Ambiguous Loss

The past couple of months have been a challenge. It's been more difficult than expected to wrap my brain around the idea that our dossier is likely permanently closed and Molly isn't coming home to us. This is not how I hoped and prayed our story would end.

My heartache has often manifested itself in anger and a lack of grace, usually directed at my dear husband. Honestly, I haven't known what to do with my raging emotions (and anger is my sinful default), and I've never really learned how to grieve well. (No time like the present, I guess.) I'm grateful that I'm seeing the light at the end of this tunnel as I've had time to deal with my sin, process the disappointment with God, and begin to grieve the loss.

There have been a few things that I've wrestled with over the past couple of months, and a friend has encouraged me to write down my thoughts, so here goes:

1) I didn't realize how hard not having closure would be. Over the many months of waiting, I wavered between feeling hopeful and hopeless, and on some days, I still feel that way. It's frustrating not to have a clear answer from Rwanda and to make the call on our own to end the process, based on limited information.

My friend Staci said it perfectly. Without closure, this is an ambiguous loss. I'm definitely experiencing it as a loss, but some days I wonder if we'll get a call saying they've sent us a referral. I keep thinking it would be easier if we had official closure, like a "Yes, your dossier has been permanently closed" confirmation letter. At least we'd have some assurance we'd made the right call.

Regardless of my desires, this is exactly where God has me. It's no surprise to Him how our adoption turned out, and He knows exactly how I feel. Through this journey, I have learned to trust Him more and have experienced His goodness, peace, comfort, and mercy in abundance. I know the Lord is for me. I've learned more about dependence and how to view everything, even what seems like a tragedy, through the lens of His Word and His character, which is always a good thing.

2) It's been hard to know what to say to people. For the most part, I've just waited until I'm asked about the adoption. I don't mind answering questions, but it's not exactly news I want to randomly blurt out. "Oh, by the way, our adoption is over." Plus, I don't have any satisfying answers to the most frequent questions.

• No, it doesn't seem fair. I agree.
• Yes, it's a shame there are so many orphans in the world, and we're eager and willing to bring one into our family. 
• No, I don't understand why the doors have closed to us after we were approved to adopt last summer. 
• Yes, we've tried everything we believe God has allowed us to try. We committed ourselves to their process, and this is the way it turned out.
• No, I'm not upset about the money we've spent, but I am devastated that our daughter will not be coming home.
• No, we don't sense God calling us to jump into another adoption process as this point.

I'm learning that it's okay to not have all the answers. I don't understand why this was the path God chose for us. Maybe one day I will. Maybe I never will. I don't know. Regardless, I'm confident that none of this was out of my Lord's control. Through all the ups and downs, my faith in God's sovereignty has grown, not shrunk, for which I'm eternally grateful.

3) I think the hardest thing for me has been that a lot of people, even those close to me, have no idea of the incredible loss I feel.

But I get it. Really, I do.

Molly never seemed real to them. We hadn't been matched with a specific child, and there was no photograph I could show or personality to describe. I guess some people assumed she was as vague and distant to me as she was to them.

But she wasn't.

In my heart, she has been very real to me, as real as Claire and Meredith ever were in utero. I didn't know Molly's face, but she was already my child. For two years, she has been an integral part of our prayers, our planning, and our hopes and dreams for the future. We've been waiting for her for so long, ready to love her and get to know her.

I've been unprepared for unwitting yet stinging comments from friends and acquaintances, usually in regard to the idea that I haven't really 'lost' anything or that God must have saved us from something terrible.

For the record, I don't see it that way - at all.

The loss has left a gaping hole in my heart, whether I act that way or not. I don't wear my emotions on my sleeve. I realize these comments are much like the unhelpful comments after a miscarriage: "There was probably something wrong with the baby, so it's probably a good thing this happened." Uh, not so much. Please just stop talking.

In these situations, I'm learning to recognize and confess my own sin and to extend grace and forgiveness, as Christ does for me. I know I've said plenty of stupid things in my life, and probably would here if the shoe was on the other foot. I truly didn't understand the deep emotion wrapped up in adoption until this very personal and painful experience. My eyes have been opened through suffering.

Overall, my heart continues to ache for my Rwandan baby. I still struggle with anger about the process, but I'm choosing to receive this 'no' as from the Lord, not from any person or country. More than anything, I want what God wants for me, for her, for us. I just never thought this is what it would be.