Faith follows futility follows faith

Leaping

If you knew me “back then”, you might know that my (original) desire to adopt a child from Ethiopia felt like a calling. I was driven toward it without question; there was a force that was both within and outside of me. 
I am no longer able to tap into that feeling. 
Now, when people ask me why we adopted children from Ethiopia, I stare blankly at them, lips parted slightly—waiting for an answer to come—and then I start to cry. That usually prevents any more questions.

Faith, is believing in that which cannot be seen. Stepping forward, with eyes closed, not knowing whether there will be solid ground to catch your foot as it descends. And then, when there is no ground beneath you, faith is knowing you can falter and fail, and then learn to fly.

I had a deep bucket of faith “back then”.

A leap of faith is certainly what it felt like from the moment that we stepped into the Calgary International Airport bound for Toronto-Frankfurt-Khartoum-Addis Ababa. That first adoption was eight years ago. Adoption is behind us, and yet still in front of us.

That baby is one of my favorite people in the whole world. He is energetic and dynamic. He is fascinated and curious in a way that cannot go unnoticed. He sees what most of us miss, and it is a privilege to share our lives, as we do. But, you know, it was not always so. Blessings …and burdens.

Plummeting

One of the problems with taking a leap is that there is that moment—after you leap, and before you land—when you are suspended in mid-air, wondering if you are going to make it. For the briefest moment, your faith hangs back, and you face uncertainty, alone.

For someone like me, uncertainty is hard to bear. I like to—no, need to—know the outcomes of a “prescribed” action. But with parenting, certainty is elusive. My expectation for some rote behavior is often met with disappointment. I am initially indignant: What? I have done all of this, and you are behaving like that?! You MUST be kidding me!

According to psychologist, Gordon Neufeld, “The answer lies not in the battle against behavior but in the softening of hearts”.  (Sigh.) These days, my husband and I slide effortlessly into our invisible armour to prepare for the daily “battle against behavior”, and to repel the verbal jabs. The trouble is, the armour never protects us—or really even assists us—and it is too stiff for cuddles.

Letting go, is one of the hardest things we face. My desire to do good for the sake of my children is high. My desire to be what they need—each of them—moment-to-moment is unachievable…exhausting. My desire for them to love me and treat me well simply because I love and care for them, is way outside of my realm of control—especially with Faven. And that sucks.

The thing is, when it comes to Faven, I keep leaping, and despite hours of training, my best effort, and a long approach, I leap, and fall. It hurts. Remember the Coyote and the Roadrunner? Wile E. Coyote tried time and time again to best the Road Runner. He never did. He always got up though, whether flattened or crushed, and tried again. It was futile.

I too am repeatedly leaping. My techniques to love and connect are as varied as the Coyote’s ploys to trap and capture. Whatever I try does not result in what I ultimately want—a child who will love and be loved—and YES, a child who will be kind, most of the time. So, even though my motives are very different from the Coyote’s, I am experiencing frustration over and over again. Frustration leads to anger and resentment. It is a tough way to live. To continue to try seems futile. And it is!

At first, futility feels like giving up, and giving up feels completely justifiable. But giving up only momentarily justifies my next move (withdrawal); eventually I feel shitty, and get up and try again. It is an exhausting cycle—maybe this time it will work; maybe if I just try a bit harder; maybe I am not giving enough; maybe I don’t yet have the right skills—I should study harder, read more, and go for more counseling. The effort feeds the desire; the desire is an unrealistic impossibility, which results in self-blame, self-pity, frustration, and anger.

Futility, instead, is acknowledging that the current mode is incapable of producing the desired result; the situation is not going to change. Futility cannot be forced. But, when we truly get that the desire cannot be fulfilled, futility allows us to feel disappointment and sadness, and only then can we move on. Futility is a form of acceptance and with acceptance comes compassion and hope.

I wish that I could say that this is a one-time lesson, but it is not...faith follows futility follows faith follows futility, and sometimes creates hope.

Im-possible Endearment

To endear oneself to another seems to be a necessary ingredient of a loving relationship. We are, quite naturally, drawn to those who endear themselves to us.

• The small child, who falls down, snuggles into us when we scoop them up and wipe away their tears—and then asks us to call the ambulance because the hurt is so big.
• The young boy, whose eyes shine upon us and ask, “Like this, right Mom?

• The friend who leans in when you tell her your shit-storm of shame, and says, “I hear you pal.”

• The loved one who holds your hand, when there are no soothing words.

If one were bent on logic, like me, then one would ascertain that we are not drawn to those who do not endear themselves to us. True.

“Leave me alone! You’re not my parents.”

(Sigh) “Yes, honey, we are your parents.”

“No you’re not. I hate you.”

Having a child who does not endear herself to me—who is routinely oppositional; who runs swear words together, like a shopping list, because there are no other words strong enough; who is mean-spirited towards those that I love; and who responds “No you don’t!” when I say, “I love you”—is nearly impossible to parent. But only “nearly” impossible because it can’t be impossible—can it?

I have to find a solid path when I have no idea what to do. I have to be compassionate when I feel indignant. I have to be safe and secure, even when I am angry and hurt. I have to put away my reasoning brain that says, If I do this, she will do that. And I have to find the right kind of support, so that I don’t give up, or go crazy—or both!

A child who has suffered immeasurable trauma and emotional loss is not wired for endearment. Not because they don’t want a loving relationship, but because they can’t trust that such a thing even exists. My child, my beautiful, honey-brown child—the one with the smile that can stop me in my tracks, the one that will cook alongside of me and abandon her internal turmoil, the one who runs free on the soccer field, like a wild horse—she has deep wounds that are covered in bands of scar tissue that may never loosen.

In the midst of a garden of flowers, she may not see the blooms. Surrounded by softness and comfort, she cannot sink in. Even when she is given the substance and fiber of her dreams, she cannot knit together a peaceful shawl. Not by herself.