Mama Bear

Two days ago we received some new information about our little Rose.  It was actually old information, but new to us.  We went from being elated to have these new glimpses into her past, to being swallowed up by a wave of intense fear.  When we first inquired about Rose, we were immediately told that she was severely delayed, way behind other children with Down Syndrome of the same age.  We were told that she would never be one of those children that comes home and catches up to her peers.  I heard those discouraging words, and sat with them in the quiet of my heart.  I heard whispers of autism in the depths of my soul.  I asked God if He truly had chosen us to be her family, because autism has been one of my biggest fears as a parent.  I will never forget breathing a sigh of relief when our first son turned two, and then four, and finally coming out of the “danger zone” when many children are first diagnosed with autism.  It’s been this deep-seated fear for so long, and I’ve always thought that I could handle anything except that.  So, when I started hearing those internal whispers of autism with Rose, I felt an indescribable sense of panic and fear.  But we said yes amidst those concerns.  We knew without a shadow of any doubt that God was asking us to trust Him, and to say yes to even “the least of these.”

In May, we received an update from China, with one short little video of Rose.  In the video, she rolled over from her back to her tummy (a new accomplishment at 27 months old), she reached for and interacted with a toy, and for the briefest of seconds she smiled.  I cried when I saw that little tiny smile.  It was like a heavy weight was lifted off my chest, and I knew that no matter what, I could handle whatever needs she might have.  I saw a tiny little glimpse of joy living within her, and that was all that mattered.

And then, two nights ago, we received some old videos of Rose.  They are much longer than any of the newer ones we have.  I was first struck by how unbelievably precious she was.  Oh my goodness, she was such a CUTE little baby!!  But then I was struck by how lifeless her little eyes looked.  They are like two beautiful brown wells of deep, deep loss.  Like her little spirit is in there somewhere, but it’s lost in some kind of murky darkness.  It’s hard to find the right words.  It’s just like she is lost.  She doesn’t respond to her nannies as they try to call her name, get her attention, play with her, give her toys, love on her.  They do care for her, you can see it.  But she just looks empty.  Those whispers of autism came back, much louder than before.  And the wave of fear became impossible to overcome.  All I could do was ask God, “What do we do?”  We can handle anything.  Anything but this.  Not this.

I had heard other women talk about the intense grief they felt when they were told their unborn baby would have Down Syndrome.  They would say that they grieved for the child they thought they were going to have, the life that child would lead, the milestones they would reach.  It was hard for me to completely understand their grief, because I know that Down Syndrome is not a death sentence.  I see that extra chromosome as an extra measure of God's mysterious but wonderful blessings.  So to me, their diagnosis just meant that their child would be different than what they had originally thought…not less, or worse.  Two nights ago I felt their grief.  I now know their pain.  I get it.  Seeing how incredibly “different” Rose is from other children her age, even those with Down Syndrome, shook me to my core.  She isn’t the happy, bubbly, playful little girl that some of her peers are.  She isn’t just developmentally slow.  She isn't just cognitively delayed.  It’s more than that.  Much more.

After sitting with the grief, the loss, the pain, and the overwhelming fear of not being enough for Rose, I was finally able to utter those words to God, “What do we do?”  And He answered.  Immediately.  Indisputably.  He whispered into my spirit, “You go get her, Mama.  You love her with the fierceness that only a mother can.  She’s yours, and you are hers.  She needs you, and you need her.  She is beautifully and wonderfully made by Me.  Go get her.”  With those words, the Mama Bear inside of me raised its head and roared so loudly I wouldn’t be able to silence it if I tried.    I felt more in love with her than ever before; more determined to get to her as quickly as possible; more convinced that she is ours and we are hers than I ever imagined.  The fear and sadness are still there, but they are tempered by God’s Love and Grace.  My heart is broken by what she has endured for two and a half years, the impact that it has had on her, the loss of what could have been.  But that is part of the story that God is writing.  It’s all part of His greater plan.  And to Him be all the glory.

No, we don’t know if Rose has autism.  It’s just a suspicion.  We won’t know anything until we have her home, get through the initial transition, and start with medical and therapeutic assessments.  Even then it will likely take quite a long time to see the real Rose emerge...to see Our Rose In Bloom.  Either way, she is beautiful, made in her Father's image, crafted by His hands.

So, we move forward, one foot in front of the other, with the tenacity of a mighty Mama Bear.

We ask you all to pray for Rose in the coming months--that her nannies would continue to care for her to the best of their ability, and show her compassion despite her challenges.  That she would know Love, before she knows the love of a mother and father.  That she would find Joy, before she experiences the joy of a family.  That she would have Peace, before she knows the peace and security of a safe and loving home.  And that God would prepare us in any and every way necessary to be her Mama and Daddy.

 

With much love,

Ashley