The post I forgot about

Last fall (October 30th to be exact) Jeff and I planted some perennial bulbs in our backyard.  Much to my mom’s chagrin I have no idea what kind they are and even had to google to see if I meant annual or perennial.

Anyway, we planted them as kind of our waiting thermometer.  Fall was getting crisp.  We had just finished our home study.  A bleak, cold winter was coming, and so was “the dreaded wait”.  But, just like the promise of spring, we knew that our adoption would be much further along when the flowers bloomed.

I took pictures of each stage of our planting (while Jeff rolled his eyes) and had an entire blog post written out in my head.  It would be something about “like sands through the hour gl…”  No.  I mean something dramatic like, “when these plants emerge from the ground we will know the face of Doodle*”.  Ok, drama fail, but you get the idea.  My brain has been trained to think in blog postings.  Lame, I know.

*new here? Click on the link for an explanation.

Later that night we carved this pumpkin.

The dramatic, symbolic blog post never came.  Do I need to remind you why?  On Halloween we got the call!  We wouldn’t have to wait until spring to see a picture of our child’s face.  A few days later I deleted the pictures and actually forgot about my great plans for a blog post.

Until yesterday.

I was out walking around the backyard and noticed green little shoots poking up through the ground.  Oh yeah, those bulbs we planted.  I had forgotten all about them.  We planted them and walked away.  We didn’t fertilize the ground, water them, insulate them from the harsh snow, or show them any care.  We dug a hold, dropped them in, and walked away.  I trusted that they would just grow. That’s what they do, right?  I trusted.

Kinda like this adoption.

There have been days when I’ve felt that I was buried deep under the frozen earth without a glimmer of sunshine.  Days when I thought staying under the ground sounded like a good idea.  I would be safe there.  Protected there.  Just like the little green shoot emerging from the bulb and making its way up to the surface and to the warmth of sunshine, I pressed on.  I trusted.

I will trust.

Just like God created bulbs to just grow, He created us to just trust.

Say yes and trust.

{I can’t however finish this post without first saying that I wasn’t thrown into the bottom of a hole and left alone.  We’ve gotten more love and support from family, friends, and strangers than I could ever put to words.  If I was a perennial bulb, I just might grow into Jack’s giant beanstalk.}

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