.God Writes THE BEST Stories.

I wasn't going to write, because I have already been gushing all over facebook all day long. I am obnoxious like that. But I couldn't stay away from here either. The place where so much of this story has tumbled out of my heart. The space where I shared my hopes, dreams, and prayers with you all. I feel like shouting to the world this story, and what God did. This morning in a little courtroom in NY state, with some of the people who love us best, our family made history, and God did what we were told over and over and over could never happen. He did what we had been told for three years was impossible. He did what has never been done before in the United States. He pulled out all of the stops, and showed His power in a way that will leave me breathless for the rest of my life. Today Habi became our legal, official son through the miracle (and it truly was that) of adoption.

There are so many details that we have hidden away to protect our Habi. While what we have shared of this story is miraculous enough, all of the other little details added in, the huge hurdles that God had to break down to get us to this point, the number of doors He had to crash open that had been tightly shut, it is all more than I can even comprehend. I know that for the past three years we have stood inside of a move of God, and it was HUGE, supernatural, and mind-boggling. As I sit here in the quiet, my mind flipping through all of the events that have taken place to get here, it doesn't seem real. Everything that had to happen was so perfectly timed out and orchestrated by a loving, creative, Author. There is no way that we could have scripted this. I told Jim that it feels as if we are in a movie. And it does, because this just does not happen in real life. BUT it did happen!

The most powerful lesson that I have learned in all of this, and what I hope people see when they hear of this is that God writes the best stories. Shortly before we decided to adopt from Ethiopia, God began to work in our hearts and lives in a brand new way. A more real way, but a way in which I had to intentionally surrender the pen to Him, and allow Him to write my story. It wasn't easy for me to give up the sense of control that comforted me. None of it has been easy - not one paragraph, one page, one chapter. I haven't always done it right. I have faltered along the way, and I have questioned the story so many times. Sometimes I have not appreciated His plot line, and I have thought that I could have written it better. But God in His mercy allowed me just enough strength to not yank the pen back, and God kept scratching out this story over my life. While I do believe that if I had held on to the pen, my story would have been easier, I also know that it would not have been nearly as beautiful. I would have under-written my story. The beauty needed to be sharpened by the pain that can only come with surrender. He is strong in our weakness, and that is why I believe he chose my family for this story, because we are weak and ordinary.

Today is a huge 'ta da' life-changing moment in our story. A chapter closed with a big reveal - a movie-style ending. But what you need to know is that there has been a lot of middle to this story, and that today is not the whole story. What I want you to know is that God wants to write your story, too. Perhaps you have not yet handed Him the pen, and I want to encourage you to give it a try. Or perhaps you have, but you are inside the middle, and it is hard and lonely and painful, and it feels like it must be the end. But friend, it's not the end. He is still writing your story. He hasn't left you and closed the manuscript. The pen is still hovered over you, and He is still writing. The hard times, the moments when God is silent, the painful pages that seem to suck the life from you, they all have a purpose in your story. Don't read my ending of this chapter of my story and be discouraged thinking that God only writes stories like this for some people. The story God has for you is unique and beautiful and YOURS. Sometimes God is just writing further into the story than you have read. Be patient, wait with hope and expectation, because God writes the best stories. Trust the Author of your story. What He is writing is better than you can ever imagine.

Today this chapter in my story came to a beautiful close, but tomorrow a new chapter looms before me blank and white and ready for His pen. I am ready for the story to continue.

Here we are just after the judge declared the adoption to be final. This is our son Habtamu (his given name in Ethiopia which means "rich") Theo (which comes from the Greek word theophany which means "in the image of God" - my name Tiffany is also from this same Greek word) Byron (a family name that has been passed down through generations - all of our sons have this name).

.A Moment.

I am sitting here pecking out letters that race across my screen, and I know I should be packing instead. Because in just 17 (almost 16 now) days our family boards a plane and embarks on a new journey in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia serving street children. I am giddy about that and about all that God is inviting us into, but this moment, right now, I am even more giddy about the absolute miracle that is about to unfold tomorrow.

It was January 20, 2011, when I first laid eyes on him, and in the 1,335 days and 32,044 hours between that moment and tomorrow I have not stopped dreaming of and fighting for this very day.  It was a moment. Just one minuscule, unnoticeable to passers-by, moment, and my life and its path were forever changed. I have said it all here a thousand times a thousand different ways, but the story doesn't get old. How could it? Out of the almost 8 billion people that live in this world, out of all the millions of street boys - a woman born into luxury and comfort and a boy born into squalor and pain, an ocean apart, collided in what could only have been a God-ordained moment. And it really was only that - a moment. A few words exchanged, a few tears, a beaded bracelet and some granola bars. But that was all it took for our hearts to become entwined.

I have repeated it so many times, and it sounds crazy - even still - but I knew the moment our eyes held each others that God was up to something. I knew this child was destined to be my son, and I his mama. There were so many other boys that day. I had been tugged on, hugged, and begged from, but in that moment, I only had eyes for one.  I knew he was mine when his grubby, little hand thrust the beaded bracelet through our van window, because my heart could not contain the moment. I could not fathom another breath without knowing that this child was safe and secure, wanted and loved. Every single day since then, I have expended myself to be sure that he knows this with every fiber of his being. In that van that day, a new part of me was born, a fighter, a part of me that I did not know I possessed. Even then courage took root, and I turned to our friend, Job, and asked what was the likely hood of me adopting a street boy - that boy. He smiled at me, amused at my ignorance and naivety, and said "Oh, Tiffany, that is impossible."  And when I typically would have just backed-down, as was my nature, a fighter emerged. I nodded, and prayed, and dreamed big, and I ignored the impossible.

I ignored the impossible because I have a God who specializes in the impossible. If ever I doubt this, all I have to do is look back over these past three years and remember the way that God has smashed through the impossibles and obliterated the no's. God taught me how to stand up and to fight for justice in this journey, but the truth is that He didn't need me to do anything. He could have done this without me. All of the glory is His. The only thing I did was step into His invitation, and even in that I am pretty certain He dragged me in.

.

The day I met Habi.

Tomorrow, a miracle happens. Tomorrow, what so many people told us was impossible happens. Tomorrow that moment - the one that took place on the dusty street of Addis, comes full-circle. Tomorrow, what we were told would never happen is happening, our family stands before a judge, and my sweet, precious boy, the one that is so connected to my heart in a way that could only be supernatural, becomes my legal SON. 

Our God still preforms miracles, He is the exact same God that made the sun stand still for Joshua, and He still moves mountains to do the impossible. Tomorrow He is moving that mountain for us. This has not been an easy journey, for anyone involved. It has not been without tears and fear and heart-ache, but every single step along the way has been worth it. I would do it all over again in a heart beat.

In just a moment that boy will become mine.

[If you are new here, and don't know this story, click here.]

.From the Beginning.

I wanted a place to easily access the story from the beginning with our Habi. This is mostly for me, but I also know that I have gained a few new readers who are interested. So here are the posts, that I could quickly locate, in order from the beginning.

My Answered Prayer

I Dreamed of Africa

Always On My Mind

God is Up to Something

The {other} Boy

Our Day with Habi

My Habtamu

I Want to Know

My Heart

Day 17 of 7

A Home for Habi

Days 19 & 20 of 7

Day 21 of 7

Day 22 of 7

Day 25 of 7

Days 29 & 30 of 7

So Much to Do

Abundantly More

Habi took up a lot of space on my blog the last year and a half, and even more space in my heart and mind. I am so, so thankful for his precious life and that I was chosen to be his mom!

.Abundantly More.

I'm at a loss for words, and I am completely okay with that. It's hard to explain being inside a move of God. It's supernatural, and glorious, and ridiculous, and impossible.

But the impossible happened for us, and Habi, my sweet, sought-after, prayed for, son, is safely tucked into our family - in our HOME! God blessed us with that student visa. I don't need an adoption decree from a court, never did, to know that Habi is forever and always fully my SON.

And he is home. Safe.

There are so many details that I want to share. Little ones like how as our plane caught the first sight of Addis I burst into tears and ugly sobs and probably scared my seat buddy Tracy to death. To be that close to that city that held my son, the city that gave me two of my sons, again is beyond explanation. It took the breath right out of me. Details like how my heart thumped out of my chest as I waited to get my first glimpse of Habi in a year and a half. And how shocked I was to see how healthy and grown-up he looked - so, so different from the scared, hungry little boy that stole my heart. I want to tell you how his face broke out in the widest grin and that smile, that one that could stop the world in its tracks, twisted my heart again when he saw us, and then how he dipped his head and averted his eyes and allowed shyness and emotion to take over. I want to tell you what it was like to look over in the van and to see my fifteen year old's head buried in the lap of his daddy, a daddy whose shoulders shook with happy sobs.

I want to tell you what it was like to worship side-by-side our son for the first time, or what it was like to walk the streets he called home with him. I want to tell you about his laugh and how it fills up a house, and how loud and funny he can be right on the heals of quiet, intuitive, wisdom. Or how his smile lights up a room and how clueless he is to his charm and charisma. I want to write about the visa appointment and our apprehension - about the miracle that really took place that day because of prayers covering us across the ocean - and how close we thought we were to him being denied the visa. Or how after hearing the beautiful words "Habtamu, I am granting you a visa", we clung to each other and sobbed to the bewilderment and amusement of the security guards. Or how we celebrated with Kaldi's coffee and then later cake with our team, and how the whole day the three of us walked around on clouds and in disbelief that this was really happening.

I cannot describe it all, though, there is too much, and too much is sacred. It is ours. The whispered conversations of a past that I cannot pretend to ever empathize with. The salty mingled tears. The rejoicing and heart-exploding gratitude to the God that orchestrated this story from the beginning of time. The knowledge that God supernaturally knit us together as a family. There is just so much. So much grace. So much goodness. Abundantly more than I ever dreamed.

God moved mountains, and I believe it was largely a result of your prayers.



Tonight I am marveling that I sit here concerned for my teenage boy with very normal concerns - like how will he do in school, will he make friends, and how can I parent him the way that God wants me to? Such a change from a few short months ago when my concerns were, will Habi survive another night on the street? Where is he going to find his next meal? How do we keep him in a pair of decent shoes without them getting stolen right off his feet while he sleeps? How do we help him if he gets very sick?

Oh, the weight that has been lifted off of my heart!

God has written a story over me so abundantly more beautiful than anything I could have dreamed or imagined.

Habi is home. HOME. Our family is blessedly whole!



(Thank you JO for our first family of 6 photo!)

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us. Ephesians 3:20

My heart pounded as we climbed the three flights of stairs to the suite we had been staying in. Some of the pounding was from the elevation and climbing the stairs with a baby riding me in a baby sling, but most of it was nerves I realized as I heard his plastic sandals slap the concrete stairs as he followed me.

Were we foolish to invite this stranger of a boy right off of the streets into our hearts, into our suite?

All that repeatedly echoed through my mind, though, was the thought that this is what Jesus would do and did.

I unlocked the door. Jim was still downstairs talking at the front desk, explaining the situation at hand. He tentatively followed me in, eyes round and wide. I knew from the look on his face that he had never lived anywhere so plush, and I felt a twinge of shame. Our eyes met, and he bit his bottom lip - shy, unsure, excited. Then his eyes settled on the light switch, and his face registered curiosity. He looked to me almost as if asking permission to touch it, my face broke out in a wide grin, reassuring his curiosity. He gingerly reached out and pushed the light switch making the lights come to life in the entryway. His face registered glee, and he took off exploring every nook and cranny.

He started in the kitchen - sliding the window back and forth, open and shut. He sat on the ledge, and my heart raced in that overprotective Mama Bear way, Oh, please do not fall out of the window. His eyes then landed on the sink in the kitchen and he manipulated the faucet until the water ran, and he looked at me astonished and broke out in laughter, and my laughter melted into his. I wondered if this was his first encounter with running water. What a mystery it seemed to be to him. He ran his hands under the streaming water over and over. When he was tired of that the stove top beckoned to him, and he turned it on and off, on and off. My heart panicked a bit, and I purposed to tell Jim to talk with him about not touching the stove after we left. Then the microwave was opened and closed, and the refrigerator brought him so much delight. He continually placed his hand inside perplexed over the coolness he felt. My cheeks hurt from smiling, and I quickly grabbed one of the slender glass bottles filled with coke, used the bottle opener to pop the cap off, and handed the cool bottle to him. His smile lit up his beautiful face, and he took a swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his dirty hand.

He continued exploring, flushing the toilet in the bathroom, playing in the bathroom sink. Looking at himself in the mirror and smiling so big with his perfect, white teeth, testing out the couch, the arm chairs, the bed. Marveling at our laptop and the blow dryer that lay beside it. His eyes were hungry to understand everything, and I was living in the moment of wonder right along with him. After several moments I gently handed him his new backpack stuffed with clothing and then a bar of soap. I showed him the shower and how to work it, gave him a towel and shut the bathroom door.

I unhooked Jamesy from the baby sling and kissed his curly head as the tears fell over my cheeks warm and stinging. Moment by moment throughout the past five or so hours I was falling more and more in love with this boy. A little boy from the streets with a history of cruel sadness that no child should ever have to shoulder.

The bathroom door opened and he emerged clean and grinning in his new clothes. I think he put every article of new clothing that we had given him on. He looked older but softer. He pulled up his shirt and showed me a scab on his hip that had opened and looked sore. He told me he got it playing soccer. He seemed proud of his wound, as I tenderly and carefully (not knowing his history and the diseases his little body might hold) bandaged his scab. Tears pricked my eyes wondering when the last time was someone had taken care of him. It didn't seem right that this boy was in charge of himself - alone.

The sneakers we brought were too big, but my running shoes fit him perfectly. He didn't mind that they were pink. I tied them for him, and he grinned from ear to ear so proud to be rid of his dirty, broken plastic sandals. I wondered what it must feel like to be wearing socks and shoes after so long in ill-fitting sandals. How much I take for granted I thought.

Jim came in the door soon after. I was quick to tell him everything and about the stove. Jim swiftly unplugged the stove and took care of my worries. Then they went outside to play soccer, while I snuggled Jamesy for a bit and thought over all that had occurred that day. I marveled that God had orchestrated such a divine meeting. That we would once again find this boy and be given the gift of a day together - a day brimming full with memories, and that God would allow us a way to get him off the street and care for him. It was good, so good, and so God. But it wasn't enough. We could give him the world, and it still would not be enough, for all he truly desired and needed was the one thing we could not give him, and the one basic thing every child deserves - family. My heart split in two. We were getting on an airplane that night, so excited to start our new life with Jamesy, but my heart was breaking at all we were leaving behind and who we were leaving behind. Why would God give us this day with this boy, and then ask us to walk away?

The hours melted into one another. We took photographs and videos and shared photos from the laptop of our family. He played with the mp3 player we had given him and every other electronic gadget that we had brought. We had dinner in the dining room - tibs and injera. He grew quieter and there was something in his dark eyes that was unreadable - fear, loneliness, confusion? Maybe all three. We were to leave for the airport at 10 PM. We tucked Jamesy in to sleep for a few hours, and we quickly packed up our belongings. He would watch us, and I wondered what he was thinking. Soon his eyes grew heavy with sleepiness. We had learned that he normally slept during the day for safety reasons, so no doubt he was exhausted from spending the day awake with us. I helped him to lay down on the cot that was brought up for him, and kissed his cheek. I whispered to him that we would wake him before we left.

I watched him try to sleep. He couldn't lay down all of the way. He slumped against the wall, half sitting up and half laying down, his body tense and on guard. I realized this was how he slept on the street. He twitched and constantly awoke scanning the room, and he whimpered in his sleep. Mumbling and crying. My heart broke again as I watched him. I am not sure when I had felt such pain for another person. Tears streamed down my face, and I looked at Jim and saw pain mirrored on his face as well. I quickly went over sat on the floor and grabbed the boy's hand. He curled his head onto my shoulder and sobbed. I stroked his head and his hand as he trembled. This wasn't right, I thought, as I envisioned my other children safely tucked into their beds sleeping soundly and peacefully. What exactly had this sweet boy endured? I am not sure how long I sat with him crying my own hot tears, broken for this boy. My back finally screamed for me to get up, and I did.

It wasn't long before it was time to do what I had dreaded all day long - say goodbye. I was relieved to not have to leave him on the street, but this was still unbearably hard. We woke him, and I told him that he could sleep in the Queen size bed and watch the TV in the master bedroom. He smiled, but this time it didn't reach his eyes. He sat on the bed and flipped on to a movie that made me flinch, but he was mesmerized. Jim turned the TV off for a moment and pulled him to his feet. I was once again wearing Jamesy, who was sound a sleep in a front pack on my chest. We stood in the middle of that room and football huddled. For a moment the clock stopped, and I memorized the way it felt to be together, to have this teenage boy's arm around me and my husband's arm around me. The tears flowed, and I choked on sobs, and then Jim began to pray. I have no idea what he prayed. My memory fails me, and perhaps even at the time I was too distraught to really listen. I felt the boy quiver. He knew the day was ending, and that we were leaving with no certainty of when we would be back. After Jim said amen, I turned to the boy and hugged him fiercely.

I love you, Mom. He whispered - as broken as I have ever seen another human.

I love you, too.

Then my heart was pierced with horrific pain as I watched Jim envelope the boy in his arms. They rocked back and forth crying. Jim whispered to him over and over that he loved him and that we would be back someday. He promised that all of his needs would be met, and that he would be safe and well fed. And as long as I live I will never forget the look of sheer pain that was evident on the boy's face. It was palpable, and I could not swallow past the burning lump in my throat. Quickly I said one last goodbye and left the room.

And that was it. It was over. And that day has changed the course of my life forever. I still do not how it will all end, but I cannot ever be the same again. I cannot lay my head on my pillow, or wake up in the morning, or look at my brown-eyed boy here in my home and not remember who we left behind.

I hesitated to share any of this, because it still hurts, and it feels really, really vulnerable and private. I feel led to share, though, and I do not want the memory to fade. I want to remember what God gave us that day, and I want to remind myself that these faces on the street and in the orphanages are real people. People that God created and loved enough to send His Son to die for them.

People had told us it is foolish to pursue a teenage boy off of the streets of Ethiopia, that we cannot understand the ramifications it will have on our family.

It's true that we cannot.

But I cannot live with the ramifications of doing nothing.

I think Jesus would pursue the boy.

And simply because of this knowledge - so will we.

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Matthew 25:40

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.The {other} Boy.

(Go here to read what I posted on facebook last week.)

I come here tentatively, unsure of what words should be written and what ones should be hidden - some parts are too sacred, some parts are not mine to share, and in all of it I come praying that nothing I say exalts Jim or myself. None of this could have come about without Jesus in us. Left alone to ourselves we do not have the capacity for any of this. I will never, ever forget the day that God orchestrated for us to experience with Habtamu. I could hardly sleep the night before our scheduled lunch outing. I was excited and nervous not knowing what to expect.



He was waiting for us as soon as we got out of the van - biting his bottom lip and blinking his heavily lashed eyes in what I soon would learn was an adorable nervous habit. His arms squeezed me tight and I could practically feel the eagerness coursing through his veins. Habtamu took us around to the best shops on his street. Jim put a protective arm around him every time we entered a shop, as beggars and street children are not permitted inside. My heart melted as I watched the two weave in and out of the sea of brown faces while I stroked my sleeping Jamesy who was curled onto my chest.



We walked and talked and learned that Habtamu believed himself to be fourteen. My heart sank as fourteen is the age when children become unadoptable in Ethiopia. This sweet boy, who was still so much a child, walked confidently down the street he called home. He was so protective of me and was careful not to take us to the dangerous parts of the street. He told us that bad men were there and that they knocked the teeth out of the children who entered that section. I shuddered at the thought and tears pricked my eyes at this world Habtamu was living in so foreign from my own, cozy, safe childhood. (Later Jim remarked how he had seen masks being sold in the shops with human teeth in them and speculated that these were what the teeth were being harvested for.)



When we were in our van headed for lunch (Habtamu requested pizza), Habtamu asked to hold Jamesy. My eyes welled with tears as I marveled at the tenderness from a fourteen year old boy for an infant. He was a natural with him, and Jamesy seemed equally comfortable and equally smitten. Habtamu met my eyes with Jamesy secure in his arms. He is my brother. He said. Then he took off the rubber, Ethiopian bracelet that his wrist wore and handed it to me to give to Jamesy when he is grown to remind him of his Ethiopian brother. God, what are you trying to do to me - to tell me? I blinked back burning tears.

The afternoon continued on in a swirl of sweet memories that I will carry to the grave with me. Of teaching Habtamu to use a straw. Of giving him his first taste of iced-coffee - which was too cold for his shocked tastebuds! Of watching him interact with Jamesy and illicit belly laughs that we had yet to receive. Of teaching him how to use my camera and delighting in what he captured through the lens. Of touring the coffee factory because we could not bare to take him back to the street yet. And what stands out the most is the way he clung to us, the way his eyes danced and his shoulders squared when he told anybody and everybody we encountered that we were his family. That he was finally happy because he had a mom, a dad, and a brother. As we sat in the coffee factory waiting for our beans to be bagged my stomach turned with the realizing that shortly our time with Habtamu would be over. How would we just drive back to his street and drop him off? As my mind reeled and my heart bruised Jim began to speak with a man that had become our friend in Ethiopia. I still have no idea how it all came to be, but at the end of the conversation, our contact, Jim and I all had tears threatening to spill through our lashes and a plan devised. A plan that got Habtamu off of the streets that night. A plan where we could financially support Habtamu monthly and meet his needs for food, clothing, shelter, and education, and our sweet friend would be our go-between - our hands and feet in Ethiopia.

I will never forget the look on Habtamu's face when our friend spoke to him in Amharic and told him of our plan to care for him from afar - the way he melted into us and squeezed my hand fighting back the tears. What a brave boy, my Habtamu is, we pulled him from all he had known for the past four years, and now he is living alone as a 14 year old boy - practically unheard of here in the United States. We were flying home that night, and we got permission from the place we had stayed to allow Habtamu to stay in our room with no extra charge. (The next day our friend found him a place, purchased a mattress and gave him money for food.)

He showered and changed into his new clothes and walked around in awe of the electricity, the running water, the stove, the refrigerator, and I was struck with how much I take for granted. We enjoyed several more hours getting to know this boy who was burrowing deeper and deeper into our hearts. Jim played soccer with him in the court yard, we gave him the clothes and food we had brought. Jim emptied his suitcase of all of the clothes he was not wearing home and gave them to Habtamu. We left him with blankets and bandaids and water, with my running shoes (which I haphazardly had thrown in our suitcase at the last minute) because the sneakers we brought were too big - he wears the same size as I. We showed him pictures of our house - of our children. I talked about Jesus and left him a Bible. I rubbed his back and held his hand - noticing that he bites his nails - as he grew increasingly sad with our impending departure. We took turns hugging him as tears made rivers on all of our cheeks. Before leaving we football huddled and Jim prayed. My memory is burned with the image of Habtamu clinging to my husband and calling him dad. He's 14 years old. And yes, we are able to provide for him and meet some very real needs that he had. But the one thing that he is truly longing for is a family. Ironically enough the very thing many 14 year olds here in America take for granted. I believe if Jesus was right here He would tell us to stand up and fight for Habtamu. It's not even a question whether or not we should - especially when I stand back and see all of the details that were sovereignly and divinely orchestrated in order for us to cross paths with Habtamu on both trips. So now with one brown-eyed boy safely tucked next to our two blue-eyed babes we fight with all of our hearts for the other boy. Because if we don't - who will?

.Rich.

I have cut and pasted this from a facebook note that I wrote last week while in Ethiopia. He was there. (To start at the beginning read here.)

I was told that he had asked about me every time our guide was on that street. As our van bumped along the familar road I wasn't sure if I would find him, and I wasn't sure if my heart could take not finding him.

We exited the van, and my eyes scanned every brown face there. A boy ran up to me excitedly, and I recognized him from our last trip. He motioned for me to wait. Then moments later there he was - in front of me - just as I had dreamed and prayed over and over. His smile was shy but excited- as was mine.

I've thought of you and prayed for you everyday. I told him.

He grinned and grabbed my hand and fingered the beaded bracelet wrapped around my wrist. The one he had gifted me with two months before. Our language barrier was great, but we communicated a thousand words with our eyes until in broken English - in that beautiful melodic lilt that was burned into my memory- he spoke to me.

My mother died. He told me as if he knew I had been searching for his story.

I am so sorry. I whispered.

It is alright. He smiled as his brown eyes grew soft.

Because you are my mother.

Then he wrapped his arms around me, and on that dusty street in Addis our worlds once again collided and my world was righted and even seemed to stop for a moment. I had one of my brown eyed boys snug against my chest and the other with his arms around me. It was more than I had ever dared hope, dream, or pray.

His name is Habtamu (Hob-tom-oo), and in English it is translated Rich. Tomorrow at 11:30 our guide, Job, the one who had been repeatedly asked about me by Habtamu, arranged for us to pick my boy up and take him to lunch. At lunch I will be able to give him the care package that I brought for him. I am still unsure as to why God has laid Habtamu on my heart, and why there is such a connection between us. I know it is of God, though, and I am eagerly waiting the end of this story.

We got a glimmer of hope about adopting him today. Do I dare hope? No matter the outcome I feel like one of the richest women in the world tonight. Before we left his street, we embraced once more.

I love you. He whispered to me.

My throat grew hot and thick with the lump that I tried to speak around.

And I love you. I sobbed. I squeezed his hand before walking away promising him that I would be back tomorrow. And if tomorrow is all we ever have, I will exclaim my thanks to God, because truly He has given me riches beyond anything this world could ever dare to offer. So until tomorrow....I give thanks for today.

.The Lord Has Done Great Things.

We are home! So much to share - so many answered prayers. But for right now I am savoring a moment cherished.

.My Answered Prayer.

I almost wish God had not answered my prayer. The one I prayed asking Him to shatter my heart. I guess I foolishly thought there was not much left to shatter. I thought that I was already pretty broken over orphans and poverty.

But I was wrong.

God answered my prayers today, and I didn’t expect the pain. I was so looking forward to today. We anticipated our morning out with the other families shopping for gifts and memories to give and tuck into our home – our lives. I had read about shopping. I had planned our list. I knew about the beggars, and the street children surrounding the shopping strip. I was informed of all of the opinions, from not looking the people in the eye, not giving out treats or money, to just ignoring them.

But how can one ignore pain when it stands before you wrapped in human flesh? I thought I had already gotten it. I had read the statistics, and cried thousands of tears, but I did not truly get it until I met him.

In Ethiopia, the orphanages are overflowing. (This is not what Jamesy is in. He is in a transitional home, getting loving care. He did come from an orphanage prior, however.) Because the orphanages are filled to the brim, children get kicked out onto the streets at age fourteen. At this time they officially become “unadoptable”, and are destined to a life of living hell.

Sister, Sister. His tender voice called.

I tried to ignore the first few times, and then my eyes met his. Brown eyes swallowing his face in pain.

You from America? He asked in in his beautiful accent, rolling his r’s off of his tongue.

Yes, I answered timidly.

I so hungry. His eyes pierced my heart.

My bags were stuffed with snacks just for this, but I knew it would not be safe to hand it out at that moment less we be mobbed with people. I didn’t know what to say, so I averted my eyes.

Will you be my Mama? Will you bring me to America? He asked so gently, so softly, so earnestly.

My throat closed as I, for the first time truly witnessed, an orphan. A beautiful child with no hope of a family, a life of misery laid before him. He followed me the entire time we shopped. Once crossing the street with some other boys, but never taking his eyes from me.

Eventually we returned to the van, and I beckoned to him from across the street through my gaping window. I handed him fistfuls of goodies – granola bars, trail mix, fruit snacks. He took them eagerly, looked deep inside of me and whispered, Thank you Sister. God Bless.

Then reaching into his worn, dirty pocket, he came out clutching a beaded bracelet.

This is for you Sister.

He grinned from ear to ear, as if he were giving me his most cherished possession. And I fear he might have been.

My heart broke in two at that moment as we pulled away from this boy, this child, destined for a life of misery on the cruel streets of Addis. As I run my fingers over the beads, our worlds collide, and the incomprehensible numbers - the statistics that I have read over and over, melt into a boy, with a soft voice that rolls his r’s, and ruined this woman.