Turning Normal into Special

As I sit here this morning, excited to see her for the first time in 4 months, I can’t stop thinking about how anonymous her life has been. Not to her, but to all the rest of us, in our terms. To her it’s ‘normal’.

This trip is the culmination of thousands of hours of work, time, money and prayer for us, and others that have helped. Starting 14 months ago for her, and us. She was born and put in an orphanage, never visited by anyone. Pretty normal where she is right now. Kaia and I felt the need to adopt, strangely enough the same week she was born. We started the mountain of paperwork, home study, phone calls, classes, dossiers, trips, medical checkups and interviews. So much, it was daunting, and we gave up a few times. But we kept going, kept hoping and praying that there was some baby out there, meant special for us.

All for this normal little girl that sits, alone in an orphanage crib this morning as the sun comes up. She might be awake, just a few blocks away, thinking her thoughts. Waiting for her turn to be picked up and fed and changed, then set down to roll around in the all-too familiar playpen area with the others. Two naps a day, just to pass time. 4 dishes of ‘food’ a day, always in a rush. 4 cups of juice or water, again-the same. Cared-for, but that is all. Nothing special.

She has no way of knowing this morning, when we see her in 6 hours, or tomorrow, or next week when we take her with us-what a special girl she is. How we think and pray about her, about her closet of clothes at home. Her own room repainted with her specal color, a happy tree, her furniture, quilts, bed, dresser, toys-just for her. Just for her, and for us to show her how special she is. We are desperate for her to know our love, to feel how much she matters to us. I have been feeling trapped, unable to do anything for her, and her thoughts and feelings. That is about to change, if only for two hours today, then tomorrow when she meets her brothers, then her Aunt, and then you, and so on. That she is Special.

Someday Sylvi will read this, and be as struck as I am this morning, of how awesome of a story this is-her story and our story. But for now, she’s thinking, “The sun is coming up. I’m waiting to be picked up, by someone, anyone, this morning. Change my diaper and feed me. Smile at me, maybe if I clap and giggle again, you will laugh before setting me down.”

Soon that will change. She won’t remember us today; it’s been 4 months. But, tomorrow she will. I promise that. And tomorrow she’ll feel Special.