Focus

Today we heard from Washington DC but it was not news of passing our John Walsh Clearance. The DC office contacted the Embassy to inform them that our file had been submitted improperly and that we would need to start the background check again. Window #10 didn't understand this, as he says he submitted our paperwork in the same way that he always submits paperwork, including the paperwork of the other families that have just gotten home with their kids. He said he would try to make personal contact with some individuals in D.C. Maybe they could find a solution.

I feel discouraged. If we have to wait the full time for this 2nd check to run its course we are talking the end of next week. I don't want to do that. I miss my children so badly. Gideon told me on the phone today that I needed to hurry and bring Jubilee (hasn't quite caught onto Keza yet) home to meet him. Sweet Gideon, I am trying.

People, would you pray? Would you petition for our Visa? We need to get home.

Sometimes it feels like everything about this adoption story has been ridiculously complicated. In fact, most details I have not included in this blog. They are many. Every step of the way we have had to fight to make this go through. But you know what? Keza is laying in a crib right next to me. She spent the evening sitting in my lap giggling and flopping her arms. She is growing. Even the hair on her head looks totally different than when I first met her. She is eating up a storm, getting nutrients, being touched and loved and cared for. I have to focus on that.

Window #10

Dear Window #10,

Every time I walk through the Consular doors I look for you above the sea of brown faces. If you are open I walk as quickly as possible past the cantankerous security guard, careful to keep my head down, and make a solid line to your window. Out of all the many windows at the Embassy, your window is my favorite.

You greet me with a smile and when you speak my English develops a crush on your English. There is no straining to understand your words, no sifting through a thick Swahili accent. Your meaning is evident and unforced. I want to stand there all day, basking in the ring of your words, listening to the sound of clear, crystal comprehension. But alas, I cannot stand there all day and you tell me to wait, you once again disappear into the folds of the embassy searching high and low for any sign of Adam Walsh.

I sit and know I look like a little pink person in this room. Maybe that is why it doesn't take the security guard long to spot me. I know she is agitated before I even look up. She wants me to wait in line. She wants to tell me when and to whom I must speak. But she doesn't understand, window #10, that I have to get your window. Not Window 8, or 4 or 3. She doesn't understand that hope comes from your window, that the last piece of the puzzle will pass through your glass and I will be free.

She clears her throat and I force my eyes up to meet hers. "Can I help you?" she asks holding onto the I, the emphasis straining to reach the next word. "Um, no thanks!" I smile as sweet as can be but she doesn't seem to notice the kind of grin that only $4000 of orthodontic work can produce. She digs both thumbs down behind her belt, juts her hip out and I recognize the signal because I've seen it before. I know that she is about to make me move and start over in the line that, like most things in Kenya, will last the better part of the day. So I chime in before she has a chance to clear her throat, "I actually have already been helped. Window #10 is cool with me being here. He said I could wait. But thanks!" She just stares at me a minute, brown eyes locking on blue and I have to bite my lip so that I won't laugh because it always feels like I am in a ring with Mike Tyson and for whatever reason that strikes me as funny, she slapping her gloves together and grunting into the air. Eventually she steps back, because what can she do, what power can she wield against window #10?

Today was not really different than any of the other days. But window #10, tomorrow I will find you once again. I will stand in front of your glass like a plaintiff standing before an English speaking judge. I will hold my breath as you tap, tap, tap on your computer. I will wait. And maybe tomorrow, for the first time, your eyes will spark. You will tell me that Adam Walsh has found no beef with me and I am clear. I'll hand you the passport and you will paste that $400 piece of paper, the one that this entire adoption has been working toward, onto the empty page. I will want to kiss you, Window 10, but the glass will restrain me, so instead I will thank you and remind you that to some people a Visa is worth everything.

Sincerely,
Hanna Salmans

P.S. I know your name is Brad because your answering machine said so. So much for National Security.

As Big As The Sky

Dear Gideon and Maddox,

I wake in the middle of the night every night. You are on my mind. I hate being a part from you. The first two weeks were hard, but they were bearable. I am into my fourth week away from you two now. And I cry every time I sit at the computer. This is too long. I never want to leave you for a month again.

I want you to know that I would do this, as hard as it is, for you too. If it were one of you halfway across the world, I would pack my bags and come for you. I would spend all the money in the world. I would leave my home and my family to find you. I love you boys so deeply. You are worth to me every bit that little Keza is.

Gideon Lee, you are my firstborn. A son. I wish you could understand what it's like to meet and hold your first child, what its like to love your child. It's deeper and different than any other human love. You will always be my son. I will always be your mama. Gideon, I love your heart and your spirited ways. I love the drama in you, even if it does drive me crazy sometimes. I love that what you love you LOVE.  Everything about you is passionate. Your name means Valiant Warrior. It's so fitting, Gideon. You are going to do great things in your life and I can't wait to see what they are. You are a fighter. You are persistent. You are a mover and shaker. And I love you so much, little boy.

Maddox Rey, when you were born I remember feeling completely humbled. I was shocked that your dad and I could create such a sweet, peaceful child. I remember thanking God, feeling like He had just bypassed our genes and created something that we never would have been capable of making. Your dad and I are both first children. We are crazy and have the attitudes to match. How did we end up with you, sweet boy? You are so kind. Whenever you see an animal or a baby or someone crying you notice. You go out of your way to touch them and to give to them. Your name means Good and Generous King. I know now that God was in your name. It wasn't just the name we picked out of the air. I can't wait to see how your life unfolds. You are wise, little Maddox. People will look up to you. And I am already so completely proud of you.

I am coming home soon, little guys. I am going to hug you so tight. I am going to build towers and drive cars and watch Dora and Diego with you. we are going to play in the sunshine and dig for worms in the shadows. I can't wait to see you. As Gideon would say, "I miss you so, so, so, so, so, so, so, BAD!" I do. Everything in me wants to be home with you.

I love you as big as the sky,
Mommy

Visa

We have had an emotionally tumultuous couple of days. On Wednesday when we went to the Embassy to check on our Visas we were told that for whatever reason our families Adam Walsh Act had not been run. They had no record of our names ever having been put in the system. This was a mistake on the part of the Embassy in Kigali. So, what to do. They said to try back on Friday, the day we were supposed to leave. So Friday morning, with knots in my stomach, I made my way back to the Embassy.

It wasn't ready. We had no choice but to revert to plan B: chill out. I refuse to freak out about this. Adoption is not a science. It's not something that looks the same for every family. It's not predictable or controllable. We knew that going into it, so while I am VERY homesick for my three boys at home (words cannot describe how much I miss them), I am trying to remember that this is one of the biggest adventures of my life and it will be more enjoyable if I can roll with the punches. In the scheme of my life, or this year, or even a few months, a few extra days are not going to kill me. Who wants to be predictable anyway?!

Yesterday we said goodbye to the other families and to my sister Heidi who had to get back to work. I wasn't expecting it to be such an emotional moment. Especially hugging my sister goodbye, which seems ridiculous since I will probably see her in less than a week! There were many tears as we hugged Nyanja and she said her goodbyes to Keza, who she loves. The other families will be missed. I love my new friends and can't wait for the visits! The hotel feels empty and significantly quieter without the buzz of other adoptive families. When everyone was about to walk out the door the hotel surprised us with a cake that said 'Thank You' on it. The woman in charge told us that they have seen few people with hearts as big as ours and on behalf of the Safari Club Hotel, she thanked us for caring for the children of Africa. It was so unexpected and sweet and completely humbling.

We don't know when the Adam Wash Check will be complete. Hopefully Monday or Tuesday. In the meantime, we are going to continue to see the sights there are to see. Tomorrow we have scheduled a trip to the Masai Ostrich Farm and Park where we will watch Ostrich races and get acquainted with the silly birds. Who knows, maybe we will be brave enough to ride one ourselves! Can you imagine me as an Ostrich Jockey!?

A Letter From Dad

Dear Keza,

I am feeling oddly trapped. I spent the last 24 hours in the hospital waiting for my cousins baby girl to be born while at the same time my own little girl, who I have never met, is a million miles away in Africa.

I feel like I am fighting back tears every day as I go through the motions of life. I am waiting constantly, waiting for my baby, my little girl, to get here. The meetings, the paper work, the noise of my life feels heavy and useless in the wait.

I can't wait to meet you Keza. I cant wait to tell you I love you, that I will always fight for you, protect you, hold you. Come home. You're safe now.

Love,
Daddy

Thank You

For Keza. Thank you that you knew, that you always knew her. Thank you for thinking of her before she even entered this world. Thank you for your compassion and your mercy toward her. Thank you that even when it seemed as though she was abandoned and alone, you were with her. You guided the man who found her. You made him look into the edges of the dark night. You opened his eyes to see her. You opened his arms to pick her up, out of the the ditch, out of a life that would have snapped shut suddenly. You inhabited his hands. You carried her, a little promise, in your palm and brought her to a Home of Hope.
Thank you for the sisters who loved her and spoke to her and touched her and fed her. Thank you that when they didn't have the time to really see her you saw her. Thank you for giving her a home with healthy food and water. Thank you for a home with clothing and medicine. Thank you for placing your heart in homes such as hers, in rooms lined with the fatherless. Thank you for being our Father.

Thank you for preparing me, for preparing Wayne for adoption. Thank you for giving me the adoption gene before I ever thought of children, for putting Africa in my husbands heart. Thank you for designing my family before it was a family. Thank you for Gideon, my sweet Gideon. Thank you for opening his little heart up, for giving him love for a sister he knows nothing of. And for Maddox, for giving me another boy when I thought I wanted a girl. Thank you for making two brothers when you gave me two sons.

For the right time, at the right place, thank you. For the months of waiting, for the setbacks and silence. Thank you for letting my file fall through the cracks long enough for Keza to be born and to grow strong enough and old enough to be adopted. Thank you for your patience with me when I don't trust you, when I stomp my feet and say in my heart that you don't see. You see everything. You saw her when I could not. You knew what my disappointment and frustration was worth and you led me even when I did not recognize that it was your hand leading.

Thank you for letting me and my family be one of the few that get to take part in such a beautiful thing. Thank you for choosing us. It doesn't make sense to me, why you bless me like you do. Sometimes I feel like what I have is beyond compare. I have a beautiful family. I have love. I have a home full of tonka trucks and bugs and boogers. I have three children who I love with every inch of my heart. And more than any of it, more than every good thing combined: I have a faithful Father who takes care of me, who will always take care of me, who knows me, who calls me by name. Thank you for choosing me too. You are good to your children.

Safari

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I'll let these say it all: