It’s a Saturday in January in Portland. To no one’s surprise, it’s raining. Not the mist that accompanies so many winter days here. Today, it’s pouring. The few pedestrians out have to shield themselves from the spray and splash of the passing cars. It’s the kind of day that brings out words that start with “D”: Dark. Dreary. Dismal.
But in a townhouse in northeast Portland, something bright and beautiful is going on.
Huge life events often yield more emotions than I can clearly convey, but last night my excitement over this upcoming week was interrupted by these thoughts. I knew this journey wasn't going to be easy, but I also knew that I had committed to the long haul. This is a glimpse of our story as we walk through fostering and adopting. There is great joy in the midst of these emotions, a joy that surpasses all understanding.
This is right where I am supposed to be.
Apparently little Oliver* was filthy and soaking wet. He had been taken from his mentally unstable mother in the back of a police cruiser, and brought directly to our house. The worker wanted to wrap him in a sheet and carry him straight to the bathtub. While she was wrapping our next gift, I started filling the tub with warm water. I tried to imagine how my own kids would react to this kind of welcome, stripped down and exposed to complete strangers.