beautiful nevers

The page has sat blank before my eyes for nearly an hour. My coffee has long gone cold. The sun that was hidden when I first sat down has now brought light to the morning. I just feel like the words should be eloquent. When you had 90 days upon 90 days, what do you say when you're down to the final 8? You could never imagine the story, but you definitely did not imagine this.

As it is with the ending of one season and the beginning of a new, you find yourself looking back. A lot. And replaying the moments in your mind from the very beginning.

There's the day they took in the girl whose last name they didn't even know. The day you taught that class for the very first time. There's the day you decided you were going back. There's the days you realized motherhood is the single most demanding job to exist. Ever. And somehow, you miss those crazy days. The day he grasped a toy and laughed to no end is forever burned upon your memory. There's the day he was carried from the poor house to the nursing home and this. is. love. You've seen an empty building brought to life. There's the season your heart was literally torn in two. And then.. then there's the day that make all the bad ones worth it. There's the day he stood tall.

Looking back, I said a lot of never's. I could never go overseas. I would never be able to leave my family for 6 months. I could never do special needs. I would never love a dark and desperate country 2 hours from the coast of Florida. I would never understand Creole (ok, that' still a work in progress). I could never be a teacher. I would never meet a guy I wanted to date. I could never be a nanny. I could never… never… never…

I marvel at the way He has taken my never's, and turned them beautiful.

By now you would think I would learn not to have never's. But I am stubborn Israel and I've forgotten. Still He proves relentless. His grace is limitless and His mercy great. And I stand thankful.

Some moments are too sacred for keyboards and blogposts. And these final days in Limbe are just that. You've followed the journey from its very beginning, and it is far from over. But the next week I want to remember with ink on journal pages and quiet coffee mornings, waiting for the sun. The last 5 weeks have been a struggle of messy and heartache. But I can also say it has been absolutely beautiful. Never have I been more tested to trust He holds our every moment. And never have I walked away more confident in His goodness.

He has ordained it -all of it- from the very beginning.

May it always be so.

when he stands

"Hard things can be good things.." I whisper it in his ears. His arms are locked tight around my neck and he screams, fighting me at every touch. I coax his stiff, bent legs and attempt to strap his feet into the grooves of the smooth wood beneath his toes. Sweat trickles between my shoulderblades. His brow is furrowed furious, those brown eyes wide with bewilderment and terror. His stander. 

We make it 4 minutes that first day. His posture is improper and we have such a ways to go. But it's 4 minutes. It gives me hope. 

He shakes when I pull him out and bring him upstairs. We put on his favorite music (Sleep At Last) as slowly he calms. I hold him tight as he catches his breath. I tell him he did so good. He cries at me. I tell him I know it hurts. He sighs heavy. I tell him I'm sorry. He puts his head against my chest.

Hard things can be good things. 

I realize I came back for this very moment. His two legs strapped into that stander as he screams relentlessly. That night I toss and turn, overcome with the emotion of it all. He will stand. If only because I am too stubborn to cease praying for it. 

The what-if game tempts me to play. There are nights I do, knowing full well that I am destined to lose. "If only you had more time… If only you came sooner… If only you had actual training… If only you weren't leaving…" If-only will run you ragged if you let it. 

For days I think on how he fights. He fights me. He fights the stander. He fights nutritious food. He fights the cup of water I hold to his dry lips. He fights sleep. He fights medicine. He fights everything good.

I am not so unlike this boy as I sometimes like to imagine I am. 

Again and again I will take him, for as many days as I have left, and I will beg him to see… hard things can be good things. My hands have inflicted pain, but only with great love. I'll cry over every shove and push and scream he throws my way. I whisper it quiet in his little ears, "I know you need to fight. Nothing about this feels nice or natural. So fight if you must, but do so with a trust that I love you." I will remember-- from his vantage point, he cannot see the way I can. What he perceives as great harm is actually appointed mercy. 

As the days pass, I watch him (ever-so slowly) learn to love his stander and it's closer than the humid air stuck to my skin-- this hope that one day he will walk. I dream big. I hope for things seemingly unattainable. Headfirst, I dive "all in". Sometimes the price I pay in heartache is dear. But watching this small boy, with his striped overalls and love for spaghetti, stand taller and taller with each passing day, I know it: every ounce of sweat and tears are well beyond worth it. 

Working with Michael's stander during my final days here in Limbe are a most precious gift. And my knees will bow in reverence to the One who made it all possible. Who am I, that I get to be a small part of the grand story the Lord is writing on this little boy's life? The thought leaves me breathless, forever grateful.

You are good, Lord. You are so good. 

One day he will walk. And the steps he endured to get there will make it all the sweeter. I choose to believe that one day I will hear the shuffle of his footsteps across cemented floors and the both of us will know: the hard things are always good things.

songbirds and sunshine

I hold a mug between my hands, watching the steam. The sun has not yet risen. She catches my eye as they often do here, that one tiny bird hidden among the tree leaves. They are far and few between in this country, those little song-singers. All to herself, she tweets and whistles. I wonder how long she's sat there, how long it's been since she started.

"Hush," I think. "It's too dark. Too early. There is no light yet." I take in the dark around me. "Hush. Now's not the time for singing…" And at barely 6 in the morning, I learn a great lesson from a songbird who is smaller than the size of my hands.

I often wait for the sun before I start to sing.

I worship Him, not because of where I stand or what He has done or how close I feel to Him. I worship Him for Who He is. Worthy. Many things will change, but that never will.

Sing in the light of the sun if that is where He has you. Let His goodness penetrate your skin and fall across your face. Take it all in. Let your words ring loud and your heart be overcome, knowing He delights in the sound of your voice. 

But if you find yourself in the dark, waiting for the sun, then sing there too. He will let your melody be sad, filled with minor tones and keys more black than white. And if your voice cracks, that's okay too. Sing. Sun or no sun. And watch as (though the circumstances change not) your worship sets the world right again.

Sing, love. And know the dark will not last. As surely as the sun will rise, He will come.

a letter to a small boy

Every day I pray you know how precious you are. Hear me loud and hear me clear: you have been fearfully and wonderfully made. Your Creator made no mistake when he shaped your infectious giggle, created that mischievous, knowing look in your big brown eyes, and formed your delicate fingers that weave themselves between my own. If you believe nothing else, believe this: you are a gift. Knowing you has been the greatest honor. 

You are amazing. In three months you taught me more than any university or college degree ever could've. Every toy grasped, every spin on your mats, every afternoon spent balancing on that yoga ball, all the times you practiced standing tall, I saw your strength and determination (and stubbornness too). They run deep. Those moments I will cherish forever.

Did you know I fell head-over-heels in love with you? How could I not, with your charming smile and sweet heart? You had me wrapped about your fingers from the very start, and I've since to become untangled. Thank you for letting me enter your little world and for allowing me to love you so.

From you I learned so many things. You taught me success is not measured in tasks accomplished or goals completed. From you I learned a person's a person, no matter how small. Because of you I believe each and every life holds significance. You taught me to laugh, if only because it is a most beautiful sound. You taught me to start looking up -way above the treetops- a whole lot more. Through you I learned all things wonderful will take time, a lot of work, and often many tears. Because of you I now know giving up is never an option, even when 3 weeks in shows no progress. You taught me the worthiest of things call for incredible vulnerability. I also learned there's no shame in loving only 2 kinds of food. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson you've taught me is that I should believe more, because I serve a great and mighty God.

You made me feel inadequate on so many levels. You're the reason I stayed up late, pouring over massage therapy and sensory play books. I didn't know how to love you, or reach you, or do best by you. You made me aware, again and again, of the complete desperate and helpless mess I am when I'm on my own. And it led me to where I have always belong-- grappling at the feet of my Savior. Thank you for always leading me there.

Your culture has and will continue to label you many things. Sweet Michael, this is important: don't believe a single word their voices throw at you. The labels are ones that break my heart, because they are given out of such ignorance. How I wish they could see what I see. You are filled with such greatness, if only they would stop to really see you. Because you, dear one, are amazing. 

I have been forever ruined by you in a most beautiful way. I don't think you realize the depth of your impact on me. You see, because of you, I have been inspired to pursue an utterly crazy dream. Because of you, I now have plans. Plans to help little boys and little girls just like you, doing my part to be an advocate for the voiceless and a defender of their sweet innocence. It's an exciting mess of confusion and fear, and a lot of unknowns about the future. But when those moments rush like the incoming tide, I remember you… your tattered red overalls, those perfectly crooked teeth, that heart-melter of a smile, and the fears hush. You are my inspiration. 

The weak made strong, the voiceless defended, the oft-outcast finally understood, the hurt hearts healed, the weary ones given rest… can't you just see it, love? With every fiber of my being I long to do my part (whatever and wherever it may be) to make such a vision possible. 

Leaving you is shattering my heart into a thousand pieces; it will never be whole again. But the ache reminds me our days were real, and hold great significance. I know if your lips would speak, they would tell of how you want this too. So know that, while my feet may be leaving, my heart remains with you. And I refuse to believe this is the end for us.

I'm praying to see you stand. Two legs, strong and tall, unsupported. This is my dream. I cannot wait to see that day. And the day you run. Whether it's 5 months, 5 years, or an eternity from now, my heart eagerly anticipates it. And while the statistics and early intervention books and all logic scream no, I will choose to whisper yes. I will believe, for you and for me. And one day, we will stand tall. 

All my love, 
Anna