In His Hands

Spending one week in Ethiopia...only one week...and you fall in a new kind of love. A how-did-life-exist-before kind of love. With a country. With a baby. You find out the exact shape of a face you only dreamed about. You trace the outline of cheekbones and smiles. You kiss sleepy eyes and a soft forehead.

You feel torn..because she is still not completely yours. And yet she feels like she is. You soak up her surroundings. A little red low-railing crib connected to many others. Multiple pairs of eyes peering up at you. The children capture your heart. The people capture your heart.

And your week goes by in a whirlwind. And on the final day...you find you have not stolen enough kisses from your sleeping baby to get you through the next 2 or 3 months. You have not caressed her fingers long enough to remember the exact feel of them. And yet...the Inevitable has come. You find yourself slowly dressing her in your favorite pjs that you bought for her. And you cuddle her during a final bottle. And you bundle her in a blanket that you brought specially for her. And you take a deep breath. And you walk back to her room. And you hand her to a nanny, explaining, “We are going back to America.” And they nod and smile and carefully place your precious baby girl in her crib next to all the other little ones. And they prop up her bottle and walk away. And then you walk away. But you cry silently, a thousand cries deep in your gut.

I was resolved to wait hopefully and prayerfully for our embassy appointment.  After all, things have started out so well...and we've had no reason to believe otherwise.  And yet somehow,  by Day 5 of waiting, my hopeful prayers had already started to be submerged under doubtful worries.   And then I heard my 2-year-old singing

"He's got the little bitty baby, in His Hands...He's got the Mommy and the Daddy, in His Hands...He's got the sisters all together in His Hands...He's got the whole world in His Hands..."

And I thought...Wow.  He does, doesn't He?