It's been a long, long time...

Hello, dear readers. Believe it or not, there really is a live human being on the other side of this blog! I realize I've completely dropped the ball keeping this thing updated, and I'm sorry about that.

The past two years have been a series of emotional roller coasters, largely related to our adoption of Avivah. I've gone months without writing anything at all, followed by months when words poured out of me like water from a hose. Most of those words have found their way into private journals or emails, but recently I've begun sharing them in the blogosphere once again at my new blog, alisonmclennan.com.

I still write about adoption and probably always will, since that's obviously an enormous part of our lives, but I've expanded my repertoire a bit. My focus, above any one topic, is to be real, to seek truth, and to shine light into dark places. Sometimes that means blogging about adoption - the trials and the triumphs - and sometimes it means exploring issues of motherhood or marriage, social justice, or spiritual struggles and growth. Basically, I blog about whatever I'm wrestling with, and I'm always looking for honest feedback from my readers. I'd be delighted to hear where you stand on the issues I write about and glean wisdom from your stories and perspectives.

Aside from writing at alisonmclennan.com, I'm currently working on a novel birthed from our time in Rwanda, as well as an ebook about fear and faith (borne of my battle with hypochondria). These are both long-term projects, so I'll be keeping you all posted on my progress via blog.

If you want to follow along and stay in touch, I'd love for you to join me at my new home base (click here to go there!)! You can subscribe via email, RSS feed, or follow me on Bloglovin. And if you haven't already, please say hi on Facebook or Twitter!

And to make things easy, here's a link to a post I recently wrote about what I've learned through adoption (so far): Stranger Things to Say

And here's another link to the video last month to commemorate our two-year anniversary of meeting Avivah: Perspective

I look forward to hearing from you around the internet! Thanks for reading!

hurting, but hopeful

Something is broken inside my daughter. I don't know if it's her mind, her heart, or both, but it weighs on me tonight.

Avivah has been home for over a year. She's 3 years old, and after 13 months as a McLennan she's officially been with us longer than she was with anyone else in her short life. We've been through a lot this past year, made huge, hard-won progress in bonding, and she's finally growing physically. Yet we can't communicate. The poor girl still can't answer the most basic yes or no questions, and the moment one is posed her features stiffen with anxiety and she spits out a quiet, generic "yah."

The problem isn't a language barrier. I can give her detailed instructions that even my 5-year-old would have trouble understanding, and Avivah will follow them to the letter. For example, I can say, "Avivah, I left my phone upstairs on the table next to Daddy's side of the bed. Can you go get it for me? And can you bring a roll of toilet paper down, too? It's under the sink in the bathroom. Not Mommy's bathroom, the bathroom where you brush your teeth." No problem, she's on it. And in her garbled, broken English she can express her needs and ask questions. Man, can she ask questions...

But she can't answer them.

Tonight I sit on the edge of her bed and talk with her about our day. She had a blast playing with ponies this morning, and since she rarely plays with anything, this was quite a memorable experience. I think that might be an easy question to try.

"Avivah, you played for a long time this morning, didn't you? Do you remember what you played with?"

"Yah."

"What did you play with this morning?"

No answer. The relaxed expression that was on her face a moment ago is replaced with a frozen smile and wary eyes.

"Avivah, what kind of toy did you play with this morning?"

"Slushie." A stock answer. She got that one right a few days ago when I asked her what she'd had to drink at Aunt Amy's house, and ever since she's been inserting it after every question.

"No, not a slushie, silly girl. We don't play with slushies, we drink them." We both laugh, but hers is overly enthusiastic. She's wound pretty tight. I decide to try once more, very gently. "Avivah, remember this morning when you played with toys for a long time? What did you play with?"

At this point the bottom lip begins to quiver and her eyes dart around the room, looking everywhere but at my face. I back off, give her the answer and start talking about something else. Eventually I come back around to the slushie, since she obviously feels more confidence on that topic.

"Avivah, what did Daddy make you for dessert tonight?"

No response.

"Remember when Daddy made special drinks for you, Annabell, and Liam. You drank it with a straw. What was it?"

"Birthday." That makes no sense.

"What was the name of that drink? It was the same drink you had at Aunt Amy's house, remember? What do we call that drink?"

She covers her eyes with her hands and holds her breath, a surefire sign that she's trying not to cry. I hug her and answer the question myself, then tell her what a good girl she is and how much I love talking to her. Then I pray for her, finish tucking her in, and move on to the next little one.

But her fear haunts me. This experience is nothing new. We live with it every day, but for some reason it weighs on me more than usual tonight.

So I go back to her before leaving the room. I lean down for a hug, and then lay close looking into her eyes. (We've made progress here. A few months ago she wouldn't maintain eye contact with me at all. Now she'll actually hold my gaze for about 5 seconds before trying to kiss me, pat my cheeks, say "hi," or otherwise attempt to break the intimacy of the moment.) She's smiling, but it's still a camera smile, forced and stiff as she tries to cover up the lingering stress from my questions. For some reason, I say this: "It's okay, Avivah. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to be sad. Mommy loves you."

She says "okay" and tries to kiss me, her typical "let's talk about something else" effort. So I pull her close and put my cheek against hers. She laughs nervously and remains stiff as lumber. I whisper again, "Everything's okay, Avivah. Mommy loves you. You don't have to be scared. You don't have to be sad. It's okay." She relaxes a bit. I say it one more time, and this time she holds her breath. Then, just as I'm about to give her space, she chokes back a cry and wraps her tiny arms tightly around my neck. "It's okay," I whisper, and then I say it over and over again as she clings to me. When I finally let her go, her eyes are damp but she's managed to hold the tears at bay.

A 3-year-old who bottles up her emotions. How sad is that?

Something is broken. Speech and occupational therapy are in our near future, but that won't fix my little girl's insecure, confused, wary heart. Only Jesus can do that.

Yesterday at church we sang three songs back to back: "Our God," "He Alone Can Rescue," and "Never Once." I know God inspired that planning, because those are my adoption theme songs. Were, I should say, because yesterday God showed me that they're just as true now in this place of Avivah's brokenness as they were in the brokenness of waiting for her to come home. And they're true of the brokenness inside me - the dark, selfish part of my heart that often struggles to feel love and compassion when they so clearly belong.

Our God is greater. Our God is stronger. Our God is Healer, awesome in power. He alone can rescue. His grace goes deeper than our sin and His love goes further than our failures. And we never walk alone, because He is faithful. Every step we are breathing in His grace. Evermore we'll be breathing out His praise.

That is where I place my hope for Avivah, and for myself. That's why I can say tonight, "It's okay, Alison. You don't have to be afraid. You don't have to be sad. Daddy loves you. Everything's going to be alright."

A simple way to make a difference

Remember a few posts ago when I was talking about how small things can make such a big difference? Well, here's a way we can put that into practice!

For those who don't know, I've been running a local fundraiser since the beginning of June to benefit the Brannons' second adoption and the education of Peter Ndikumana. We've had great success locally, but until now the fundraiser has been limited by location. This morning I presented a plan to involve anyone who would like to contribute, regardless of where they live. Please visit my fundraiser blog, I Scream Cookies, to learn more!

keystrokes

This happens. Frequently.

It started a few weeks ago, when Avivah was having a particularly touch-hungry day and Mommy was up against a deadline. I couldn’t ignore her incessant pleas for a “guggle” (a.k.a. snuggle), so I did what I do way too often and tried to squeeze her needs into the empty place on my lap/hip/mattress/countertop while I continued working.

A few minutes later I realized her hands were on top of mine, resting so lightly I wasn’t sure exactly when she’d put them there. I almost shook them off, afraid she was about to start banging keys, but I sensed that gentle, internal whisper - just loud enough to be heard over the buzzing checklist in my overextended brain. It said, “Slow down and give her a minute. She’s not hurting anything.”

So I slowed down. I didn’t stop, mind you (heaven forbid). I kept typing, but at a slower speed, and I felt her fingers reaching for the rhythm. Tap for tap the pressure of her fingertips echoed mine as she attempted to mimic each keystroke.

Yes, I know. Prime fodder for some profound, introspective post about how behavior is caught rather than taught. I could go on (with angst) about my kids’ recent outbursts of temper and unabashed selfishness, which saddle me with shame because I know their sinful little hearts are just walking as Mommy walks. But God didn’t use this anecdote to further burden my self-condemning heart. Instead, He gave me this:

I want to ride on God’s hands. Where His fingers touch, move, wash, and mold, I want to be there, shadowing His motions. Loving as He loves. Forgiving as He forgives. Giving as He gave.

And you know what gets me? He doesn’t need my help any more than I need Avivah’s finger strength to help me type, but He allows me to come along anyway. More than that, He invites me, even longs for me to join him, to lay my weak little hands on top of His infinitely strong ones and do my feeble, uncoordinated best to mimic every stroke.

May I always be touch-hungry for God. His hands, His lap.

I can’t think of a better place to guggle. 

God is.

We had violent thunderstorms last night, so when I woke up early to a clear blue sky, I had to sneak out for a walk. Of course, I didn't make it halfway down the stairs before a sleepy-eyed little boy caught me and begged to come along. And who could say no to this face?

I'll confess, I was a tad begrudging about giving up my alone time, and I made sure I let God know about it. I'd intended to take a nice quiet prayer walk, to spend quality time with Him enjoying the freshness of His post-storm creation. Instead, out of love for my son, I would give up this rare chance for quiet communion and hope to carve out some worship time later in the day. 

And then, as we were nearing the end of our walk, I told Liam about Nana's tooth, which has been causing her so much pain this week. I told him the pain was really bad, bad enough to make her cry. His precious face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears as he blurted out, "I don't want Nana to be sad!" 

I asked if he wanted to pray for her, and he immediately nodded and flung his arms around my waist. So we stopped right there on the side of the street and prayed that God would give Nana relief from the pain, that her doctor would know what kind of medicine to give her and how to take care of the problem, and that she would rejoice that God had healed her. 

When we finished Liam wiped his face, smiled, and resumed walking. “Now my tears are washing away," he said happily, "because God is.”

I waited for more, and then asked, "God is what, buddy?” 

“God is washing my tears away. I can feel Him.”

Around the sudden catch in my throat I murmured, "That's awesome," but those words didn't begin to capture what his simple statement did to my heart. Shame at my pride and arrogance in thinking I needed time "alone" to really experience communion with God. Gratitude that in His grace He showed up anyway. Joy at my son's pure, unhindered faith.

God is, he'd said. I could have let the conversation end there, and it would have been complete. 

God on my front porch

We moved to a new neighborhood a few months ago, and now we have a front porch. I was so excited when we signed the contract, envisioning the lazy afternoons and peaceful summer evenings I would spend out there with a good book or a good friend. But then the move happened, and the renovations, and the unexpected malfunctions of our so-called “like new” appliances. Before I knew it, my furniture money was swallowed up, leaving me with a big old front porch and nothing to sit on but the concrete.

It took me until this week to get over my “what will the neighbors think?” funk and coerce my husband into moving our ratty, rusting deck swing out front. Sure, it looks cheesy and doesn’t do much for the curb appeal, but it helps me worship. There’s something about being outdoors, rocking gently, and staring at the night sky that inspires a soul to surrender gladly to its Creator.

Whatever works. That’s what I’m learning. Life is short, I’m distractible, and the truly important things are easy to miss. So if I find a habit that helps me focus and energizes me to pursue life in Christ, I’m going to feed it.

Rocking on my front porch swing. Sitting on a Rubbermaid stool in my shower until the hot water runs out. Reading the Bible on my phone when I’m stuck waiting someplace for five minutes. Going to bed when I’m tired, instead of when the clock says it's late enough. This is how I feed my soul.

How do you feed yours? I’m always looking for inspiration…

the day we were us

One year ago we were on a plane, in the final minutes of our descent to Dulles Airport. It was the end of a sleepless 17-hour plane ride that took us over the Sahara, across the Mediterranean, paused for a brief refueling in Rome, and continued its trek above Europe and the Atlantic to bring us, at last, home. We raced through customs, waited in agony as our bags were located, and then rushed with weary bodies and full hearts to the international arrivals exit where our family was waiting.

I crushed my poor son in a hug that had been building for three weeks, and I remember his little body feeling impossibly big in my arms. Annabell, too, looked a year older, and I was struck again at how much can change in such a short span of time. 

And then I was watching Tim clinging for dear life to his oldest daughter and realizing, "We made it. We're together. It's over."

Oh, the relief. I'll never forget it. Or the relaxation of driving on roads with lines, drinking that first post-trip glass of cold cow's milk, eating fresh produce without worrying about severe abdominal distress, walking into the public bathroom to find a toilet complete with seat and toilet paper rather than grip pads on the floor with a hole in between. 

So many luxuries to enjoy, yet there was also a sadness. Immediately, there was sadness and longing. I wanted to go back, even then. With our kids, of course. I couldn't stand the thought of ever being separated from them again. But even though our journey had just ended, I felt that somehow it had really just begun. Rwanda was in our hearts to stay. 

I don't know where those thoughts and feelings will lead down the road, but I do know that any path we take, we'll take together. Happy family day to us, McLennan party of 5.