I read the words of the text and my heart drops into my stomach.

She’s keeping him.

No. No. No. I long to run to my friend whose world just tilted in on itself but she’s in another city and I’m at a freaking ballet. My other friend who teaches me so much about Jesus immediately (but figuratively) falls to her knees in prayer. And I grasp her hand, needing something to hold onto.

How can this happen? Not again. And I breathe in and out, praying for strength and love for the days of mourning to come. I send inadequate words via text hoping they offer some comfort and love. That Jesus infuses them with some supernatural ability to speak more into her heart than what is said on that insignificant, tiny screen.

I oscillate the next day between praying and going about daily life. I offer to come over, but also know that space and mourning is sometimes done alone. I pray for her God and her husband, also shattered, to comfort her soul. Because this darkness, this loss is shattering.

The next morning I orchestrate to bring lunch. I throw my hair up and brush my teeth. But today is a day of mourning and sackcloth and ashes so I skip the makeup and usual bold accessories. I feed the kids and kiss my husband for working from home so that I can go and sit and mourn alongside and in the middle with her.

Chocolate shakes. Fries. Burgers. The food of comfort. Something meaningless but an offering. Balancing it all in my arms I knock on the never locked but this time locked door. Dogs are wrestled to the ground for jumping on me as I walked in. And then after my burden is lifted I take the other into my arms. Holding her close, joining into this with her.

We don’t really talk about it. I don’t pry and ask questions. I just sit. I’m just there. Hours pass. She naps. I pull up the newest JLA book and read. But I am there. I do not leave. As the sun passes through the skies I sit, eat, drink coffee, read, watch an episode of Dr. Who and paint my fingernails. Infusing prayer, normalcy and with-ness throughout this day. A dark day. A day of fasting, sackcloth, and ashes.


Sometimes I hate adoption.

I hate the uncertainty.

I hate the sadness.

I hate that parents are killed and leave behind children.

I hate that some mothers are made mothers too young and are unable to care for their children.

I hate that some people are assholes and shouldn’t have had children.

Adoption is never pretty. It came out of death, disease, and darkness. It exists as a very necessary thing in a very evil world.

My sweet girl lost her mother and her sister because of disease. We wouldn’t have her if they hadn’t died. How fucked up is that? Because of death my family grew.

It is beautiful and amazing and there is so much joy. But there is so much darkness too. There is so much heartache.

My girl is traumatized.

My friend is broken today because the birth mom changed her mind.

We will never escape this reality.

Shattered hearts. Shattered souls. Brokenness.

But I cling to my Jesus who promises to make all things new. I pray out of this darkness he can speak forth light. So I sit and mourn. My heart is heavy and I may have yelled at God.

And I breathe in and out. Sharing breath with my friend. Breaking bread with her. And nudging her to walk in the light, so that she has the reminder that she is never alone. Never forgotten. Never forsaken. Sitting in this mourning as long as it takes, with her until strength once again infuses her breath and her body–until she can find the words to write that will bring healing to her soul.

9 Comments on for Elora

  1. Lovely and broken – we walk with you Elora. Hearts and tears connect with yours. May the love and embrace of community hold you up just like Sarah was for you. Love and love!

  2. What a great friend you are. I appreciate you sharing how to just be there for someone in midst of mourning.



  3. We are blessed to be a blessing. Sometimes we need the blessing. Sometimes we are the Blesser. My prayers join yours for Elora and the child.

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