Here we go…

Life abounds in Meadow’s room already. There’s a giraffe in the grass now, looking intently at the crib, and the banyan tree has grown leaves over the last week. The stars will soon come out at night to the sound of crickets and owls. For the next couple of weeks we’ll be putting just a few touches (although I hesitate to call them “finishing” touches) on her room, and our house will be even closer to “ready” for our eventual return from Fresno as a family of three.

We’re doing what we can to fluff our nest before taking flight, and it’s keeping us as busy as ever. In the midst of all this, her room is by far the most peaceful place in our home, and we both long for the time when we can just be in there together with her. I am more and more comforted by the thought of the three of us at peace, with her finally safely in crib and the two of us taking a much needed (but likely very brief) nap on the floor beside her.

The distance between that moment and this one, however, feels almost infinitely vast. From here to there we have packing, planes, hospitals and hotels, first meetings, unforeseen challenges, emotional mountains… more of the unexpected that we have now learned to expect. Thankfully, we have had the support of friends and family, and others who have gone through this and whose stories are strikingly similar. Just last night we had the fortune of talking to someone who told a detailed account of her trip to Nevada several years ago to meet her baby boy. What an emotional ride, and yet so comforting to realize they made it through. Comfort like that is a rare treat in the bewilderment of expectation when you can barely feel the ground underfoot. It has taught us to keep some perspective. When we feel like we have no control, we try to remember what we can control: our thoughts; our choice of hope over fear.    

The view from Meadow’s window is of the west. And as we wait, we imagine her out there way beyond, across all those jagged mountains and sandy desert valleys. I wonder how it will feel to tell her this story, her homecoming, as we gaze out that window together someday. I keep my focus there while also trying to stay rooted in the present. Sometimes it seems like things could hardly be less clear and straightforward, but we’re grateful for what has gone so well so far. When all the flapping and dust of frantic nest building settles at the end of the day, we lie on the floor in her room, look up at her tree, and imagine peace. Ironically, while many would not describe having a newborn in their lives as anything other than complete chaos, for us it will be a most sublime form of peace. I can hardly wait.