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“I don’t want to grow up before my mom gets me.” She said the words my heart felt.

At eight, she isn’t waiting on a mystery. Adoption has been explained to her and though family is a new concept for her orphan-mind, she is being indoctrinated into the very thing I am, an ocean away. Waiting on a promise.

Adoption is never easy. What sits deep in the eye of the Father is a target for His enemy. The layers of testimony being built around the rescue of the vulnerable ones don’t go unopposed. Simultaneous to the glorious accounts we’ve received from friends who have visited with Hope and Lily has been the news that our story has hit some paperwork-related hurdles.

And Lily knows about those. The same little girl who kisses my picture on her wall knows that the path to her promise will have to be paved by Jesus.

“At least I have a mom,” she says in response to news of the potential delays. The child, whose daily comings and goings have never been under a mother’s watchful eye (though now under kind caregivers), finds peace in the whispers of me as if they were my arms wrapped around her. Something is better than nothing for the child who’s grown accustomed to nothing.

Hope still seems oblivious to the radical life change around her corner. She loved her pink nail polish, Molly’s treat. And bore smile after smile for a camera that would deliver gold to my inbox just hours later. Carefree and full of the delight that an outdoor playground solicits, the disconnect between this message bearer and those who sent her, obvious.

She appeared to brush away tears when she watched a video we sent, enamored with the kisses we blew across miles. Is it possible for a five year-old to feel the pain of waiting?

Three years between she and Lily seem like eons which have potential to wash away the innocence of youth. Young and fresh, malleable turned molded — needing re-molding. But for both of them, every day they are not under my roof is a day I’ve lost. A day I will one day have to ask back of the God who restores the years locusts eat.

There is something innate in a woman, created to protect her young at all costs, which adoption stirs up. I find myself explaining our adoption process to people as if I’m explaining the mortgage application process. Dry description, dry process because I lack words to explain the torrent going on within me.

I have daughters living minutes I don’t get to shape. The little-girl moments mothers are made to ponder are ones I only dream about.

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Eden scoots into my lap, eyes on the floor and lower lip quivering. She lets down. “I’m sad Mommy,” she says as a precursor to the conversation we’ve had many times. My five year-old mourns the early years when she “didn’t get to be with Mommy and Daddy” and I can’t help but think of the two others on another continent whose time-cards reflect immeasurably more of those minutes which will one day need healing. Our home, soon to be a hospital for these type of heart-casualties.

Injustice spans the gap between where I live my days and where they grow more inches. And the horizon is pregnant with more waiting.

All of this can make a mother crazy.

And crazed I have been. Allured by the dark side of promise. It’s a faint fume which has set like a damper over my spirit, telling me that rest will come with the promise and that my stomach was meant to be in knots — and my heart awry — until the answer comes. Subtle alluring, couched in mission. Seeking the promise, instead of the promise giver, slowly becomes my goal. And I get heartsick.

Until the One who allures appears.

Adoption is not about a child. It’s about a Man. A God-Man who could end injustice in an instant and who does not look on the fatherless with hands tied behind His back. Instead, He works every angle for the greatest love story of all time to unfold.

The love story for Lily. For Hope. And for me.

He’s rescuing my heart and teaching me a trust that isn’t dependent upon human constructs. He’s alluring me to love which, when I melt weak at its feet, does not allow me to leave that place unchanged. He’s awakening me to an encounter that infuses peace in a valley of darkness.

He calls us to justice not because He needs our acts of justice, but because — in doing so — we find Him. We learn Him. We brush up against a love that does not leave us with a little bit of Jesus to add to our already-formed mission but leaves us hungering for a Man that will change every dusty corner of our lives.

Adoption reveals His relentlessness. For them. And for me.

Whether a month from now or six months from now or a year from now, when I get to hold Lily for the first time and my lips grace Hope’s forehead as if they’d been there a thousand times before, there is one thing I’m desperate to have found.

More of this Man Jesus. More of this One who keeps calling me to walk across a tight-rope and promises I’ll find Him safe in every step.

The end is a Man. Not exclusive to adoption, the end of every promise who’s seen the sweat of waiting, is this Man.

My inbox has been flooded lately with questions about adoption (if I haven’t yet responded to you, I haven’t forgotten you — it usually takes me a few days to respond) and I’ve been tempted to craft an auto-reply that says:

Adoption is for the hungry. If you want to know more of Jesus and are willing to get a little undone in the meantime, sign up. You can’t pursue a child without being consumed by His pursuit of you.