what I want you to know about my greatest fear in all this
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When we began the process of adopting Zoe Amanda a little over a month ago, I was scared to tell anyone. I wasn't sure what the reactions would be.
I spent this morning at the park with a new 60-year-old male friend* (*just kidding. she is a new friend, but she's around my age. I met her online via my other blog, and this was our first time meeting in person, and Lee refers to anyone from the interwebs as a 60-year-old male friend, as in she-could-be-who-she-says-she-is-online-or-she-could-be-a-60-year-old-dude.) Wait, where was I? Oh, right... I spent the morning at a park with a friend who also has two preschoolers and who is adopting a baby girl with special needs in China. She has experienced the reactions we were initially afraid of: people - including other Christians - questioning why they would even consider adopting a child whose needs are largely unknown.
Y'all have been amazing, though. We were scared that this journey would be lonely and discouraging without others cheering us on. And instead, we have been overwhelmed with support. We've been congratulated about this baby's arrival as often, if not more so, than with the pregnancies for either of our older children. Friends stop us to encourage us all the time.
Let me interrupt the regularly scheduled blog post to say: Please, please, please continue to do that. I cannot describe how much the encouraging comments in person and online have sustained us and ministered to my heart.
But the concern I still have? I'm scared that people won't realize that we don't have everything figured out. I don't know if I exude far more confidence than I intend or what, but it seems like most folks think that we know a lot about CP (we don't), that we're not a little freaked out by the recent realization that she probably has some degree of fetal alcohol syndrome (we are), and that my educational and professional background makes us fully equipped to parent a child with special needs (it doesn't).
We aren't heroes. We don't know how we're going to do any of this. We are excited, but that doesn't mean that we're not feeling completely in over our heads sometimes.
Okay, most of the time.
We aren't lying when we say that we're excited. We are.
And when I confess, like I am doing now, that we're scared too, that doesn't mean the excitement is gone. This whole process has taught me a great deal about the range of emotions that can all exist in one person at one time. We're excited. And we're scared. And at any given moment, we have at least a dozen other emotions going on, most of which we can't identify by name.
If I'm honest with you, here's the truth: I've been intentionally keeping myself very busy with house projects and packing and lists and paperwork and writing projects and. and. and... because when I stop long enough to be still, the weight of uncertainty can feel crushing.
When we meet in the hall at church or elsewhere, I'll share the excitement instead of the fear, because it's harder to put uncertainty into words and because sometimes voicing a fear lets it grow more. But I'm terrified that I'll seem so confident to everyone that on days when I'm feeling anything but, you'll think, "Oh, Shannon. She has it all under control. She doesn't need any encouragement."
I do. I need it now, and I'll need it once Zoe Amanda is home. Any confidence you see in me isn't mine. It comes from relying on the One in whom I can be confident, just as Paul did during his missionary journeys:
I want you to know that we are confident in God but we are fearful in our flesh. I want you to know that we're not indomitable. I want you know now that I don't have it all together.
And I want you to know, more than anything, that we need you. We need friends who realize that we're human. We need community that sees the fears in our eyes as we're sharing the excitement.
And as much as we need that now, we'll need it even more when we return home and try to figure out what our new normal looks like.
That's what I want you to know.
I spent this morning at the park with a new 60-year-old male friend* (*just kidding. she is a new friend, but she's around my age. I met her online via my other blog, and this was our first time meeting in person, and Lee refers to anyone from the interwebs as a 60-year-old male friend, as in she-could-be-who-she-says-she-is-online-or-she-could-be-a-60-year-old-dude.) Wait, where was I? Oh, right... I spent the morning at a park with a friend who also has two preschoolers and who is adopting a baby girl with special needs in China. She has experienced the reactions we were initially afraid of: people - including other Christians - questioning why they would even consider adopting a child whose needs are largely unknown.
Y'all have been amazing, though. We were scared that this journey would be lonely and discouraging without others cheering us on. And instead, we have been overwhelmed with support. We've been congratulated about this baby's arrival as often, if not more so, than with the pregnancies for either of our older children. Friends stop us to encourage us all the time.
Let me interrupt the regularly scheduled blog post to say: Please, please, please continue to do that. I cannot describe how much the encouraging comments in person and online have sustained us and ministered to my heart.
But the concern I still have? I'm scared that people won't realize that we don't have everything figured out. I don't know if I exude far more confidence than I intend or what, but it seems like most folks think that we know a lot about CP (we don't), that we're not a little freaked out by the recent realization that she probably has some degree of fetal alcohol syndrome (we are), and that my educational and professional background makes us fully equipped to parent a child with special needs (it doesn't).
We aren't heroes. We don't know how we're going to do any of this. We are excited, but that doesn't mean that we're not feeling completely in over our heads sometimes.
Okay, most of the time.
We aren't lying when we say that we're excited. We are.
And when I confess, like I am doing now, that we're scared too, that doesn't mean the excitement is gone. This whole process has taught me a great deal about the range of emotions that can all exist in one person at one time. We're excited. And we're scared. And at any given moment, we have at least a dozen other emotions going on, most of which we can't identify by name.
If I'm honest with you, here's the truth: I've been intentionally keeping myself very busy with house projects and packing and lists and paperwork and writing projects and. and. and... because when I stop long enough to be still, the weight of uncertainty can feel crushing.
When we meet in the hall at church or elsewhere, I'll share the excitement instead of the fear, because it's harder to put uncertainty into words and because sometimes voicing a fear lets it grow more. But I'm terrified that I'll seem so confident to everyone that on days when I'm feeling anything but, you'll think, "Oh, Shannon. She has it all under control. She doesn't need any encouragement."
I do. I need it now, and I'll need it once Zoe Amanda is home. Any confidence you see in me isn't mine. It comes from relying on the One in whom I can be confident, just as Paul did during his missionary journeys:
For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia.
For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself.
Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death.
But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead.
{2 Corinthians 1:8-9}
For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself.
Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death.
But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead.
{2 Corinthians 1:8-9}
I want you to know that we are confident in God but we are fearful in our flesh. I want you to know that we're not indomitable. I want you know now that I don't have it all together.
And I want you to know, more than anything, that we need you. We need friends who realize that we're human. We need community that sees the fears in our eyes as we're sharing the excitement.
And as much as we need that now, we'll need it even more when we return home and try to figure out what our new normal looks like.
That's what I want you to know.