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Monday, February 28, 2011


Abigail Kaitlyn King                     Alena Kaitlyn King
Waiting.  Excited.  Anxious.  Breathe.  Bright white lights. My legs gone. Blue curtain up. Keep breathing. Cameron's eyes. Look deep.  Minutes. Hold my breath... cries! And cries again!  They are breathing! Joy! Relief! Happy tears. Sweet kisses. Arms full...

Many people. 
Many prayers.
Many, many thanks.

Born February 22, 2011
6 lb 0 oz                    4 lb 13 oz

Abby & Alena

Monday, February 14, 2011

Railroad Tracks

Joy and grief are opposites.  Like oil and water they do not mix... do they?  How can they coexist?  I wrote  almost a year ago that I felt there was hanging over us either a great joy or a great sorrow concerning a possible adoption we were holding our breath about.  I always pictured that life was a series of ups and downs- victorious mountain top experiences tempered by valleys of striving and disappointment.  I think now that Rick Warren is right.  Life is more like a railroad track made with two rails hammered together.  One side of the track is joy and victory, while the other rail is suffering and disappointment.  The two opposites run parallel and are connected at all times throughout our lives on earth.

And that is where I sit as February 22, 20011, c-section day, draws closer- looking down the rail road tracks.

Will I laugh or cry or do both at the same time?  We have waited sooo long for these little ones.  They have been so badly wanted and deeply prayed for over the years.  The agony of awaiting their appearance on the stage of our lives is another story in itself.  I sent out a letter to family and friends last January to pray with us as we pursued adoption and continued infertility treatments.  I wrote. "We feel strongly that the Lord is not finished growing our family...Makiah prays nightly for the Lord to send her a brother and sister...We are beginning 2010 with great expectation that the Lord’s unique plan for our family will unfold as we take each little step with Him."

I believed the joy we had desperately longed for would come in 2010- somehow- but I could never have foreseen in a million years this devastating sorrow being thrust on us as well.  I don't attribute it to God... don't misunderstand me.  I think he never planned for us to have a rail of sorrow hammered into all of our tracks, and one day the master engineer will implement a new design.

A prayer...Dear Lord, as I start this journey through Ruth, I find myself in a precarious place.  I feel like Ruth must have felt returning with Naomi- depending on a thread of hope, disappointed with the past, unsatisfied with the present, uncertain of the future.  I need more than ever to know that the story ends well.  It did for Ruth, but of course she didn't know that.  Help me to put one foot in front of the other and not lose heart when I am gleaning the scraps from someone else's fields.  Help me to have the determined cry in my heart- "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay."   Help me to throw myself on your mercy and to rest only at the feet of Jesus.  Thank you that your plan for me is good and your love for me is perfect.  Press hope into my heart!  Expecting, Rachel"

I wrote this last summer about expanding our family as I started a bible study on Ruth and her loss, love, and legacy.  I did not know how timely it was.  Now I can scarcely utter these words.  The story did not end well for my sweet Makiah.  Maybe the prayers of my past will cover me now as I sit peering down this foggy railroad track.

Our 2010 Famliy Photos for Adoption Efforts... 

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


I have been dreaming about Makiah this week.  I keep her close to me wherever we go.  I look at her pretty little hands and hold them tight. I tell her to stay right beside Mommy.  In some dreams the ominous tornadoes are coming... swirling towards us with rage.  I cover her up, and we hunker down together until they have past.   But the rumbling sky seems to send them in endless waves.  Even when there are no tornadoes and we are just living life, it is never safe.  No matter what I do or how closely I hold her, she inevitably vanishes.  Occasionally, I wake up before she disappears.  I suppose this is merciful, but maybe not.  The dream and the reality are the same. 

We are so quick to tell people that things will be okay.  One day in heaven they will be, but I will forever use those words cautiously here on this earth.  Do we really know that or is it easier to say things will be fine rather than spend the emotional energy to enter into their pain if things are not?  Do we just as readily mourn with those who are weeping and struggling?  Are we unable to "see" the pain of others until we ourselves experience great pain as well?  I am guilty as charged.  It takes great courage to ask a hurting person about their wounds (of course I mean only in the context of well established relationships).  It takes time and energy to cry with them.   Mostly it requires us to be vulnerable with our own emotions and questions.  If we don't shut them off, the pain of others will peel back the busy, hard layers of our own feelings.  The inability to answer their deep questions... or our own... will surface.  There in rawness is where we are utterly human and frail.  That is the place where we "mourn with those who mourn."  That takes courage.

There is more I thought to say about this, but then I read my cousin's blog.  I decided I could not write the rest as well as she did.  The only word I could think of was "Ditto."  As I type, precious Sararjoy Makiah, who left China to join her new family three weeks ago, is undergoing an eight hour open heart surgery.  We love.  We pray. We hope. 

Friday, February 4, 2011


I like things to be neat and tidy.  I like my spice drawer to be in alphabetical order.  My husband says I am a "pocket perfectionist," meaning I have certain pockets of life that I like to keep just so.  I like to have things figured out and to have myself together.  I am a rule follower.  I can't help but look at situations that turned out badly and try to extract a 'rule' I can follow to prevent it from happening again.  There is no rule that I can come up with for this.  I cannot figure it out.

I am a mess.  My babies are coming and I am flailing in a sea of grief.  My nursery is ready, but how can I be?  I thought at the beginning of this terrible journey that I had to have all this "worked through" before February so I could be a good mommy.  Yes, I go to counseling, but I laugh now at the notion that I could  "fix" me.  No one can.  A friend recently said to me that after Jacob wrestled with God, his walk was permanently affected.  He always had a limp after that.  So I, too,  will always walk in a markedly different way because of this struggle... this wrestling with grief, with death, with God.

The morning she was killed, Makiah came tottering into my room with wild hair and silly faces. Sweet Makiah, Mommy brushed your blond curls and pulled back the front with a sparkly, yellow clip.  We put on your pink princess shirt and khaki shorts with sparkly flip flops.  I washed your face and carefully put sunscreen on your soft cheeks so you wouldn't burn by the sunny window in the back of the car.  After we ate breakfast, you crawled up next to me on the couch to watch cartoons.  Then you rolled over towards me and started rubbing my face.  I pulled away a bit because I had just put my makeup on, but you said quite insistently, "Mommy, I want to touch your face!"  I was a little surprised at your tone and said ok.  You rubbed my cheeks and chin and nose and forehead- almost feeling them like a blind person would.  Then you put your little right hand up against my left palm.  Your tiny fingers didn't quite reach my first knuckle.  I thought what beautiful little hands you have; they looked so pretty with your tan.  You pretended to make them grow against my hand.  We laughed, and I said it would take longer then that!

Then out of nowhere, with your palm against mine, you said, "Mommy, you are perfect."  I was caught off guard and replied, "No baby, Mommy is not perfect.  Sometimes I make bad choices and sometimes I make mistakes, but I try."  Then you said. "When you try, it's perfect."

Now in my room staring at the beautiful ballerina painting of Makiah hanging over the two waiting bassinets draped with white eyelet, tears are streaming.  My little Abby and Alena, mommy is not perfect.  In fact, I am a total mess.  I cannot change our circumstances.  I wish I could make things the way they should be, but I cannot.  I wish I could go back to who I was before for you.  But I am the messy mommy you were given to, and I love you already with all of my heart- with every piece of my broken heart.  No, mommy is not perfect, but I will try.  Yes, sweet Makiah, mommy will try.

Abigail Kaitlyn
Alena Kaitlyn

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Our Makiah

Makiah's preschool class had to bring a "Me Bag" to school of things that were special to them and described who they were.  I happened to video it at home shortly before the accident.  Sadly, the sound isn't great until the end as our camera was apparently on the blitz, and I'm not a great videographer.  Also, the twin baby dolls were already being played with somewhere else and weren't in the video; although they did make the original Me Bag.  Nevertheless,  it is our precious last glimpse of her...  ironically telling all about herself.  Missing my sweetheart so badly on this gray, yucky day and wanting to share her with you...

Click this link to view on YouTube.
The Me Bag on YouTube

Click on this link to view through your Facebook account.  
The Me Bag on Facebook