger at least and goes from her gum all the way to the back of her throat, splitting her uvula in half.  When you look in her mouth, you are actually looking at the inside of her nose.  This is why food ends up coming out her nose like some horrible play-doh toy.  This is why she has had such struggles gaining weight, why it takes hours to feed her.  
This baby, she is the bravest person I know.  She has survived two mothers leaving her, survived nearly starving to death, an abrupt culture/language/family/home/food change.  She is a warrior.  Which is why, even though my stomach clenches at the thought of the pain she is going to endure, I am so happy that this part of her struggle will soon be over.  Tomorrow her surgeon, who in God's providence is renown in his field, will use the muscles and tissues already there to create a palate for her.  He will cover it all with skin he'll graft from the insides of her cheeks.  He will ensure that she has the structure she needs to begin speaking and eating.  We.  Cannot.  Wait.
Her cleft, which surely caused her birth mama to have to leave her outside a furniture store on a February day a couple years ago, I'm sort of in love with it.  I fell in love with her cleft lip, wonky teef peeking through, mourning when they fixed it in China, even while knowing it needed to be so.  She is fearfully and wonderfully made.  We know that full well.  And we are so thankful: that she is here, that she is well, that she is His.
This is me being real.  Wondering if I can get a shot of Versed tomorrow morning to.  Wake me up when it's over.

Monday, August 25, 2014


She cried.  Parents of adopted children will know what a milestone this is.  Institutionalized children learn quickly, experience as their tutor, that crying gets you nowhere, that noise will net disdain before it nets touch, so they clam up.  For three months I have laid her down at night and not heard a peep from her until the morning.  With the other four, this would have been cause for celebration.  But with Maggie, it has signaled that we still weren't safe enough for her, that this silence had not yet been unlearned.  She lays in bed in the morning, eyes open, totally still, and waits for us to notice that she is awake.  I have yearned for her to call out for me, to make some indication that she is awake and would like to be up.  Silence.  Until Sunday morning when I heard her little bunny hop come down the hallway.  Laid in bed chewing on my lip, resigned to wait for her to come to me even if it took forever, listening to her funny crawl make it's way closer.  It was a good sign.  She is now comfortable enough to get herself out of bed in the morning.  But she was still silent.
And then last night, our sleep was interrupted by the sad sound of her.  She was inconsolable.  It was the sweetest sound.  She has learned that if she cries out, someone will hear and come.  In fact, six someones heard and came.  And there we all were in her room in the middle of the night, the Smalls concerned for this new noise as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, my mama's heart growing and growing.  So I rocked her back to sleep and whispered in a language she can only partially decode that I hear.  That I will always come.  Mama will always come.  And I dreamed as I rocked of a day when I can teach her about a Father who will too, and with an absolute certainty and stability I can never offer.  Not really.  But until she understands that, I will happily stand in.  Will rock her in the middle of the night, our tears meeting up on her cheeks as she settles in to the certainty of mama and will whisper a thousand thanks to the Father who ordained that she be born where she was and then brought home so we could be hers.  My heart is full.
This is me being real.  And thinking it's a least a little crazy that a middle of the night, whole family awake, baby scream fest should be what is making me smile.  But I never claimed to be anything but a little crazy, so you prolly knew what you were getting yourself into when you started reading.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


Three months ago today they placed her in my arms while we wept and wondered, my fingers beginning to learn her bony, small body from that first touch.  Her eyes were empty, moving only to track those around her warily, wondering what to expect of these strangers who were stealing her away.  She watched us out of the teeny corners of her eyes, while she lay limp in our arms.   There are things you don't think when you are in the moment.  In the moment you are only surviving...learning how to feed, hold, settle.  It's later when emerging personality gives glimpses of her past that you wonder what went before.  Her fighting spirit bears testimony to the strength and stubbornness she surely needed to last as long as she did.  And the other day when she peed on the floor and looked at me with terror in her black eyes, waiting for my reaction, her past was there on the surface, written on her face.  I held that inconsolable baby for the better part of an hour, pee over both of us, reassuring her that all was well.  That mama loves her deep and will forever.  This is the hard work of picking up where someone else left off.  Of teaching grace where lessons of punishment have been started.
So how are we doing three months in?  Depends on the minute, the second.  At our core we are good. Really good.  This girl is being knitted right in with Father's perfect stitches.  She is learning sign language and just last week connected that these signs we are using over and over mean something.  She and I, we communicated for the first time last week when she used the sign for eat and then was asked, are you hungry?  Her little nod nearly made me dance.  She is all over this house with her stiff legged jaunt, hanging on to her walker wagon.  Steps are coming, I can feel it.  She eats.  That's all.  She eats.  Never have I been so happy to see a toddler with her mouth full.  Never have I had to work so hard to make it thus.
Last week I was so empty.  Just totally depleted.  And Father knew that, which is why we spent Friday on mystery trips, starting with Craigs Cruisers and breakfast with the cousins and leading into Dutch Village with Nana and Aunt Veti and ending with dinner with Daddy and back to school shopping.  That day was just what I needed.  To have fun with my Smalls.  To see Maggie on the train ride with her sibs, laughing and trying to work the lever.  To see Tess walking a goat, to break the rules and bump Grant and Peter on their go-carts, to watch Lucy, with her measly 21 tickets, be given all of Peter's out of sheer grace so she could get what she wanted from that stupid, stupid prize counter.  And Maggie spent the better part of that day in Nana and Aunt Veti's arms, something I was aching for.  Three months it's been since someone outside our family has held her.  Three months she's spent her days perched on my hip, me doing everything with one hand, thankful for her small presence there, yet so ready to have a break from that for a bit.  I got that last Friday.  Because she is learning that they are forever too, this Nana and these uncles and aunts and cousins.
She learned to give hugs.  Oh my soul, it's the sweetest thing.  And if she gives to one, she gives to all, her bird arms reaching out, teeny hands fluttering against your back as she pats you like a good dog.  She understand everything.  Seriously, everything.  Three months only of hearing English and she understands it all.  And while communicating it, without words, has been a challenge, understanding it is the bigger battle and it's been fought.
It's hard, this work.  I still ache to hear my name from her lips.  I hurt every single morning when she lays in her bed until someone discovers she's awake and picks her up, long for the day that she lets us know with her words or her body that she wants out.  Long for the day she just gets out.  But time is a teacher and it's taught her over two and a half years that no one comes when you cry out, so you stop doing it.  She would lay in her bed until Kingdom come if we let her, if her siblings didn't wake up every morning still and rush to check on her first thing.  She no longer hoards food in her mouth.  That is a beautiful thing.  She has figured out that there is an abundance, that she won't be denied.  And she has figured out how to ask for it.  Which is why she spends the better part of each day in her booster on the counter, begin shown choice after choice.  She wants to eat all the time and we are happy to oblige for now.  Maggie is learning that things taken away can be given back.  Her shoes, which have been slept in countless times are on the kitchen counter waiting for her as I type.  Taking them off was easy peasy last night.  She knows they'll be there in the morning for her.  Stripping her of her shoes would have led to a tantrum a month ago.  Progress in adoption, I'm learning, is measured in small doses.  Measured in small doses, but celebrated in large ones.  At least that's how we're playing the game.
It's hard, not going to lie to you.  Dan and I are stepping out tonight for our first dinner alone since before we left for China.  I've been tied up in knots all day thinking of leaving Maggie, but needing it so badly.  Nana and Aunt Veti will come and hold her and distract her and we'll be home in time to do our bedtime routine together.  The Smalls will remind her that she hasn't been left, will remind her by constantly being in her face and touching her as they have for the last.  Three.  Months.  Straight.  Y'all, it never stops.
So amidst the mountains of laundry and the work of settling a new member into our family, amidst wallpaper being torn down and replaced and fool's errands to find a throttle cable for Peter's mini bike, amidst the daily mess, both physical and emotional, of becoming us, we are blessed beyond measure.  It is so much harder, so much better, so much sweeter, so much everything than I imagined.  And don't you look at the many many moving parts that had to align just so for HER to land HERE and try to tell me there isn't a Father who desires to set the orphan in families.  Don't even try, because these ears are closed to that kind of bunk and even though I'm too tired to formulate a proper argument with citations and such, I do know this: that we cannot claim to be following if we are unwilling to be lead to hard places.  

This is me being real.  Thankful and overwhelmed with love and a couple hundred things all mixed up (I mean, really...look at that face!).  And wondering what hard place are you being called to today?

Friday, June 27, 2014


There have been two things I have secretly ached for since snatching our girl up in our arms nearly 6 weeks ago, three if you count an hour to myself.  I long to hear her voice calling my name.  For now, she is silent, but that's ok.  Her one Cantonese word has been joined with repeated syllables like mamamama, which I know from experience will morph into words which will pick up meaning as they roll along and will, in short time I'm sure, give birth to a whole vocabulary.  But the only word I care about is Mama and hearing it from her lips and knowing she really gets that I am mama.  The other thing I've longed for is a kiss.  I took for granted that she would know how to do this.  And a million other things that my biological children have just known.  Like crawling away from me when I roar like a bear and say I'm going to get them.  Maggie just stares.  Or like peek a boo.  Maggie does this now, but it took hours of showing her.  Hours that left me hating it and resenting the idiot who invented this stupid game.  But she does it now and we clap as if she's just solved a complicated mathematical algorithm.  Because she sort of has.  All these games are completely foreign to a baby who has grown up in survival mode.  And while it makes me ache, it makes the small gains all the sweeter.
Like our first kiss this week.  Dan and I have been showing her.  Over and over.  He loves this.  Maggie, look at daddy and mama...kiss.  And then Tuesday Tess weaseled a first kiss out of her.  Asked for it and then we all watched as Maggie pursed her bottom lip and leaned it to plant a soundless kiss on Tess.  And we cheered like she's scored a touchdown.  All six of us who have cheered for each teeny step and will for her whole life.  We stood in the parking lot of Noodles and made total idiots of ourselves because that's what family does.  But it wasn't until the next day that I got mine.  And I stood and cried as I thanked Father for this sign that we are breaking through.  Never has a kiss felt so hard won, nor so sweet.  I never had to teach my Smalls how to kiss; it's a language they spoke from their earliest.  But this baby, she just learned to speak it and it is my favorite dialect, the kiss.
This mama, she will wait for her name, specially since there are other Smalls wearing it out on these full summer days.  Because the kiss will tide me over until Maggie's mouth can bear witness to what her heart is telling her: that I am mama and I am forever.  Until then there is Peter bringing a friend home and wanting to show him Maggie first of all and there is Grant making her belly laugh from the bedroom and there are quiet mornings while I read my Bible and wait to see my baby come crawling down the long hallway, sleep marks still on her face, while her sibs sleep in or snuggle me on the couch, rubbing sleep from their eyes.  These are sweet days and while, I spend at least part of them being totally overwhelmed, I am rejoicing that we are together and learning to be a family.  And teaching this girl that she is part of it.
This is me being real.  And wishing our bags would pack themselves for our week at the Sugar cottage because we leave tomorrow and we are no where near ready.  Sigh.

Monday, June 16, 2014


Our guide introduced herself to us as Jane and began talking about Maggie on the way to the hotel from the airport.  It was fifteen minutes before I realized that she was JANE.  The woman whose signature I'd seen on reports about our daughter.  The woman who had been fighting to have Maggie removed from her foster home for months.  The one who had committed to going there and weighing her herself, so she could keep tabs.  This then was the first person who had seen Maggie in the flesh, who had held her, escorted her to Beijing for her surgery, fought for her.  And suddenly it all became real.  Because for nine months, longer even, I'd fought for this baby, but in the back of my mind was this niggling fear that maybe she wasn't even real.  And this will probably make no sense if you've not been there, but it's hard to believe that the child you're working toward is really real until they put her in your arms.  Or you meet someone who has held her and can confirm that she's more than a thousand whispered dreams.

We slept the sleep of the anxious that Sunday night, knowing that the next day would give birth to her.  We killed time the next morning laying out clothes and packing a diaper bag for the first time in years.  We killed it by walking to the Max Mall, the only really cool thing within walking distance of the hotel.  Killed it by thinking of what she was doing, by breathing prayers throughout the day, knowing she was being relinquished by her foster mom, bathed and dressed by the orphanage, carried by sling and motorcycle and car.  And then, just before three, we gathered on our bed, we six, and prayed for her and us.  I can't remember the van ride to the Civil Affairs Office.  I only know the kids were quiet, we all were.  Pensive.  There were two other families there, waiting.  They brought in a three year old girl first.  She screamed the entire time we were there.  Her poor mama, a single gal from New York.  I expected screams, had been dreading them.  The silence was so much worse.
They walked in with her cradled in a woman's arms like a baby, so much smaller than we'd prepared for.  They whisked her right to a back room until the paperwork granting us temporary guardianship was signed.  We wept at our first glance.  Out of relief that we were there with her, out of disbelief in the same, out of fear for the weak baby we saw in the caretaker's arms.  I just kept asking, "Is that Xia YuChen?  Is that my baby?" Even though her little face was familiar from nine months of grainy photos.

Papers signed, they came and laid her in my arms.  I shook.  It is very much the same flood of emotions you experience when giving birth, only scarier because she only partly seemed like mine.  It was clear from her bony legs and vacant look in her eyes that this girl had been in the trenches for her short life.  Had been ill used and ill treated.  Jane had warned us.  She'd told of feeding issues, of the two year, four month girl who only ate formula and only in small amounts and who had been visited by a foreign nutrition doctor.  "Her family needs to come; she is too small."  Jane told him our paper work was incomplete.  We would travel in June.  "It's too late.  Her family needs to come now."  That was two weeks before we came.  Back when Father was throwing open doors we could only dream about.  Days before our agency would call us with these words, "We have your Travel Approval.  Can you be ready to leave in 6 days?"

And now we stood in that doorway that Father opened and they laid her in my arms and I wept.  Grant and Dan and Nana too.  The others just crowded, wanting to see her, touch her, kiss her.  The only thing that moved were her eyes, which furtively darted back and forth as I rocked her and told her in Mandarin that I was mama and that I loved her.  You could tell we were not completely foreign to her.  I had peeked at her while she was closeted away in the waiting room.  I had caught her eye and she had given a little smile.  But that was gone now, wiped away by fear and exhaustion, I suspect.  We had to have our picture taken, which they tried to sell to us like at the end of roller coasters at Cedar Point.  We declined.

I don't remember the ride back to the hotel either, only that it was short and scary.  She was so impossibly small.  Fragile.  She lay in my arms, not making a peep.  We arrived at the hotel and had to do paper work in the lobby for a bit.  I was anxious to get her into our room, to begin memorizing her face as I fed her a bottle of the good American formula I'd packed in her little pink suitcase.  Instead we sweated in the lobby, the kids each taking a turn to hold her for a minute.  I thought she was such was so agreeable.  She was too weak to put up a fuss, I know that now.

We went up to our room, a family of 7.  I went into hyper practical mode, desperately trying to get a signal so we could let our loves back home, family and friends who had helped pray us there, that we had her.  Tried to feed her a bottle, which she refused.  Eventually she landed on Dan's chest where she sighed a little and fell promptly to sleep.  We were able to Skype my dad and introduce him to her.  Even though it was the middle of the night for him, sweet Papa was up and waiting to see his newest.  I continued to frantically try to get a message out on instagram or fb, knowing there were many sleeping with their phones next to their beds.  Or not sleeping at all.  As I tried I kept looking at her thin arms and legs and whispering prayers to Father of thanksgiving that we were there. She so clearly needed us.

 Our first evening.  

Those first days with Maggie were heart sore.  I lay in bed that first night, her asleep in her crib in exactly the same position we lay her down in.  It would be days before she had the energy to move while she settled.  Days before she'd dare to, maybe.  Her eyes were vacant as I held her that first evening.  It set off shock waves of anxiety and doubt.  I'd known she was very behind, very weak, possibly worse.  But had let myself believe what everyone had told me: just get her home, fed and loved and she'll perk right up.  I was now certain they had been mistaken.  I was looking into the face of a child who was in a nearly vegetative state.  I feared she would always be that way.
The next morning, the boys came along as we headed back to the Civil Affairs Office to officially make her ours.  It was torturous for me.  Here, then, was the ugly in my heart.  Part of me wanted to refuse her, could make the argument in my head that we could just hand her back and she'd never know what she'd been missing.  Could drum up righteous indignation that her condition was far worse than we'd been led to believe.  But this is where the rubber meets the road.  Where Father leads us to the hard and bids us walk.  My dad would later make this observation: I think, he said, I think you have been planning on getting here and finding a hungry, but otherwise healthy two year old with just a cleft palate.  I think you are being tested like Abraham.  Your Isaac is a healthy girl.  God is calling you to lay that down.

There was no option for me really.  To leave her would be to deny Christ himself.  To show our kids that God is not sovereign after all and that obedience is optional.  Besides, I loved her already.  Mothering instincts kicked in while sitting in that blue chair, papers laid out before me in unknown characters.  She had no one.  I had been fighting fiercely for her for nine months and I would not stop.  We signed papers, me with tears running down into her soft black hair as I mourned her previous aloneness and abuse and our uncertain future with her.  It was a hard day.
Getting food into her tiny body became my mission.  On Wednesday, 48 hours into being 7, we went for a journey out into the Nanning countryside.  It was beautiful and lush and so foreign.  We wandered dusty lanes while farmers wearing straw hats carried buckets of water from the village well in yokes on their bent shoulders.  The village market served the local farmers.  It carried fresh vegetables, some familiar, some not, and a separate structure housed people selling freshly slaughtered meat.  It was an education to say the least.  I'm so thankful we saw it and that we saw it together.  We were her eyes, drinking in a beautiful country she may never see.  But we will tell her.
 Women watering their crops by hand. 
 Moon Rock
 The vegetables were so beautiful and fresh, but eating them would probably have made us sick.  It isn't wise to eat fresh foods outside of the hotels where they wash them in purified water.

 The rice fields of Nanning.  Maggie was born in a place of staggering beauty.  It was surreal to wander the village and know that her birth parents could have been anywhere.
 The women do their laundry with a bar of soap and this stone platform at the village well.

 The villagers all gather here throughout the day.  They play checkers and catch up.  
 Dan asked Jane if this home was similar to the one Maggie was raised in.  
Her answer was, Oh no, hers was not nearly this nice.
 This is a hard life.  And yet the people were so kind and hospitable.  They rarely see an American family as large as ours and with such young children, so we were a bit of a sight. We fell in love with
the people in China.  We never felt unsafe on our trip.

On the ride back, I sat in my seat, Maggie draped across my lap.  She had now refused food for nearly 24 hours and I could do little but fight tears as she refused once again.  Upon returning to the hotel, we asked Jane to come to our room and help us feed her.  She suggested putting the formula on a spoon.  I mixed up a fresh bottle with good formula and some organic whole milk I'd gotten and fed that baby spoon by spoon until the bottle was dry.  And then cried over it in relief and joy.  It would not take many more meals before we would begin to see the life creep back into her.  Meals consisting of me and her with spoon and bottle and countless hotel washcloths.  Meanwhile Nana and Dan took their turns bringing the olders to the pool and distracting them in other ways.  But they always found their way back to the chaise in our room where I'd be with her and a bottle and spoon.  And they would ask if she was eating because they loved her, loved her so much right from the start.
We spent six days in Nanning.  They were long, hard, sweet days.  Nanning was terribly hot and humid.  It was nearly impossible to be outside and there wasn't anything to do within walking distance of our hotel anyway.  As had been the case in Beijing, we were finding that getting around China with 8 people was nearly impossible, so we hunkered down in our hotel, letting the kids swim for hours and visiting the buffet three times a day, if only just for a pb&j sandwich and to visit the incredibly kind and helpful dining room staff.  My time was spent trying to get food down my girl.  On day four she sat in a high chair at breakfast for the first time. We tried feeding her congee and other soft things, but she would have none of it, eventually landing back in my arms with bottle and spoon.  I began calling her Shiao Niao, my little bird, me perched above her dropping milk into her little mouth.  Nourishing her body with formula while my arms nourished her starved soul.  That is how I spent our days in Nanning.  And loving on my olders who needed me too.  We cocooned in Nanning.  I should mention that while I did the lions share of the care of Maggie, mostly because I wanted to and had been waiting so long to do so, she was equally willing to be in daddy's arms.  She loved him from the first.  And feeding her was often a team effort.  Jane had told us of Maggie's strong will.  We often had to force food into her, Maggie shaking her head NO as we did.  Us knowing we were doing the right thing, but still feeling cruel.  She began eating squeeze pouches of baby food I'd brought from home.  Each one bolstered her energy.  She was emerging from her cave.

 Buffets are legendary in China.  This card reads Fried Insects.  Awesome.

 All her clothes were huge on her.  I'd brought mostly 18-24 months clothes, but she was definitely 12-18.  Her pjs hung on her, which made her look all the more pathetic.  Buying new pjs and some shoes was first on my list when we hit the mall the next day.

 The first morning we found her in a different position than we'd laid her down in.

 Friday, we packed up, Maggie still fighting me, but gaining strength from the little I was managing to get down her.  On the way to the airport, we stopped for Maggie's passport.  Same shape and size as our American ones, only her was brown and inside was a small, grainy picture taken before we'd gotten her.  She was so sad, so stoic and completely oblivious to the way her life was about to change.  Looking at that photo gave me chills.  Father is so good.
Our next stop was Guangzhou where we would finalize things on the American side.  We would also meet up with a big handful of lovely families who had been in different provinces getting their children as well.  Guangzhou, with it's MacDonalds and Papa Johns pizza and the influx of adopting families, everyone had told us, would be a breath of fresh air.  We were eager to find out for ourselves.  By this time Peter had developed a nasty asthmatic reaction to the terrible smog.  We waited for hours in the dirty Nanning airport as our flight was delayed, Peter wheezing and feverish, no one having eaten lunch or dinner.  It was a miserably long day.  But on the hour flight to Guangzhou, Maggie sat on my lap and ate fried noodles from my dinner.  We all watched like it was the greatest show on TV, amazed that she was eating solid food, that she'd already gained enough strength to do it.  When we landed, a bus took us and the other family we were traveling with to our hotel.  We arrived at 10:30, hungry and exhausted, but thanks to the generosity and kindness of beloved friends of my parents, there was a car waiting to whisk Dan and Peter away to a western medical clinic where a wonderful doctor gave Peter a nebulizer treatment and a bag full of medicine for the days ahead.  Once again, so thankful. Guangzhou was already showing us it's good side.

This is me being real.  And sorry for being so wordy, but really, how can I not?