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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!

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“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?

The five children screamed, then, as they plunged beneath the surface of the lake, they closed their mouths just in time to keep the water from rushing in. Suddenly it was as if they had never been there, and the tiny waves lapped up against the stone wall that held the bank at bay, and the surrounding tree-covered hills peeked over my shoulder, and I felt the sound of weightless bugs making tiny v-shapes across the water’s skin.

Then an eruption: five children boiling to the surface, laughter splitting their sides, and all creation breathed again, a sigh of relief. Silence carries a particular heaviness, immeasurable.

The recently emerged children sputtered and wiped the water from their eyes. They shivered and laughed, giddy with wondering where the next monster would appear. My son, nine years old and looking adventurous, pointed to the far bank and screamed. The other four children imitated his pretend terror, and the five of them sank again. Again silence rushed into the space they left behind. The sound of wind through the trees. The distant rumble of thunder.

* * * * *

We are so often propelled by fear. Of not having the right stuff. Of not being able to replace our stuff if we lost it. Of falling behind on the timeline of a “normal” life. Of straying from the responsible path. Of death.

Don’t misunderstand me – sometimes fear is a gift. Sometimes it alerts us to things that must be addressed, patterns that must be reversed, things that should be avoided.

But often the things that scare us are imaginary monsters, roaring from across the lake.

* * * * *

There is wisdom in the play of children. These five children knew, so far as pretend monsters are concerned, that escape does not require running – it’s much simpler than that.

Sometimes all you have to do is close your eyes and ears to it.

* * * * *

What imaginary monsters do you pay too much attention to?

My friend Tor Constantino is hosting a post of mine over at his blog today: “Theology is No Substitute for Time Spent Waiting Under an Oak Tree.” Please take a minute to head over there, check out my post, and then peruse Tor’s blog – he’s a great writer, and I know you’ll enjoy the stuff he’s written.

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I made a huge announcement last Thursday. It involves a text message, Sri Lanka, and my next big adventure. If you missed it, you can check that out HERE.

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If this is your first time at my blog, welcome! Some of my recent, more popular posts include:

Surviving the Worst Case (or, Finding a Stranger in Your Kitchen at 4am)
Sometimes You Have to be a Little Bit Crazy
Coming Back Early to See My Grandma and Finding a Map

I’ve written an E-book about hitting rock bottom and trying to make a living as a writer. It’s called Building a Life Out of Words and is available in all kinds of different digital formats. Best part of the book? Contributors include Andi Cumbo, Bryan Allain, Ed Cyzewski, Jason Boyett, Jeff Goins, Jennifer Luitwieler, Ken Mueller, Kristin Tennant, and Stacy Barton.

Rachelle Gardner, one of the best literary agents out there, was kind enough to host me over at her blog today. I shared Five Things I’ve Learned About Making a Living as a Writer (but it could just as well be titled Five Things I’ve Learned About Chasing My Dream Job). Click HERE to read the post.

* * * * *

I made a huge announcement last Thursday. It involves a text message, Sri Lanka, and my next big adventure. If you missed it, you can check that out HERE.

* * * * *

If this is your first time at my blog, welcome! Some of my recent, more popular posts include:

Surviving the Worst Case (or, Finding a Stranger in Your Kitchen at 4am)
Sometimes You Have to be a Little Bit Crazy
Coming Back Early to See My Grandma and Finding a Map

I’ve written an E-book about hitting rock bottom and trying to make a living as a writer. It’s called Building a Life Out of Words and is available in all kinds of different digital formats. Best part of the book? Contributors include Andi Cumbo, Bryan Allain, Ed Cyzewski, Jason Boyett, Jeff Goins, Jennifer Luitwieler, Ken Mueller, Kristin Tennant, and Stacy Barton.