Meeting E

Almost two weeks ago, we met our little girl face-to-face for the first time. I have been struggling to put to words all of the emotions I have about our time. Our week in
Seoul was abundant with remarkable and sundry gifts.
We arrived in the evening on a Saturday. It was cold, and as we weaved away from the airport and towards our hotel, I began to fall in and out of sleep. In pockets of semi-wakefulness, we tried to make small talk with our driver. Korea greeted us with lights along the busy highway and fireworks in the distance. When I woke fully, our car was surrounded by people, traffic and the flashing lights of Korean police cars. The Korean president had recently been impeached and we had arrived on Korean soil during a historic national moment. Simultaneously, the moment felt historic for our little family and my own heart. Despite the heaviness of jet-lag and confusion that pressed on my
eyelids and clouded my mind, the energy and excitement of the city was clear and palpable. Later that night, we fell asleep 18 stories high, listening to the sound of Korean protestors. They protested by singing national songs in unison. The sound of their voices was beautiful. We’d been warned of the protests but assured by hotel staff that Korean protests these days are safe, and resemble something more like a festival. That night, I sensed that the Korean people know lament, hope and their commitment to one another in the midst of both things.
 

 

Most of the week, Matt and I were on our own, taking the city in, enjoying the food and culture and being together. It was a forced babymoon. We went to Korea to meet our girl but the way the meetings were set up left a lot of open space. We walked all over the city and rode the subway from one district of the city to another, taking everything in.

There’s something about exploring a city that makes my heart come alive. It’s been years since Matt and I have worked or lived and travelled internationally together, and I’ve often wondered if those experiences were just experiences of the past. But in Seoul, it was such a gift to realize that we are still a great travel team and still do really well navigating a foreign city together.

At Gyeonbok Palace
There were 2 meetings set up with our agency: the first to meet E and the 2nd for more time with her. I was so nervous before our first meeting. There were 16 other adoptive parents there while we were. They split us up into two groups and one group had their meetings in the mornings while the other had them in the afternoons. On the first day, along with 7 other couples, we entered a large meeting room. The chairs and tables had been stacked and placed around the edges of the rooms. The room was full with us, our children, their foster moms and agency staff. A plastic tub of toys was laid in the middle of the room for the children to play with and there were snacks and bottles of water by the door.
It took me a minute to find our E, but when I spotted her I immediately recognized her profile and her foster mother standing next to her from pictures we had been sent. For a moment I was frozen. I had imagined this moment so many times and could hardly believe we were standing in the same room as her. She stood close to her foster mom, with rice crackers clenched tightly, one in each hand. We tried to talk to her, but she walked away from us, timid and uncertain. When we squatted down close to her, she would look at us out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to meet us head on. I honestly didn’t expect any more than that, knowing how confusing the meeting must’ve been for her. I felt helpless trying to connect with her in such a large room full of distractions
and such little time. Her foster mom told us that of that group, E was probably he most reserved, quiet and soft-tempered. Our first impressions definitely matched the description.  She also told us that E loved snacks and in the end, it was the snacks that first helped build a bridge between us.  We gave her what looked like a Korean version
of Goldfish crackers and then asked her if she would share one with us. Sharing food builds bridges, doesn’t it? Towards the end of our first meeting, Matt got her to smile and laugh; witnessing those moments of connection were like witnessing the moment when a child receives a brand new, bright red balloon.  I loved seeing a new side of my husband as he reached out and gently tried to connect with his little girl. We played peek-a-boo with her and discovered that she loved looking out the high-rise windows and pointing at all of the cars, buses and people down below.  She is delightful and beautiful and it was clear that she has been incredibly loved.
Before meeting E, I wondered if it would feel strange to want to be close to her or love on her. With our boys, I’ve known their expressions and their scent from day one of their lives.  I was afraid it would feel different with our E.  And yet, in the three hours we had with her, I can confidently say that while some moments did feel strange and new, the desire to know her and learn her and draw close to her was no different.
There we were in this large meeting room: adoption agency staff, Korean foster moms, and adoptive parents from all over the world.  We were a global team brought together in time and space because these children are worth so much.  The Kingdom of Heaven belongs to them.
On our second meeting with E, she recognized us right away but still seemed a bit reserved.  We had picked up some snacks and some of the candies we remembered she liked from our first meeting.  This time it was easier to get her to giggle and interact, and we saw a bit more of her feisty side.  The hour and a half flew by and before we knew it, one of the agency staff was telling us it was time to go and to bring our children back to their foster moms. It felt like someone had given us a present to open and then took it
back after we’d unwrapped it and had the time to imagine this new gift as a part of our everyday lives.  It was so strange to watch E get all bundled up and leave the room with her foster mom,not knowing how many more days would pass before we would no longer have to say goodbye.  The room gradually became subdued as each of the children left. All of us adopted parents were left to collect our emotions, fears and longings and step further into a fresh time of waiting.  We waited before this moment, some of us for years, hanging on every small glimpse or piece of the reality of who our child is: pictures, well-baby check updates, anything.  Now we wait with tangible evidence and experience
of who our child is and who it is we have been waiting for and still wait for.

Seoul’s city lights from Namsan mountain.

The days since we have been back have been odd.  Here we are in what we’ve always known as normal, and yet, not the same.  Our time in Korea feels like it was a dream.
Korea pulled at our hearts.  God welcomed us to draw near to him afresh through this Land of the Morning Calm.  And now, not only does this land give landscape and color

the stories of my roots, it’s now the first land of our daughter and always will be.  It is the place where we first laid eyes on her and saw her smile.  It’s where we saw her walk and run and grab at Matt’s eyebrows.  
More than ever, I am convinced that God’s hospitality and heart exist the whole wide world over; he has so much to offer us in lands and places and peoples we have yet to know. 

When the Excitement is Heavy

We leave for South Korea soon.  I am a dichotomy of feelings.

We can’t wait to meet our little E and see her face to face.  Right now, there’s no voice to the pictures we’ve seen, no knowledge of what she looks like when she toddles around or what makes her laugh or how her eyes look when she smiles.  We can’t wait to be with her and to be one step closer to bringing her home.

We also feel heavy.  Adoption comes from loss and every adoption is complex.  While we begin to walk into these moments we’ve been waiting and longing for, we realize that this part of our sweet E’s story will be confusing and sad for her.  This upcoming moment will bring her grief and loss and knowing this breaks our excited hearts.  In the long run, yes, we know we will finally be together and she will have a forever family and a forever home; but knowing this doesn’t mean we get to gloss over the sadness she will inevitably walk through and have with her for the rest of her life in some shape or form.

All of life is one transition after another, some more obvious than the others.  It’s how we move through them and what we cling to in the midst of them that matters.  The transition ahead of our family right now feels like it has us standing at the edge of a steep precipice. On one hand, I want to tie us all up together and try to control the unknown that faces all of us.  On the other hand, I want to fall forward and head right into this dichotomy of feelings, this marking moment, this transition and this unknown future.

Today, I am trying to listen to the voice that tells me to loosen my grip.  I am believing that from the depth of sadness to the height of joy, from the familiar to the foreign, from the past to the future: there is One who is holding it all together.  

He is big enough for all of our hopes.  And those hopes?  They matter to Him. Here and there and everywhere, he holds those hopes, our hopes, with tender and able hands.


“He tends his flock like a shepherd: He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young. Who else has held the oceans in his hand? Who has measured off the heavens with his fingers? Who else knows the weight of the earth or has weighed the mountains and hills on a scale?”  -Isaiah 40:11-12

So, in a few weeks and months, we may need the reminders. For now, we are ready with a heavy excitement.  

Making My Own Kimchi

When God formed my limbs, shaped my eyes and decided to give me my mother’s dark, thick hair, through her: he fed me kimchi.
Aside from being a non-negotiable side dish to every meal at our dinner table, kimchi accompanied the stories I grew up hearing. The first time my imagination held a picture
of my mom as a girl, was when she told me about the time she climbed out of a window at night to sneak out and fell into a kimchi jar outside that was almost as big as she was. It was the kimchi that gave her away and told her secrets.
I have stood by my mom a million times watching her soak cabbage in sea salt and water, later covering the soaked and rinsed pieces with crushed red pepper and other secret ingredients, only to have her finally shove a fresh piece into mine or my sister’s mouth for approval and applause. I know the sounds her kimchi makes as it’s
being shoved and crowded into big jars like people on the subway in Tokyo. My sister and I have seen her give kimchi the starring role in soups and fried rice and after-school snacks. It has been the object of comparison among my mom and other Korean women.  “How was her kimchi?” she would ask, waiting for us to remind her that hers is indeed, better. My mom’s kimchi has always been requested by Koreans and non-Koreans alike.  And I have always believed in the best, completely biased way, that hers is the very best there is.
Confession: kimchi has always been one thing that proved I was not Korean enough.
As a young girl I thought it was too spicy. To the utter dismay of my mother’s global palate, I was the world’s most finicky eater. My Caucasian half felt like a blinding light I couldn’t cover at meal time.  My mom had to “wash”my kimchi for me so I could eat it without sweating like my meal was an Olympic sport. And on the occasion that she didn’t wash it, I drank cup after cup of water in-between eating a few tiny pieces, until my belly bulged with discomfort.
Even though she never said it, I wondered if she was sad that the Korean fire in my belly was constantly being put out by the gallons of water I drank to tame it.
After a number of years, I could eat kimchi without it being washed, but the feeling of not enough lingered. I only ate kimchi when my mom made it for me.  So, whenever she and my Dad would visit, she would make a large batch to last me through a good number of cravings.  When it would run out, I would think about making my own, only to decide against it. What if I couldn’t do it? Surely, something would go wrong and I would forget something major; the result would be the taste of the kind of kimchi you can buy at expensive organic grocery stores where the kimchi is void of stories and full of marketing.
Last Sunday, I made it all by myself, for the first time.  And for the first time in my life, I am beginning to feel comfortable in my mixed shoes.  I suppose I’ve realized that even though the shoes don’t match, they both fit: perfectly.
As I turned the cabbage pieces over, giving the drier ones a turn at soaking in the salty water, I did it without thinking.  I had no recipe to keep pulling up on my phone, and no paper recipe nearby.  The recipe was a life spent watching and listening to my mom. There was something therapeutic in getting my hands messy and watching the cabbage transform. I was making kimchi; the way my mom did. The white cabbage turned reddish orange as the crushed red pepper fell into place: the light and dark, the mild and feisty, the not enough and the too much, the mixing of it all turning it into one. My hands instinctively folded, chopped and mixed: wrapping stories and memories around the pieces, claiming the moment as marker. The true stories are within me and I am enough. I am exactly the mix of what I should be: a girl made woman, making Kimchi, ready to pass the God-given tastes and stories onto my own children, as they search for and claim their identity.

Thoughts and a Letter to E’s Birthmom

I knew she would have a name, but reading it changed everything. I said her name aloud, and then read every small bit of information we received about her again and again.

 

Our little girl’s birth mom has a story.  It’s bigger than what I could see as not he page where pieces were sprinkled over a form, filled into appropriate boxes and resting on the appropriate number of lines. Her reality struck me.  So did this thought: we aren’t just growing our family by adding a little girl who doesn’t have a permanent family.  We are fighting for a little girl’s whole story: every single person and part.  E’s birthmom is now part of us too, whether she knows this or not.  This Mother’s Day, I am full of gratitude for my own mom and my wonderful mother-in-law.  I am grateful to be called mommy by two of the best little boys in the world.  But this year, I am also grateful for our E’s birthmom and how she has impacted my understanding of what it means to be a mother.

Dear E’s birthmom,
 
The first time I read your name, I held my breath.  I have cried for you.  I believe God has held those tears in a bottle and that he has bottles full you yours.  I have tried to picture your face again and again, and know that I will see it in my little girl’s face soon.  My heart was full of joy when we were matched with E.  My heart ached as I thought about what it would be like to be in your shoes and make the decision of deep loss you made, so that E could have everything you hoped she would.  
 
We are keeping the name you gave her.  We will tell her what it means.  We will always honor her heritage and we are so thankful that we share that same heritage.  Our boys already love her and they will always look after her.  Her Daddy can’t wait to protect, love, cherish and help lift her up into every good thing God has already planned for her.  Thank you for how you have loved her in what I can only assume is one of the most difficult ways a mother ever could.  We promise to honor you and to tell her that it is always okay to miss you, to long for you, and to want to know you.  I know that won’t always be easy to do, but I see it as one of the most important things I can do as her mother.
 
E was fearfully and wonderfully made in your womb. Our mother stories will always be linked and I am grateful to to be linked to yours.

Celebrating E

25 days ago,  one of my friends handed me this bright and hopeful forsythia branch sitting in a vase surrounded by grey rocks.

That day, there were 285 rocks in the vase.  In the note my friend gave me along with the vase, she instructed me to take one rock out each day, to mark the days we wait for our E.  She said to take a smaller rock out when we felt peace with our wait, and a larger one when the wait felt difficult.

Today, we took one of the bigger rocks out.  It’s our little E’s first birthday.   All day, I’ve wondered how our E spent her day.  Did she know it was her birthday?  Did she sleep well the night before?   I checked my weather app to see what the weather is like there, hoping it might tell me something more, anything more about how she is doing.  We sent a package weeks ago, and I wonder if she got it.   Did she dress up in a traditional Korean hanbok (dress) like Korean children do (and both of our boys did) on their first birthday?I’ve been thinking about E’s birth mother and wondering what she is feeling today, too.  If I could, I would tell her that that I am praying for her today and that we will honor her and the part of E that she will always be.  We know E was knit together by God in her womb.

Dear little E, you have a village of people here who love you and celebrate you today.  A birthday card arrived in the mail for you this week.  A dear friend’s little boy, who shares the same birthday as you, turned 5 today.  This morning he and his mommy brought these tulips to me, just for you.

We made you cake and prayed for you as a family tonight. This might be the first pink cake we have ever had at our house.  We might’ve gone a wee bit overboard with the pink sprinkles…

Oh little E, you are loved. You are fearfully and wonderfully made.  Happy
Birthday from across the sea, sweet girl.