Friday, April 8, 2011

A story of boo boos

A conversation between Sam and me

Sam: Mom, how'd you get your boo-boos?
Me: I don't have any boo-boos, baby.
Sam: yes you do. how'd you get them? did you fall down? when I fall down I get boo-boos. see this boo-boo on my finger (shows me non-existent boo-boo on pinky).
Me: I see it Sam. Mommy doesn't have any boo-boos though.
Sam: yes you do. when will Gracie get her boo-boos?
Me: well I hope she doesn't get any boo-boos. I don't like it when my babies get hurt.
Sam: M-oo-m. All girls have boo-boos. When will Gracie fall down and get her boo-boos?
Me: (with interest suddenly peaked) Wait, what? Sam, where are my boo-boos that you see?
Sam: sheepishly grins, You know!
Me: (gesturing to my breasts) Sam are these my boo-boos?
Sam: nods in agreement

Me thinks an anatomy lesson is in the very near future...

Where we go from here

It's been a week -- almost down to the hour -- since we said good-bye to Isaac. If I'm honest with myself and with others, this is the most painful grief I've ever experienced. Nothing in me prepared my insides for this kind of hurt. The grief is partly exacerbated as I have to watch my babies grieve. It's been terrible. But as I told a good friend, this is grief with hope. Probably the most common question I've been asked in the last week (other than the standard "Are you alright?") is the now-what question.

What follows is a response I penned to the question, "Has God called you to do something that seemed crazy?" -- it was meant to be used as a jumping off point for a lesson on Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac. We were asked to answer that question on Monday but I didn't get around to writing my response until Thursday, the day before we said good-bye to Isaac. While I didn't intend these words to answer the now-what question, I think they do a pretty good job.

God is still moving and teaching us things using the story of Abraham and Isaac but we aren't in a happy place and we certainly aren't in a place where we can say "God called us to do something crazy and it all worked out."


Here's what we do know. God definitely called us on this journey to adoption. We were comfortable before; we had the kids we wanted, they were "spaced" like we wanted, we had the life we wanted. And then God called. And suddenly the life we had was uncomfortable and incomplete because until we surrendered to his new call we were in disobedience. So surrender we did. Losing Isaac is not the end of the journey for us. It hurts and we are grieving but God didn't call us to "just give it a try." He called us to see this journey through to the end. If we view losing Isaac as God withholding the ram then we've lost sight of the sheer omnipotence He possesses. Did we think our time with Isaac would end like this? Absolutely not. I thought God would make a way that we would get to keep him. In my human-ness I thought I knew the mind of God. I'm humbled as I think of what God has for us as we continue down this road. He's taught me more in the last 24 hours about his holiness, about his character than maybe I've ever learned in my entire life.

We have to be careful as contemporary Christians, knowing the full story of Abraham and Isaac. We can't afford to read the story as simply a tale that no bad things will happen, that when we're asked to do the hard things God will change his mind when he sees we're obedient. Of course we can read it and see God's provision and his protection -- the ram in the bush is a beautiful parallel for us to Christ's sacrifice. But we also need to read it in light of Abraham's faithfulness. He didn't know the ram would be there. He didn't know the path his journey would take. But he knew he had to take it. That's where we are, Luke and I. We don't know where we're going but we know that the path has been laid before us. I also know, like Abraham, that God is all-powerful and all-knowing. That he has ordained this journey before he laid the foundations of the earth. While we were surprised that Isaac would have to leave, God wasn't. Which means he knows what lies ahead of us even though we can't see very far past our grief.