Loss

There seems to be a cloud of mystery surrounding my family leave and how "silent" I've seemed since returning from China. I've fielded and deflected a lot of questions, so now it's time to come clean. And no, I didn't get a new job. But first, a little backstory. 

The jet lag we experienced kicked our keisters...no doubt about that! I never traveled farther than 2 time zones from home, and Tiffany, 3. So the trip to China crossing 12 times zones each way over the course of 15 days was pretty tough on us, but added to the grief of leaving her familiarity, it was grotesquely brutal for little Mia. All three of us were suffering the extreme fatigue from an upside-down body clock, tummy troubles from a confused digestive system, and motion sickness from spending so much time on planes, trains, and automobiles. Add to it that we went nearly 36-hours without any sleep, the stress of international travel on the way home, and BANG! we had an explosive combination. 

Jet lag lasts about a day or two for each time zone crossed. Mia and I battled it for about two weeks before we began feeling normally again. Though she still refused to sleep, we weren't fighting to keep her awake during the day any more, so she at least could rest a little bit at night, and we knew we were heading in the right direction. 

One evening Mia and I were in our room while I was getting her ready for bed. Tiffany walked in and was complaining about the jet lag still reeking havoc with her system. When I looked at her with a puzzled expression and said Mia and I seem to have been clear from it for a while, she did a quick calculation and realized she was "late." And very late. This was a Monday or Tuesday, and Tiff decided that if she had not "started" by Friday, she would take a test. Friday came, and with it, two separate positive pregnancy tests. We were delighted, though admittedly in shock. It had been something like 7-years since a pregnancy, and after that last one was lost, the doctor told us to quit trying. It eventually set us on the path toward adoption. 

Before we went to China, we had a number of people tell us they had a vision that we brought home two children. Sure enough, that's exactly what happened! Things were so tough with Mia (we knew that was temporary), and things were really tough in another facet of our lives outside the home, so we saw this pregnancy as the miraculous answer to countless prayers. In spite of the relentless stress, we were elated!

We went to the doctor the following week for an exam, and the ultrasound revealed that everything looked great! We told our families and felt an excitement not experienced in a very very long time. We started dreaming and praying about life with Ethan, Mia, and this little baby we were calling, Poly Wu.

One of the biggest issues we faced when we first got home, though, was Tiffany felt awful. The first trimester pregnancy symptoms made her sick to her stomach, chronically tired, and very very weak. This meant that I ended up doing the vast majority of care for the entire family. It was about the hardest thing I've had to push through, and it would not have been possible without our friends and family stepping up to provide meals and other forms of support to help me while I cared for a son filled with teenaged angst, multiplied by uncertainty after the adoption; a wife feeling miserable, yet gleefully pregnant; and a newly adopted toddler who was so upset and miserable, filling our typically serene house with a violent combination of grief and anger. I can say it now: it was hell, but with a silver lining that had me so excited that I hardly cared. At all.

We made it through the critical stages of Mia's initial adjustments, including some much needed medical care, and as I shared in previous posts, that became the turning point in our new family experience. Mia's trust level deepened. Ethan's comfort level grew. Tiffany started feeling better the closer she got to the second trimester. We were sleeping at night, playing during the day, able to get out-and-about some, and things felt far more natural, comfortable, fun. 

Fast forward to this past week. Tiffany's birthday was Friday, October 23rd. She had a follow-up appointment with the obstetrician on Thursday, October 22nd. As we talked about her birthday gifts, she mentioned upgrading her iPhone or getting a new setting for her wedding ring, but all she wanted was good news from the doctor. 

The appointment was scheduled for 8:30am. She dropped Ethan off at school while I got Mia ready, and we rendezvoused at Piedmont Newnan Hospital, where her doctor's office is located. Mia and I played out in the lobby for about an hour-and-a-half while Tiffany was in with the doctor. The news wasn't great, but it was inconclusive. The doctor was unable to detect the baby's heartbeat. The "good news" was that fetal heartbeats at that stage of pregnancy are only detectable about 50% of the time. And in this case, the doctor wasn't even able to detect Tiffany's heartbeat, and we had it on pretty good authority her heart was beating just fine. The doctor wanted more information, and we needed peace of mind, so we were to go back at 4:15pm for an ultrasound. The waiting during the day was torturous. As time to return to the doctor arrived, we both went in with apprehension, but faithful anticipation. 

It had been about 7-years since our last pregnancy, and 7 is a number of perfection and completion in the Bible. We were obedient to our call to adopt and "defend the fatherless" as it's stated in Scripture (Isaiah 1:17, Psalm 82:3). We deviated from our initial checklist to adopt Mia, because it was unmistakable that God engineered her addition to our family. And the fact that this new pregnancy came in the midst of all these other circumstances? Well, we felt we were being blessed like Job in the second part of his life. There were still challenges in front of us that must be faced, but the gifts we were experiencing with Ethan, Mia, and Poly Wu helped us hold on in faith, hope, and love. 

We went into the ultrasound room and Tiffany mounted the table as she had many times previously. The technician started with the abdominal unit. Nothing. I guess she wanted to give us the impression that she was trying everything, so she pushed all the buttons, turned all the dials, and double-checked all the connections. Still nothing. She then said she wanted to try the internal ultrasound, which we both were more than willing to do (easy for me to say, right?). As soon as the test commenced, we both thought back to just the previous month when the heartbeat echoed throughout the room and the little fetus was front and center on the big screen monitor. But not this time. What we saw instead is an image we had seen all too often: the place where a fetus once was, but is no longer. The technician said, "I'm sorry, but there's nothing there." We knew it. We had been down that road enough to know the difference between life and death. And regardless of whatever you might hear in politics, there is a difference. A month previously we saw life...we heard life...but now silence, and something akin to a smudge that was evidence life was once there, but no longer. 

Miscarriage. 

Death.

Loss.

Tears.  

We sat in stunned silence. The young doctor tried to comfort us when she said, "At least you have your new little one at home." That's true, but not comforting. Mia is our daughter...our prize...and no consolation prize. She is loved and cherished, but a loss like this cannot be replaced with the simple platitude of, "At least you have other kids." And in the past, well-meaning people would say things like "everything happens for a reason"; "be grateful for what you do have"; and "better luck next time," but at our age, we realistically know there is not likely to be a next time. At least not quite like this.  

The grief from a miscarriage is something that confounds most people. This is our fourth, so I think we are in a pretty good position to discuss it. When suffering a miscarriage, there is very real and palpable grief. People wonder how one can grieve something that was never held, but that frankly is ignorant. Tiffany held that baby in her womb every moment of every day since its conception, and in her heart ever since the positive pregnancy test. As the father, I did not have the same physical connection to our unborn child, but I held him/her in my heart, too. We already had dreams about that child and even joked about how unique our family photos would be with a nearly fully gown teen, an infant, and a toddler of Chinese heritage. We discussed names. We were planning on rearranging the bedrooms to make space for the baby. We even talked about travel plans to get back to Disney before Tiffany was too uncomfortable to enjoy herself. We talked about holidays, Christmas presents, baby gear, showers, and the fact that come next Mother's Day and Father's Day, we'll have the unique ability to celebrate the addition of two children in the past year. Sure the next couple years would be tiring and stressful, but we prayed and dreamed for this reality throughout our 20-year relationship, and even though we're both in our 40s, we couldn't be any happier. 

The loss of this pregnancy hits us hard. We're devastated. It isn't just the death of the baby. It is also the death of a dream. It is the death of hope. And yes, even as a pastor and vocational Christian, it is the loss of faith. How could we have been so wrong about our interpretation of God's plan unfolding in our lives? And yes, before you feel so inclined to respond with a negative comment, we do still have Ethan and Mia — love those two — and have an unwavering call to the ministry of adoption, but again, that's no consolation prize. We had that baby, held that baby, and with it, the fulfillment of the hopes and dreams for that family and that family's life. Those particular dreams are gone. We grieve that loss. Terribly. 

The sting of grief is very raw. Based on our previous experiences, it always will be. We never really got over the loss of the other three children we were unable to meet in this life, but pray we will see in heaven. Now we have to work through the stages of grief like anyone who lost someone dear to them. There is shock, denial, and anger. I am sure the coming days will be filled with some bargaining, too, before we get to a state of acceptance. Not comfort, but able to face the world again. But until then, we must reconcile our understanding of faith and belief in God with broken hearts. How do we aim to live in hope when the thing that is lost can never be returned or replaced? And how do we balance the joy we feel in watching Ethan mature and Mia emerge while grieving the loss of the child we could not wait to add to the mix?

The timing of this feels especially cruel. Tiffany learned of the death of our baby on the day before her birthday. The physical miscarriage began on her birthday as her body began expelling our deceased child from her womb. And the baby was due Mother's Day weekend, so we will undoubtedly live it all over again, just as we have every Mother's and Father's Day as we celebrate with those who hold their babies for the first time on those special days while we contemplate what could have been for us. 

Understand, I'm being real here. Not a counselor. Not a PhD. Not a pastor. A person. A parent who lost a child. I am in pain. It hurts. A lot. 

In every one of our miscarriages, the diagnosis is the same: a pregnancy incompatible with life. Medical professionals refer to it as Syndrome X. Something is wrong there, but no one knows what. Biologically and genetically, Tiffany and I are compatible — Ethan proves that out pretty effectively, I'd say — but no one can give us any idea as to why these pregnancies fail, or give us any solace that the next one will be any different. So we pray for a miracle, even though we must recognize that biologically our window is nearly closed. 

We used to pray for our miracle child, thinking it was a boy or a girl that God would give us in the face of infertility and pregnancy loss. Once the doctor told us to quit trying, we realized we already had our miracle child: Ethan. And he is a miracle as you realize if you have the opportunity to know him. So as we shifted our focus from biological child rearing to answering God's call to "the cause the fatherless (Isaiah 1:17)," Mia was brought into our lives. Her story is filled with miracles to the point that while I was running the RACE for the Orphans, it dawned on me that 'miracle' cannot be spelled without MIA. 

We definitely have miracles in our midst, and we know with conviction this is not the end of the miracles God has in store for our family. But we must deal with our grief and the loss, even while we love the precious children in our home. Will we adopt again? Maybe...we talked about it even before knowledge of the pregnancy and still before the miscarriage. Could there be another surprise pregnancy? Could be...I guess anything is possible. But Tiffany and I are in a position right now where the best we can do is encourage each other while it is still called today (Hebrews 3:13).

Yes, we are grieving. Deeply. Yes, we are crying. A lot. And yes, we are trying to find our hope and faith restored, but it will take time and prayer for God to reveal that to us. It will require the prayers of others to help, because right now, neither of us can find the words to frame a prayer. Thankfully the Holy Spirit translates our groans into prayers for the ears of our Heavenly Father (Romans 8:26).

I cannot lie, our hope and faith is dashed. And the way we see people treating each other in the world and in the church doesn't inspire us much. But one thing I know is this: God is faithful even in our struggle. Why in the world we have suffered infertility and pregnancy loss like we have is beyond me, and it is our proverbial thorn in the flesh and cross to bear. But we hold our two miracle children tightly, work to put our past into perspective, and once the tears begin to dry, we'll look for how God will make good of this heart-breaking and faith-shaking experience so we can help and encourage others suffering, too (2 Corinthians 1:3-5). Maybe we'll be helping others facing infertility, knowing there are those who understand the uniqueness of the grief. Maybe we'll be helping find a place for a child in need of a home. And maybe we'll even open our home again and claim a child as our own to share the love of a mommy and daddy they need to receive, and the love we need to share. 

Our hearts have been primed to love and care for six children, and there are only two currently in our home. With 153 million orphans worldwide, there is more need than we could ever hope to meet. But until we get to the point when we can sense God leading us again, we hold Ethan and Mia tightly. We dream about the other four and think about what could have been, but what we believe will be when we are united in heaven. And we seek ways to allow the darkness we feel today to not overcome us so we can keep sharing the Light of the World, even though it might be through a shattered lens. 

Please pray for Tiffany, for our family, and me. We have experienced the highest of highs and the lowest of lows these past two months. We're beaten, but not vanquished. And I know that God never lets a single tear fall in vain, so based on what we've lived through, we have purpose beyond purpose for making a difference in the most dynamic mission field we can imagine: the family. 

But if you see us withdraw for a moment or two, or shed some tears in curious times or places, know that we're grieving and suffering an all-too familiar pain. But this too shall pass (to a degree), and with it, a renewed sense of purpose for the ministry to which we are truly called: sharing the resurrecting power of God's love, giving victory over the sting of death, in this world and in the world to come.

So be it.

Amen. 

Metamorphosis

Dear Mia,

Two months have now passed since we went to China to bring you home. In some ways it seems like just yesterday, yet in others, we feel you have always been a part of our lives. It is hard to explain, but I think it has something to do with the Bible's promise of God giving us the spirit of adoption so we all can know we are part of His forever family. (Romans 8:15)

I am astonished as I think about how far you have come in two short months. Even taking into account the difficulties we had early on with all the fighting, the sleep deprivation, illnesses, and your hospitalization, there is a new and passionate zeal for life emerging in your deep brown eyes. I just cannot get over the transformation we see in you. From learning to sleep, speaking new words, and finding joy in the universal language of music, you are discovering your place and thriving. The transformation is astounding, which is why as we mark this milestone, I dressed you in the adorable little butterfly blouse your mommy bought for you.

A while back I wrote you a letter about how caterpillars go into the cocoon, but beautiful butterflies emerge. An amazing transformation, known as a chrysalis, changes the caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly. But it isn't without struggle, because the effort that is required to break free from the cocoon is what strengthens the butterfly so it can survive. It's really beautiful in nature and serves as a perfect metaphor for the metamorphosis we've enjoyed these past two months. 

I am amazed at the transformation in you, Mia! The fear, anger, and grief has subsided. The creature that is emerging from our cocoon is funny, sweet, and loving. We struggled at times through what it meant to be in that cocoon together, but all four of us are emerging as a new entity, infinitely stronger than that which entered in the first place. 

From sleeplessness to restfulness. 

From anger to serenity. 

From grief to grace. 

These are just a few of the changes I see in you. But not just you, Mia...in mommy and me, too. We all have gone through this metamorphosis thanks to a crash course in grace and mercy in the face of grief; in peace and patience in the midst of turmoil; and in the transformative power of love that makes us all a new creation. We also got a refresher course in relying on God and the people He's placed in our lives when we were at the end of our proverbial rope. 

Early on we didn't think we needed a lot of help. After all, we chose this path – or accepted that it was chosen for us – and we did not want to come across as though we weren't up for the task. But we were wrong. Very wrong. And that became a beautiful part of the opening pages in our new story together. We are all called to "defend the fatherless," but not everyone is called to take an orphan into their home. For others, the call manifests in providing aid and assistance to help the family during its time of hyper-speed adjustments. As you joined our family, you joined our lives. And our lives are filled with such sweet and supportive people who yearned to fulfill the call God was giving them to help "defend the fatherless." The help the loved ones in our lives provided was so wonderful, because it enabled them to take a few steps of our journey, and help mommy and me focus on what was needed in the cocoon.

Our entire world has changed in these two months, and you inspire this beautiful revelation, Mia. Like the sun eclipsing the horizon, the new light you bring illuminates us in new and surprising ways. The excitement in the discoveries you are experiencing helps to reignite joy within us for things that seem so ordinary: the purr of a kitty cat, the tickle of a puppy's kiss, the flavors of new foods, the soothing sound of a lullaby, and the protective embrace from your mommy and daddy. 

Mommy and I had a chat during lunch the other day about how it's time to begin breaking out of the cocoon. You are ready to start going more places, meeting more people, and taking in more of what life is like as a Jordan. We have ventured a bit farther from the house this week and you're loving it. Like I said, the metamorphosis you are experiencing is quite something to behold! 

But as we break forth from the cocoon, it is time for me to resume work duties. There is a part of me that's ready to get back to the church, but there's another part of me – a sizable part – that's going to miss the coziness of our cocoon. I admit I'm going to miss the weird stains on my clothes, singing "Row Row Row Your Boat" on a loop, and reading "Goodnight Moon" over and over and over and over again. I know some who think of that kind of life as cruel and unusual punishment, but I love it, and it will help me cherish our evenings and weekends even more. It's essential. You need it. I do, too. 

But as for today, while we mark two-months since your Gotcha Day, I am reminded of a reflection I had back on that steamy August afternoon in Wuhan, China: I got you, but you've got me. We're in this together, and as we emerge from the cocoon, I can't wait to see you spread your wings, take flight, and impact the world with your smile and story. I'll be right here with you, taking it all in, helping as you need it, and cherishing every beat of your stunning wings and beautiful heart. 

Love,

Dad

Getting Back into the Swing of Things

Greetings, church family! It has been a while since writing for this venue, and it is nice getting back into the proverbial saddle. The past two months have been amazing, though admittedly some of the most challenging of my life. I confess in advance that this article is a bit long, but I want to share with you where we have been and what's next for our now family of four, so please read on!

Exactly two months ago today, Tiffany and I were completing our travel from Atlanta to Wuhan, China. We were well trained and educated about what to expect, but had no idea what was ahead for us — it's just like a friend of mine said, "It's the difference in knowing getting hit by a truck hurts and actually getting hit by a truck!" After a few days of getting acclimated, we were off to meet Mia. That was a mind-bending experience to be sure. It started out as all fun and games, but Tiffany and I quickly got front row seats to the visceral reality of the life-altering grief associated with adoption. 

Mia's adjustment to her new country and family was extremely difficult. Everything that was familiar to her — her caregivers, friends, toys, bed, food, clothes, surroundings, and even the language she heard — changed in an instant. This brought out years of latent abandonment, uncertainty, fear, anger, and grief. Even though we had some very good times together in those early days, our new little girl's life was flipped upside-down, and that's saying nothing about two-weeks of the debilitating effects of jet lag, infinitely worse that anything we could imagine. 

Battle is a pretty good term to describe what the next month or so would entail, because virtually everything was a fight...especially sleeping. Though there was progress along the way, the first four or five weeks home were full of sleep deprivation, temper tantrums, and trying to find ways to survive, let alone get along. There were some long days, dark nights, and all kinds of emotions felt by all of us. Tiffany and I clung to every glimmer of hope and glimpse of the little girl we believed was buried underneath the layers and layers of loss from which Mia was trying to emerge. But we knew something else was wrong. As hard as she was fighting, that's how hard Tiffany and I were digging to let her know we chose to enter into this muck to show her the faith, hope, and love to which we dedicated our lives. And then one horrifying weekend changed everything. 

Mia was sick with strep throat and battling an infection from what we believed to be a spider bite on her leg. All the progress we made leading up to that point seemed to be lost. Forcing medication in her dashed most of the trust she developed in us. She no longer ate or drank what we gave her, she did not want to be held, she no longer felt safe enough to rest or sleep, and she even refused to walk. All she was willing to do was sit in the middle of the floor, scream, shake her fists, and if we got close enough, hit, kick, and thrash at us. It was terrifying, demoralizing, and all of us seemed lost. 

The combination of the infections, sleep deprivation, and trauma soon proved to be too much for little Mia's fragile brain, and one morning, she awoke with a terrible seizure that lasted upwards of 45 minutes. It was so severe, she required multiple doses of ativan to break the seizure. The ER physician told me she had enough medication to knock me out as an adult, and he was afraid her condition was life-threatening. Mia and Tiffany were rushed by ambulance to Scottish Rite where a neurosurgeon was waiting to evaluate Mia and see what could be done. She was given another healthy dose of medication to prevent another massive seizure, but the combination of these high-powered drugs disrupted her so greatly, that she only slept a cumulative fifteen minutes over the next thirty hours! During that time, however, numerous technicians, nurses, pediatricians, neurologists, and neurosurgeons were able to observe the behaviors we had attempted to explain, and concurred that something was amiss. After numerous tests and scans, the neurologists and surgeons found that even though Mia's brain was normal physiologically, there was an abnormality that caused her ailments, ultimately resulting in the seizures. As awful as that situation was, and in light of the difficulties of the previous six-weeks or so, we had a medical diagnosis, a treatment protocol, and best of all: HOPE!!! 

When we got home, we experienced the identifiable turning point in our new life together. As soon as we walked in the door, Mia dropped to the floor as though she wanted to kiss the ground. She then ran into our family room to make sure her toys were still there. Next, she ran and jumped in her bed, letting out a sigh of relief. And then she went into the kitchen where again she just melted onto the floor. She was home. She was at peace. Later that evening, as we put Mia to bed, she looked up at Tiffany and said, "Mama," and then looked to me and said, "Daddy." We were terrified that the hospitalization would have ruined any remaining trust she had with us, but it did exactly the opposite! All along we were telling her that in spite of whatever happened to her before, she was not alone and mommy and daddy would be right by her side the whole time. We were. She knew it and believed us. We were home. All four of us. Finally.

The week after the hospitalization was still pretty rough, but we began to see more than just glimpses of the little girl Mia was striving to become. As the medications built up in her system, her sleep improved. The weeks of only getting two to five hours of sleep a day turned into ten to twelve. The temper tantrums that all but dominated our home ended abruptly. A rich personality and sense of humor broke through the great wall from China, formed by the grief and anger from leaving everything she had ever known. The punches and kicks were replaced with hand-holding and hugs. And the incessant screaming was replaced with honorable attempts at singing songs, namely "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," though she is also working to perfect her toddler's gibberish versions of "Frere Jacques" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb." And this just happened in the last ten days. That's it...TEN DAYS...but we're not out of the woods just yet. 

We learned last week that Mia is still battling some kind of a systemic infection. She is on her second round of high-powered antibiotics since coming home, and we pray this will help Mia find a sense of good health that we have never known for her. The doctor did prepare us, however, that if the antibiotics are not successful, surgery is possible, if not likely. 

Even though we are not quite out of the woods, I am feeling antsy to get back to the good work of making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world here, there, and everywhere. We still have a tremendous amount on our plates, and at least four more trips to the hospitals and doctors in the next week alone, but as Tiffany and I said the other day while enjoying a family meal, it is time to begin breaking out of the cocoon. Our little girl wants to get out of the house more and more, experience the joy of her new hometown, and meet new people. Tiffany and I miss our friends and family, and want to kickstart the routine of our new normal. 

So this week we are venturing out from home a little bit more. I look forward to being in worship for the first time in weeks on Sunday, beginning the part-time portion of my family leave; though it will be another week before I'm back in the pulpit. We are also eager to begin sharing all of the things we have seen, learned, experienced, and the life-changing developments that are still happening in our family. But I'll warn you...this profound crash course in mercy, grace, and transforming love has changed us in some radical ways. And as we begin to see this new world through our little girl's eyes, there is a profound sense of hope and urgency we feel for spreading the Good News of Jesus, and how in Christ, God gives us all the spirit of adoption so we can know what it means to be part of God's forever family. 

Even though we are breaking out to resume more of a normal life, we still have a major need for prayer. Please keep Mia, Ethan, Tiffany, and me in your thoughts and prayers as we navigate a demanding schedule of doctor appointments and hospital visits. And please, join us in prayer that the antibiotics will prove effective so Mia can avoid surgery. 

There is no doubt this has been a community-wide journey. I still cannot thank you enough for all the help you provided to make it possible — from financial gifts, buying t-shirts and crafts, the baby showers, gifts, Wednesday Night Suppers, participating in the RACE for the Orphans, as well as the untold numbers of prayers, well wishes, cards, Facebook posts, and meals to help us focus on the hard work at home, you have been with us every step of the way. And I am especially grateful for the leave time, and the sacrifices by so many — Pastor Wayne in particular — that enabled me to be totally present at home for Mia and the rest of the family. A 'thank you' seems so inadequate, but as Psalm 100 teaches, it is the password into God's presence. 

So as I say thank you and prepare for the next phase of this journey by slowly getting back into the swing of things at the church, know how humbly grateful our entire family is. I am eager for you all to meet the beautiful, sweet, and silly little girl now known as Mia Noelle. From a foundling existing in an orphanage, to a precious gift thriving in her new home with love and proper medical care, this little child is already changing the world. You helped make that happen, and for that, Tiffany and I are eternally grateful. 

Love,

Pastor Mark

Peacefully Back at Home

Waking up in our own beds this morning was a thing of beauty. It was so special, in fact, Mia opted to do it at 2am, 3am, 6am, and again at 7am. Sleeplessness has always been an issue for our little princess, and now we have a better grasp as to why.

Thanks to the EEG that was performed Monday morning, the doctors found an abnormality in the way Mia's brain processes and transmits certain stimuli and signals. This causes sleeplessness, which leads to agitation, which increases her already heightened risk for seizures. The doctors' theory is prolonged sleeplessness, compounded by being so sick with strep throat, and complicated by a fall she had on Friday where she hit her head, resulted in the perfect storm that caused the seizures. She is on a medication to address these issues, but it will take time to build up in her system, and the doctors want that process to happen slowly. Mia will take half-doses this week, and if her system is tolerating it well, she will be on the full-dose beginning Saturday. The good news is physiologically speaking, her brain is normal and healthy!

As I resumed my morning routine today, it occurred to me that I had not consumed one bit of sports or political news since my beloved Bulldogs were washed away in a Crimson Tide on a rainy Saturday in Athens. I was upset about the game, concerned by events in the Middle East, and saddened by the tragedy in Oregon when I awoke on Sunday morning. But in a moment when the typical cries of my toddler daughter to alert me she was awake were replaced by the horrifying sounds of choking and gagging, everything else took its proper place in my ordering of priorities. It is hard to worry, let alone even think, about events over which I have no control many miles away from home (even including the Classic City east of Atlanta) when watching your child suffer, vomit, and seize on the floor. I was yelling for help, but no one could hear me. So in a rush of instinctual action, I raced to Piedmont Newnan, running through the parking lot in the rain to the ER where three nurses and a physician took over to help our little girl.

In moments like those, the things of this earth truly do grow strangely dim. That was just beginning a 3-day process that had me as scared, stressed, and exhausted as I had ever been. Yet through it all, I knew we were not alone. Tiffany and I prayed together and over our little girl. Family swooped in to care for Ethan, our household, and us at Scottish Rite so we could direct all of our energy to Mia. We received hundreds of notes, posts, texts, emails, and phone calls from friends genuinely asking what could be done to help. We appreciate them all! We truly do.

So we are home again this morning trying to settle back into the cocoon for the remaining time we have before work schedules resume. Though still thoroughly exhausted from a profound lack of sleep – not just this week, but over the last six – I find a renewed sense of joy rocking my little girl while I sip on my coffee and she on her apple juice. I look around and our house that Tiffany's parents worked so hard to clean and prepare for our return home is cluttered by a 3-year-old rediscovering her toys with an enthusiasm worthy of Christmas morning. And you know what? I couldn't be happier.

Seeing Mia so relieved and playful in her home brings great joy to Tiffany and me. We are working hard to create a safe and loving space for her to grow into the person God created her to be. And though we were afraid the trauma of these past three days might hamper the trust being built in our family, I think the opposite is transpiring. I think Mia sees this place as her home, with Tiffany as her mommy and me as her daddy. A haven. A safe place. Mia's Place.

Last night as we resumed our bedtime regimen with stories and then tucked her into bed, she looked up at us and said with loving relief, "Mama. Daddy." Then she smiled, cuddled up with her sleep sheep, and found rest. It was one of the easiest times we've had getting her to bed. Sure, she still woke up a lot in the night, but after some very long and hard days, there was no screaming, no crying, no tantrums. There was peace.

We were home.

It was sublime.

And I couldn't be happier.

Good Grief

Dear Mia,

I am a fan of the Peanuts comics and cartoons. One of the common catch phrases from those cartoons and comics is the exasperated exclamation, "Good Grief!" At first glance, it is quite the oxymoron. "How can grief be good?" you might ask. Well, it's quite complex, but I think we are witnessing it play out in your young life. 

When we came to China to get you, the first couple days were great! You slept soundly, played hard, and smiled often. It was definitely harmonious, but reality had not set in. Our time together started out a bit like a slumber party...staying up late, eating snacks, playing games, and giggling a lot...until you realized you were stuck with us, these strange looking and funny sounding people. That's when you began to miss your familiar surroundings and felt out of place. You cried...a lot. You whined...a lot. You raged...a lot. It was so hard on you. It became very hard on mommy and me. 

Comparatively speaking, you had it pretty good in the orphanage; at least from what we can tell. In the pictures we were given, and the way you interacted with your nanny who was there when we took custody of you, you had a better experience than many in similar situations. You had a special bond with your nanny named, Lei. In the pictures from the orphanage, when one of the other care givers would hold you, your body language said, "No, thank you." But not when Lei held you. When she held you, it was obvious there was a bond there. You latched on to her, had your head on her shoulder, and seemed genuinely safe, comfortable, and happy. And she cried when we left with you. It warmed our hearts to see, knowing you had the ability to form an attachment with someone after all you had been through in your young life. 

Shortly after your Gotcha Day, you began calling out for Lei. You called out for her when you were scared. You called out for her when you were sad. You even called out for you when you were happy and proud; in fact, one day while we were still in the hotel and we were running down the hall, you hollered out, "Lei, Lei" as though to say, "Hey, look what I can do!" It was sweet and heartbreaking all at the same time. You love Lei and miss her very much, and you grieve her in a visceral way. 

Grief is a profoundly personal experience. No two people grieve in quite the same way. As a result, non-grievers can be at a loss for words when encountering someone who is going through such a painful period of loss. People can tell you it is going to be ok. People can tell you that you will get through it. People can tell you that you, or the subject of your loss, is in a better place. While all of these might be true when you're going through them, that's about the last thing you want to hear. When you're grieving, you want and need to feel the pain. You want and need to deal with the weight of the loss. Others who aren't grieving are easily made uncomfortable with grief, so they will try to distract you or dissuade you from feeling what cannot be ignored. 

There have been a handful of times when I have experienced the depth of heartbreaking and soul crushing loss. Those losses hurt so terribly and I still carry them with me each and every day of my life. They shape me and help enlighten my compassion core so I am not so quick to dismiss someone else in their grief. Thinking about loved ones lost, they might be in a better place, but I am not. Their suffering might be over, but mine just began. I might not have been able to really hold the object of my affection, but that does not mean my heart isn't broken over the loss of hope. Grief hurts, and sometimes all we need to know is it's okay to not be okay. 

Mia, I am so sorry your heart is broken over Lei. This is something mommy and I choose to enter into you with, and help you recover. We have pictures of you and Lei that we will gladly share with you. We are happy to tell you about the two days we were able to spend time with her, how you loved her, and how she cried when we left with you. We know more clearly now how it takes a special person to occupy such a significant part of your heart, and we want to honor her memory in your life, even though the time will come when you will likely not remember her. But I can assure you of this, based on what I saw, she will never forget you. 

I make these promises about the future, but we still must deal with your grief today. I remember when your Poppy Charlie died long before you were born, a friend of mine wisely said the only way to deal with grief is to go through it, because you can't go over it, under it, or around it...you must go through it. And that is what we are here to help you do. Go through it. 

That does not mean it will be easy, though. I know you will still shed many a tear over Lei. I know you will still probably lose more sleep after dreaming about her. And I know you will have a passing recollection of her while playing that will send you into a raging tantrum that mommy and I will not be able to fully understand. But we are here for you. 

I had a moment of conviction last week while we were walking around the neighborhood and I was thinking about your grief. I thought about how when I was hurting so deeply, I didn't want anyone to try and minimize it or talk me out of it. I wanted to be okay not being okay. I wanted my feelings to be acknowledged, which validated my memories and wounded heart. After all, God made us to love and to feel, and when we experience loss, it's hard. This then provides us the opportunity to turn to God and the people He's placed in our life to receive comfort while knowing we can be okay not being okay. 

There have already been more times than I want to admit when I was uncomfortable in your grief. You would come to me with arms outstretched and just need to be held in all of your sobbing, snotting, and slobbering glory. I also admit there have been times I would try to distract you with toys or snacks to make myself feel better. But the person who needs to feel is you. You need to feel your pain so you can process your grief and begin to heal. A counselor I consulted about your tantrums told me that there are times when we need to permit your tantrums, not prevent them, because a good cry can be very cathartic thanks to the chemicals that are released when we do. And as you cry, we are advised to stay right there with you so your heart can feel the pain and your brain can begin to heal as you feel the comfort from mommy and me, strengthening those lasting attachments that will weather any storm. 

Jesus had a beautiful invitation as recorded in the book of Matthew: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” (11:28-30) 

Jesus did not say come to me and I will try to distract you with toys or snacks. The invitation is to come to him and just be. That is a lesson I am learning anew for myself. When you come to me as a sobbing, snotting, and slobbering mess, you can know I am your daddy who is fully able to take the yelling, wailing, and flailing. And I am here to let you know it's okay to not be okay until it is okay. 

But until then, know that when you feel the overwhelming sense of anger and sadness come out of nowhere, we are here to hold you, rock you, soothe you, and receive the flurry of punches and kicks as you rage in your grief. It is hard and it might make us uncomfortable, but it is what you need right now. 

Good grief, indeed!

Love,

Dad