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“Have you ever passed out while getting a shot?” the kind old lady asked me, picking up each of the needles and examining their contents.

“Uh, no,” I said. But for some reason I suddenly felt not-so-great. My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t stop biting my lip.

It was taking way too long, giving me even more time to wonder what three, small doses of disease (Hepatitis A, Tetanus, and Typhoid) would feel like going into my arm. I tried to breathe slowly. I’m such a wimp.

I craned my neck to look as far away from the shots as I could. There were various travel warnings on the wall, and a small fridge from where she had pulled the vaccines. On the nurse’s desk was a map of Sri Lanka.

* * * * *

Maile and I thought it would be amazing if we sponsored a child who I could actually meet during my trip to Sri Lanka. We just got a picture of him the other day (which I’m having trouble linking to at the moment): he’s got big brown eyes, wispy dark hair, and a knack for very serious expressions.

“Are you there, dad?”

“When are you coming up to say good-night, dad?”

“How many hours will you be gone, dad?”

“You will come back to pick me up, right dad?”

“You won’t forget me, will you dad?”

* * * * *

It seems we’ve returned from our cross-country trip with a suddenly insecure child. There are now few situations where this young one doesn’t get a little teary-eyed, a little nervous, a little clingy.

My response to this wasn’t great in the beginning. Patience is not one of my virtues.

Seriously? Are you kidding me? I thought to myself. Are you three years old? You can deal with this. I know you can.

But no amount of cajoling or pushing or motivating brought peace to that little mind.

And as I think back over the last seven months of our life as a family, I cannot blame this child for feeling insecure. In February, we moved out of a house that all six of us adored. Two weeks later, we ventured out in a big blue bus for four months, changing locations every two to three days, meeting new people and walking strange streets. Now we live in my parents’ basement, looking for a new place, not knowing where we might end up.

So this dear child cries out for some sense of belonging, some reassurance that everything will be okay. I suck it up and encourage my child, through my own frustration.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say.

“I’m always here if you need me,” I say.

“I would never forget you,” I say.

And I am reminded of this:

If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!

* * * * *

I am terribly insecure these days. Every five minutes I find myself doubting or questioning, wondering or searching, changing my mind or growing angry. One moment I am encouraged and motivated. The next I am heavy-hearted and deflated. But God doesn’t care how many times I need to be reminded. After I shout out or scream or whisper or complain, there is always The Voice – so long as I take the time to listen.

It’s going to be okay.

I’m always here if you need me.

I would never forget you.

Sam screamed again. It was late, and he was exhausted, and through that thin veil of tiredness his anger broke through. He sat in his bed, and he wailed. Sometimes his cries took the form of a long, drawn-out “Nooooooooooo” to no one in particular – at other times they came out in short, staccato bursts.

I heard him from the kitchen and flew into the room, prepared to drop the hammer. I couldn’t imagine any situation in which this kind of screaming was necessary or acceptable. Then I turned the corner.

His little face was red, his jaw clenched. Hot tears filled his eyes. I scooped him from his bed and stared at him, prepared to say, once again, “No! This is not cool!” But I found myself saying something entirely different.

First I hugged him. His legs stuck straight down like tiny two-by-fours, and his arms stayed stiff at his side. I held him as close as I could, and I whispered into his ear.

“Sam, it’s okay, you can be angry. I’m just going to hold you.”

* * * * *

I’m learning this: it’s okay to be angry.

I grew up in a charismatic, evangelical church in an Anabaptist community – anger has always been totally unacceptable. Displays of anger were considered a complete loss of control. We tried to pretend to accept anger by saying, “Anger’s okay as long as you don’t act on it,” but that’s just another way of saying that anger isn’t okay, because anger nearly always drives us to some sort of action.

For years I’ve denied my anger toward other people, whether it be the guy who took my parking space or the person who disagreed with my way of thinking. Don’t get angry. Anger isn’t the right way to respond. I’ve denied my anger towards those I love. I’ve denied my anger towards God.

But all this denying has only fostered a form of passive-aggressive behavior – anger can’t be held inside. It always emerges, usually later, usually misdirected.

I’m learning this: it’s okay to be angry.

* * * * *

“Sammy, it’s okay if you’re angry. I’m just going to hold you.”

And each time I said that, I felt his little muscles loosen. His enraged screams turned to heartfelt whimpers and then those trembling sobs. I know it’s a worn out cliche, but he literally melted in my arms.

Then I slid into the bed with him on my chest. Every so often, his little body would seize up as the anger resurfaced, then he would shudder, take a deep breath, and sigh again. Relax.

“It’s okay,” I whispered again and again. “You can be angry if you want to. I’m just going to hold you.”

* * * * *

You can approach God honestly. You can scream at him and tell him how unfair your life is and how it doesn’t seem like he’s there. You can question him and demand answers. You can weep and blame him for your tears.

You can get angry at God.

He can handle it.

I left a party a few nights ago. The laughter and the food and the deep conversations had helped me forget about the things in my life I’d rather not think about, but as soon as I turned my car for home and drove through the humid summer night along winding back roads, I remembered. That there is so little money. That we are still looking for our own place. That the drop-dead date I gave myself to get this writing life going again is six weeks away.

Behind me, the western sky still had the slightest tint of color, but I was driving east, driving fast, driving into the dark. I rolled down my window and the rushing sound of heavy, August air filled the van. I decided that I had had enough, so I began making a list for God of all the things in my life that sucked.

And I guess he was in a listening mood because I went on for a few miles without any sort of response. Typical, I thought to myself. Where are you? I’m exhausted. I’m worn out. I can’t believe you keep asking me to wait. Wait! For what?

Then another narrative began floating through my brain, a narrative that did not feel like my own creation, a dialogue inside of myself with someone or something entirely separate from me.

What if you remain a semi-mediocre writer for the rest of your life – would you still love me? the voice asked.

“That would be disappointing,” I muttered. “But, yeah, sure, I’d still love you.”

What if you never make as much money or have as much security as some of your friends – would you still love me?

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “If I’ve learned anything in the last three years, it’s that I can live an adventurous life without much money. So, sure, I’d still love you.”

What if you couldn’t write for a living any longer – would you still love me?

I was starting to understand where this was going.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”

What if you lost everything – would you still love me?

Silence. Stillness. The sound of air rushing through the window at fifty miles per hour.

I arrived at my parents’ house and parked the van, then walked inside. I went down the stairs into the basement. I stopped in front of the cupboards and saw a piece of paper hanging where I had put it three years ago during the toughest time of my life. On the paper, printed in ink the color of the western sky just after the sun sets, are the following words:

Patient endurance is what you need now, so you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised. Hebrews 10:36

I am driving into the darkness. Driving. Driving. Driving. Waiting for the morning.

Today’s adoption post is brought to you by Kim Van Brunt. Enjoy!

* * * * *

“When you are behaving as if you loved someone you will presently come to love him.”

-CS Lewis

It was only 20 minutes after setting foot in Africa for the first time that I felt it. We had purchased our visas, gathered our suitcases and were rolling them smooth toward the clear glass partition, hearts beating wild, knees buckling. I hadn’t seen you yet. Somewhere in that mass of beautiful dark faces was one that already belonged to us. Our son was waiting.

I wanted to run away.

Fear screamed at me to get out of there, to return home to safe, familiar, known. Anxiety tugged at my jacket sleeve, saying I could just close my eyes and turn around, make it all go away. It was my last chance.

It can’t be even a second later and you’re in my arms, a little thing for 8 months old, such a solemn expression. Your life’s experience is showing on your face. You’re confused, wary, quiet.

I look into your eyes and you look into mine. Finally.

I say hello, but to a stranger.

You feel like someone else’s child.

You don’t know me, and I don’t love you.

Now my heart is pounding again, unbridled fear has come roaring back and threatens to pull me completely under this time. This is supposed to be your child, Shame sneers. Where is the miracle? Where is the love?

I turn my heart upside down trying to find the right emotion, desperate to feel what I thought I was supposed to feel, and all the time I’m hoping it doesn’t show on my face. I’m in the moment but outside it, I can’t believe it’s happening like this, I don’t know what we’ve done anymore, or why.

The photos of the moment show me beaming, couldn’t-be-happier, and if you squint a little, you can even believe it’s love at first sight. They look every bit like the “gotcha day” photos and videos I watched over and over before it was our turn. They represent everything I believed to be true and wasn’t. Not for me.

And though at the time I felt like a fraud and a failure, now I see I was doing it exactly right.

Over the next days and months when I was learning to love our son, I acted as if I already did.

When he cried and screamed and pushed me away in grief, I acted like I felt patient and kind.

Though it felt like he was someone else’s child, I acted as if he was mine.

Now I know that it wasn’t dishonest. It was faith. Believing in what I could not see, trusting in what I did not feel. I was living in the hope that my heart would grow into a love I couldn’t conceive.

Months later, I had had already repeated the actions of love maybe a thousand times when it happened, right in the middle of the most mundane moment.

I was tucking my son’s blanket around him at bedtime, just the way he likes it. I straightened up beside his crib and for no reason, my heart spoke the truth I’d been seeking: I love this boy. He is my son, and I can feel it now, finally, all the way down to my bones.

Faith had become sight. That was the true miracle, and I had been practicing it all along.

* * * * *

Kim Van Brunt is a writer, mother, wife and world-changer. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and three children and is working on her first book, which will be about adoption and the hidden emotions adoptive parents experience. Find her on Twitter @kimvanbrunt or Facebook at facebook.com/kimvanbrunt. She blogs about faith, family and adoption at kimvanbrunt.com.

If you’d like to submit a post telling the story of a poignant moment that occurred during adoption or foster care, please email your 500-word submission to shawnsmucker@yahoo.com. Thanks!

Prior adoption and foster care posts include:

Checking ‘Yes’ to Everything: Adoption Stories With Sonya Judkins
Because Someone Has To: Adoption Stories With Shar Halvorsen
Momma For a Moment: A Foster Care Story, With Tamara Out Loud

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day. A. A. Milne

Tuesday night Maile and I sat at the small kitchen table in my parents’ basement. We have been in the basement now for only about six weeks, but it’s been seven months since we left our house and embarked on our cross-country trip. Seven months of living out of suitcases. Seven months of wondering where we will end up next. Seven months of occupying guest rooms while our kids sleep on the floor and our kids sleep here and our kids sleep there. Seven months of keeping bathroom supplies in what looks like an over-sized fishing tackle box.

Seven months.

I think we both felt a bit deflated on Tuesday night.

“You know,” Maile said. “It’s not that I don’t trust things will work out. I KNOW they are going to work out. They are ALREADY working out. But sometimes, even knowing that, you get tired of waiting for it. I just want to say, ‘God…I mean, come on!'”

There it was – the idea that had been floating around in my head, now expressed perfectly in the form of spoken words. Because that is exactly it. No matter how much faith you have, no matter how determined you are to persevere, no matter how hard your head has grown from knocking through that next brick wall: there are still days when you are just plain tired.

* * * * *

The brick walls are there for a reason. The brick walls are not there to keep us out. The brick walls are there to give us a chance to show how badly we want something. Because the brick walls are there to stop the people who don’t want it badly enough. They’re there to stop the other people. Randy Pausch

* * * * *

There is a particular weariness that rises in this space of waiting. But I don’t think it’s the waiting itself that is wearying me – I think it’s my resistance to the wait. I’m like a dog straining at the end of a lead, wearing the pads of my feet raw on the sidewalk as I desperately pull pull pull. The unnecessary effort chokes me. A firm, gentle voice rises just over the sound of my struggle.

Stop, The Voice says.

Breathe, The Voice whispers.

Wait, The Voice implores, and I try to listen, and I discover a new space of stillness, a space where I can feel my own heart beating in my chest, a space where the burden is inexplicably light.

How do you make the waiting bearable?