From the outside looking in

I know I briefly mentioned this in my last post, but there are many days when I still feel like I'm on the outside looking in.  Since coming home from Colombia, I've almost felt "detached", going through the motions of this new life yet not quite grasping the reality of it all.  The reality that I have two sons.  The reality that Juan David is finally home.  The reality that our reality has completely changed.  Forever.  Some days I still feel like I'm waiting on it to "hit me", to sink in.

I sing songs in church that I used to sing with longing for God to reveal His plan, and now when I sing them, I hear Juan David's voice singing them at my side. Hearing that voice singing those words is proof of God's plan being revealed. Yet somehow I feel like I'm missing the awe and emotion that I should feel over witnessing such a miracle.

I hear David and Juan David carrying on conversations all day completely in Spanish, a Spanish that David once resisted with everything in him, no matter how hard I tried to teach him.  I think the child actually speaks more and better than I did after four years of high school Spanish.  His vocabulary and ability to properly conjugate verbs grow every day.  It's a miracle, and I feel like I am on the outside looking in, not grasping the reality of it. 

I'm constantly throwing stuff away or cleaning out closets and pantries for a Goodwill donation.  Why in the world did I keep those two beautiful blue Christmas stockings after all of the heartache that they represented?  Yet this year Juan David finally got his, a precious reminder that God had a purpose for me loving him as a son way back when.  A miracle.

Ten months after the first adoption pursuit failed, I hung a framed verse on the wall of what would have been Laura's room.  The definition of FAITH, surrounded by pictures of the three of them in their continued life.  I didn't know what God was doing in letting me continue to be a part of their lives via their brother, nor why He connected Julian with me.  I just knew He wouldn't let me let them go.  That framed verse and those pictures around it still occupy that wall, while Juan David has now made the room his own.  After all the years that room remained empty, after all the tears I cried in that very room, I feel like I'm still waiting on that flood of emotion to hit me when I realize that he's actually there. 

I'm not quite sure how to describe what it's like.  Maybe I'm still struggling through a little post-traumatic stress disorder (I will be the first to tell you that getting through that second adoption process was an incredibly traumatic experience).  Maybe I'm struggling with all of the fears associated with raising a teenager, no less a recently adopted one from another country.  I write about all the positive things, but we've definitely had many challenges since bringing him home. I don't know.  I just know that I spend a lot of time wondering why the reality of this adoption miracle doesn't have tears falling down my cheeks more often.  I'm still waiting on the reality of this reality to hit me.