Miles to Go Before I Sleep

The visit today with Nichole went better than I could have ever hoped.  I drove, we walked, we ate lunch, we talked, we listened.  We asked questions.  We laughed, a little. 

Nichole is beautiful, in personality and in appearance. She is steadfast.  Decided.  Serious.  Interested.  Curious.  Exceptionally strong.

A couple of minutes into the car ride, I blurted:  "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen.  Not to embarass you."   She said: "All of my kids have my eyes."  I just smiled.

Three and a half hours later I was talking to Kevin on the phone, as I drove back to the B&B.  I quietly said: "I'm starting to think that this might actually happen."  Immediately I catch my breath as I remember that I could drive home with an empty baby carrier in my backseat. 

That said, after my solo (fabulous paella) dinner at the local Mexican restaurant, I locked my car doors, parked away from light posts, and sobbed.  Dug around in my dark car for tisses and wept. 

I wept in light of Nichole’s courage.  Her faith in us.  Her hope for her child.  For the crappy, ugly, real, evil twin to adoption: relinquishment.  The overwhelming brokenness that it represents.  For the dichotomy of hope that we might actually adopt this baby, and the searing pain of loss.

I wept because this adoption story (if it continues and results in signed papers 72 hours after the baby's birth, and a permanent placement of the child in our home), is owned by this sweet, swimming, peaceful child.  No wonder s/he is stubborn in making an appearance.

I wept because according to plan, Nichole will go home without a baby carrier in her backseat.

It rained all day.  How apropriate.

I pray for God's continued hand to guide this story, we souls dancing together in this solemn, joyful waltz.  That we courageously help this child embrace, and never forget, the love that we all have for him/her.