Before the sunlight had a chance to seep into the puffy slits of my eyes, I felt them.
Their constant, determined flow rivaled the most sophisticated of drip systems. Even while I slumbered they were there, faithfully carrying on.
Each tear a solitary reminder of the deep sorrow and despair that would eventually pull me from the sweet release of sleep and force me into the reality that came with the morning sun...
We lost another baby.
The searing pain from our previous loss had only recently quieted down to a dull ache when within months, we were hit with a second.
My sobs for both possibilities swirled together, mourning the two as one.
I reached mechanically for the pile of crumpled tissues next to my bed and ran the "gently used" Kleenex across my face. The effort seemed pointless as a slew of salty escapees quickly replaced those that had just been absorbed.
I felt myself stiffen as I opened the bedroom door and adjusted to the sights and sounds of a world still in motion.
The flicks of dust dancing in the sunbeams that poured through the patio door.
The hum of the neighbor's lawn mower as it cheerfully cut the freshly sprouted winter grass.
The giggles of my two little girls as they munched on cereal and impersonated the antics of Saturday morning cartoon characters.
My girls.
The sight of my sandy-haired angels broke down any resolve I had made to try and "keep it together". A flood of tears sent me running into the bathroom, so as not to disturb my little ones who had witnessed far too many days of Mommy "not feeling well" in the last several months.
I huddled in the bathroom. A wad of toilet paper acted as a muffler while I wept in the darkness.
My husband's gentle knock announced his arrival and a beat later I felt his strong, comforting arms around me. His whispered guarantees that, "everything would be alright" magnified my growing guilt.
Because I couldn't see how it ever could be.
I found myself wandering back through childhood memories,soothed by the promise of simpler times. My thoughts turned to the dozens of vinyl records my sister and I used to play on my parents old record player. We poured over the colorful sleeves and laughed at the unattractive hairdo's sported by the "all too serious" musicians on the covers. We worked our way through each one, carefully placing the shiny black discs on the ancient music player. We were giddy with anticipation as the speakers crackled and popped, preparing us for the wealth of sound that would soon fill the room and beg us to dance.
But every so often, right in the middle of an enthusiastic twirl, a record would screech to a halt and stutter- doomed to repeat the same four notes until one of us mercifully removed the poor soul and placed it back in it's protective jacket on the shelf.
And there it stayed, never able to reach the beautiful crescendo that was so masterfully created by it's gifted composer.
And so here was my heart,
my soul,
my plans for expanding our beautiful family.
Placed in a protective jacket, high on a seemingly unreachable shelf, for fear that I would stumble and stutter and screech to a halt once again. Doomed to repeat the losses that had now reached double digits. A number that invoked winces from seasoned medical professionals.
I resolved to throw myself into the holidays. To soak up every inch of my beloved daughters. To hold hands and kiss and fall deeper in love with my husband. To belly laugh until I cried with my sweet girlfriends.
And as I did these things, the enormity of what I did have far outweighed the bitterness I had developed for what I didn't.
Our prayers became more meaningful as we sought direction for our family. And while the answer didn't come right away, we were blessed with peace and the knowledge that it would come.
The hustle and bustle of Christmas gatherings and New Year's parties were a welcome distraction from any serious discussions about "babies" and "trying again". It was almost blissful, having a moment away from what had become a nearly 10 year worry. But soon the Christmas decor was put away and the remnants of uneaten holiday leftovers, thrown out. With the new year came new worries as the desire to grow our family returned.
And as we pondered and prayed and weighed every option, the answer became clear.
We, as a family,
I, as a Mother,
my broken body,
my broken heart,
could not take one more loss.
We needed to make peace with the fact that this part of our journey should come to an end.
I tried desperately to reconcile the fact that I knew this answer to be true with the unmistakable feeling that our family was not quite complete.
It was only weeks ago that the final piece of the puzzle presented itself.
Though we had circled the idea many times over the course of our journey to build a family, it suddenly washed over me with the warmth and light of a determined ray of sun beaming through a cloud covered sky.
"I think we are supposed to adopt!" I blurted out, before my husband had a chance to set his keys on the table or kiss us "hello" after a long day's work.
I fully expected him to hurriedly kiss my cheek and placate me with a noncommittal, "That's definitely something we can discuss...."
But that isn't what happened at all.
His eyes filled with tears and he pulled me close. I seemed to disappear into his embrace.
"Okay, babe. Then that's what we'll do."
Though his response seemed casual, his moistened cheeks spoke of his great understanding. He felt it too. I wouldn't doubt that he had had a knowledge of this path for awhile now. That he had been patiently waiting for me to catch up.
He's pretty amazing that way.
Slowly but surely, our eyes were opened to a slew of tiny miracles that led us to this point. It doesn't feel like a "plan b" or a consolation prize, but a wonderful new path meant specifically for our little family.
What I'm learning is that when we finally let go, when we stop trying to force the hand of God to give us what we think we need,
when we close our eyes
and leap,
we will be shown a path filled with more grace and goodness than we ever could've imagined possible for ourselves.
We'll sprout wings.
And on the days when our doubts and fears return and they threaten to send us tumbling from the sky?
That's when the real miracles occur.
When our nerves are shot from worrying and wondering about the unknown path that lies ahead, that will be the day that you are in the right place at the right time.
That will be the day that a stranger "doesn't mean to interrupt, but she couldn't help but overhear" as you relay your concerns about your new path of adoption to your sister-in-law.
That will be the day this angel opens up to you, when there is no reason she should have, and tells you about the wonderful journey she's been on while adopting her two daughters- a story so familiar, it's eerie.
That will be the day you cry with a stranger and your sister-in-law in the middle of the mall because you realize this moment was designed to happen just like this on the eve of your first ever adoptive couple's class.
It was the day I needed a whisper of encouragement,
and He gave me a shout.
And while I can't help but fear an inevitable stumble and stutter, I'm ready to come off the shelf, shed my protective cover and finally hear what The Composer has in store for us.
Perhaps we are building to a beautiful crescendo all our own....
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