Where are you, Christmas? I'm so grateful that I don't recognize you this year. Not one thing is the same, and that takes a bit of the sting out of this damn holiday.
Nothing is more effective at highlighting loneliness and pain than the holiday season. Every year since my son has been gone, this time of year has slayed me. It's like pouring alcohol on an open wound. I despise tradition. I LOATHE "whole family togetherness".
This year feels different. We're in a new home. Nothing looks the same here. And I'm so grateful. My oldest son refuses to help pick out our Christmas tree now, and I love him for it. It's so much easier for me to be "present" when Easton is not the only one missing. The fact that it's just my husband and the girls picking it out makes it possible for me to breathe.
I don't like being "all together but not really". It's only been this year that I can stand the 5 of us being in the same room at the same time, and still I notice the vacancy. That may sound horrible, but it isn't something you can judge. It's not a feeling I would have asked for, or even known it would be possible. So, you can imagine that when I buy presents for 4 children and only 3 open them up on Christmas morning that I'm probably not going to love that day.
This year I decided to kind of do my own form of immersion therapy. I bought Christmas decorations for our new house and put them up EARLY. I have TWO decorated trees. I was done buying and wrapping gifts long before today, and I even REQUESTED a cookie making day. I blasted Christmas music every chance I got. I did it in part because I believe this may be my youngest daughter's last "magic" year. And it kills me to have "missed" the previous ones. But I also did it to desensitize myself to the inevitable knives that the holidays bring.
I don't know that I'll ever enjoy Christmas as I once did. I think that maybe the loss of a child steals that part of you. Or maybe it takes time. Or maybe it's like the rest of the grief process, where each minute is a crapshoot.
What I have certainly learned about grief and holidays specifically, is that no one is in a place to judge another person for any decisions they make. I would have never guessed in a million years that I would be this person. I loved Christmas and every tradition we had. Now those very things I loved, cut me deeper than I can ever do justice with words.
This year is also different because my dad isn't here. And that sounds particularly terrible, but I don't mean that I'm glad he isn't here. I'm just glad that Easton isn't the ONLY one missing. I miss my dad like crazy, and I can't wait to see him. But that's just it. I have the option of seeing him again. That's not true of my E. And sure, "someday you'll see him in heaven." Ok, I doubt that would be sufficient for anyone, so it isn't helpful.
I'm grateful for my experiences this year. I love our new house and the comfort it provides. I was able to spend some time in Haiti with Jeff and shared my love of it with him. But there are still 4 stockings, and only three children reaching for them. That's not something that can be repaired with tinsel and carols. So I'm especially grateful that the holiday is so unrecognizable this year. Every second of my life without my son has been unrecognizable to me. Christmas finally matches...
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Haiti Part 2
Ah, Haiti...how I had missed you! This trip was incredible, as was the last. But this time I was able to share it with my husband. I got to watch someone I love, fall in love with something already so near and dear to my heart. He felt the tug early. I could tell by the way he took everything in, that he was hooked right away. At first, he was interested in seeing the country from a teacher perspective. He wanted to share his multi-cultural experience with his classes and tried to log everything in order to do so. But then that curiosity and that interest changed. It grew into something deeper, something stronger, something with more staying power. His heart began to take on the beauty mixed with pain, and I'm grateful to have witnessed that.
I don't like the word missionary. I never have. To me, that word implies that I'm giving something or doing something selfless. I don't feel that way in regards to Haiti. I go there to restore my faith in humanity, to restore my own soul. There is something about this country and its people that speaks to the deepest parts of my being. I feel completely and utterly selfish in my desire to return. We painted some classrooms, provided some gifts and some food, but ultimately what did that do? I held children for brief moments in time. For one week, I was the hand on their backs, the voice in their ear. But how can that last a lifetime?
I was very aware of touch while in Haiti this time. Every trip to the orphanage made me more conscientious about the importance of human contact. Every child I saw got my hand on their back while we spoke. I wondered how often they go days without the loving touch of an adult who cares for them? And that's not to say that the nannies and caregivers at the orphanage didn't love them. Those people were truly amazing. They bathed and fed 65 children every single day. The kids are clean, and well cared for. But what of human contact? Is it possible to physically touch each one of them in a loving way every single day? I'm not so sure that it is.
In America, children between the ages of 18 months- 3 years want to be put down. They're developing independence and they don't want adults to hinder their desire for adventure. In Haiti, children of this same age reach up their hands and beg and plead for you to hold them. They've learned to say, "Mama! Papa!" as you walk by and they nearly break their little backs trying to reach for you. Even when you do pick them up, something normally distracting to an American child, like toys or candy are within walking distance, they will not let go. You try to put them down to play and they cling to you as tightly as their little bodies will allow them. Who knows when they'll be held again?
At one point my husband made a comment about how awful it was to see that kind of desperation. I agree with him, but I also know that even though it is awful to witness, and it would be easier for me to have never seen that kind of pain, it doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. It's there. It was there before we got there. It was there for the full week that I cradled as many babies as I could at one time, and it will be there long after I am gone. And although we are on our own adoption journey, and I do truly believe that my children are there, I am equally as passionate about orphan prevention in Haiti. How wonderful would it be to nearly eradicate the need for the over 700 orphanages in that country? What if we could help empower families, and help them find sustainable income in order to keep families together? I believe that's the ultimate goal. And I want to always be aware of that. Long after my children arrive safely at home, and we become the family I know we're supposed to be, I will continue to hope for and to support in whatever ways we can, the efforts at orphan prevention in Haiti.
While on this trip, Jeff and I were able to meet other potential adoptive families from our agency. That was a gift in and of itself. It was so refreshing to be able to speak about the process and the difficulties related to Haitian adoption with others who truly understand. I'm grateful for those contacts and for those three special people we now consider friends.
We also met our agency liason, and we'd previously only corresponded through email, phone calls, and texts. She's a truly incredible young woman and her heart for Haiti is beautiful. We are so privileged to be working with her, and I'm even more excited for the hundreds of children's lives that are touched by this beautiful soul.
We are often asked how the adoption is going and if we know how soon it will happen, if we've met our kids, etc. The answer is that it's going exactly the way it's supposed to. My children are there and they'll be home with me when both they and my current family are ready. Have I met them? I have no idea. But this trip helped me to see that no matter what happens, the people who are supposed to live in my home, will be here someday. And we'll fit perfectly. I can be patient. I have a lifetime to wait to see my son again, so the next few weeks, months or years of waiting for my Haitian children will be something I can handle.
I will go back to Haiti. I know this to be true as much as I know anything. My heart is there. And each time I even think of returning, I am filled with excitement, gratitude to those who help fund and supply my trips, and a peace I can't put into words.
Mesi, Haiti.
I don't like the word missionary. I never have. To me, that word implies that I'm giving something or doing something selfless. I don't feel that way in regards to Haiti. I go there to restore my faith in humanity, to restore my own soul. There is something about this country and its people that speaks to the deepest parts of my being. I feel completely and utterly selfish in my desire to return. We painted some classrooms, provided some gifts and some food, but ultimately what did that do? I held children for brief moments in time. For one week, I was the hand on their backs, the voice in their ear. But how can that last a lifetime?
I was very aware of touch while in Haiti this time. Every trip to the orphanage made me more conscientious about the importance of human contact. Every child I saw got my hand on their back while we spoke. I wondered how often they go days without the loving touch of an adult who cares for them? And that's not to say that the nannies and caregivers at the orphanage didn't love them. Those people were truly amazing. They bathed and fed 65 children every single day. The kids are clean, and well cared for. But what of human contact? Is it possible to physically touch each one of them in a loving way every single day? I'm not so sure that it is.
In America, children between the ages of 18 months- 3 years want to be put down. They're developing independence and they don't want adults to hinder their desire for adventure. In Haiti, children of this same age reach up their hands and beg and plead for you to hold them. They've learned to say, "Mama! Papa!" as you walk by and they nearly break their little backs trying to reach for you. Even when you do pick them up, something normally distracting to an American child, like toys or candy are within walking distance, they will not let go. You try to put them down to play and they cling to you as tightly as their little bodies will allow them. Who knows when they'll be held again?
At one point my husband made a comment about how awful it was to see that kind of desperation. I agree with him, but I also know that even though it is awful to witness, and it would be easier for me to have never seen that kind of pain, it doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. It's there. It was there before we got there. It was there for the full week that I cradled as many babies as I could at one time, and it will be there long after I am gone. And although we are on our own adoption journey, and I do truly believe that my children are there, I am equally as passionate about orphan prevention in Haiti. How wonderful would it be to nearly eradicate the need for the over 700 orphanages in that country? What if we could help empower families, and help them find sustainable income in order to keep families together? I believe that's the ultimate goal. And I want to always be aware of that. Long after my children arrive safely at home, and we become the family I know we're supposed to be, I will continue to hope for and to support in whatever ways we can, the efforts at orphan prevention in Haiti.
While on this trip, Jeff and I were able to meet other potential adoptive families from our agency. That was a gift in and of itself. It was so refreshing to be able to speak about the process and the difficulties related to Haitian adoption with others who truly understand. I'm grateful for those contacts and for those three special people we now consider friends.
We also met our agency liason, and we'd previously only corresponded through email, phone calls, and texts. She's a truly incredible young woman and her heart for Haiti is beautiful. We are so privileged to be working with her, and I'm even more excited for the hundreds of children's lives that are touched by this beautiful soul.
We are often asked how the adoption is going and if we know how soon it will happen, if we've met our kids, etc. The answer is that it's going exactly the way it's supposed to. My children are there and they'll be home with me when both they and my current family are ready. Have I met them? I have no idea. But this trip helped me to see that no matter what happens, the people who are supposed to live in my home, will be here someday. And we'll fit perfectly. I can be patient. I have a lifetime to wait to see my son again, so the next few weeks, months or years of waiting for my Haitian children will be something I can handle.
I will go back to Haiti. I know this to be true as much as I know anything. My heart is there. And each time I even think of returning, I am filled with excitement, gratitude to those who help fund and supply my trips, and a peace I can't put into words.
Mesi, Haiti.
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