Meeting Mama

On my youngest's first birthday this past fall we received a wonderful gift- a picture of his first mother and the sweetest message of love and best wishes we could have hoped for for him. Needless to say, we have treasured that contact with her and that picture and note will be a beautiful piece of his life story. We have spent almost 17 months now hoping for more contact with her, praying that God would comfort her in her decision, praying that some day our sweet boy would know her, that we would meet her fact to face.

And now, in one short week, part of that dream is coming true.

In one week, my husband and I will meet her. She isn't ready to have contact with our little boy, her little boy, but this is huge, my friends. And I cannot describe the mixture of excitement, nerves and urgency I feel. This could be the first of many visits, the precursor to meeting her son or this could be all we get. We won't know.

So while I am excited to meet her, to finally put a real person with the stories and the one picture we treasure, I recognize that this is most important for my little guy. We have a few hours (maybe) to ask some questions about her own story and his extended family, to be able to soak her in so we can answer questions about her some day for him when they arise. What will he want to know, I wonder? Short minutes in which to convey to her our love for this little boy who is our son as much as hers now.

And the nagging, painful thoughts in the back of my mind: Will she think we are enough? That we are good and right for him? What will she think about this decision she made? Will meeting us make it harder or give her some sense of peace? Will she wish she had chosen black parents, especially in the wake of such a racially charged year for our country?

I may never know the answers to these questions. She may never think them, to be honest. I, being true to my nature, may be borrowing trouble here. Overthinking this. It's hard not to overthink something that may end up being a crucial piece of his puzzle, though.

So, this next week as we wait to meet her, as my list of questions grows, as I think of which pictures to take with her (if she agrees) and which stories to tell about my sweet boy, I will pray for peace. For her and for us. That we would see this time, this meeting, as a gift on both sides. That if it is too hard for her, she will be honest with us.

Deep down in my heart of hearts, I will be praying that this will be the first of many, but asking the Lord to protect me from bitter disappointment if this is the first and last. And knowing that no matter how it feels and where it goes, whether we are easy friends or the awkwardness and tension is palpable, that this is a good and beautiful thing. For us, for my boy and, hopefully, for her.

Hiking in Sneakers

I own a really nice pair of hiking boots. I purchased them 16 years ago for a hiking trip through the Adirondacks with a high school friend. Since then they have been worn very rarely. And for some reason, perhaps because they live at the back of my closet, I forgot to pack them for our trip to the Canadian Rockies.

Entrance to the path

Yesterday I found myself at the bottom of Beehive Mountain at Lake Louise- gazing up at the snow-covered path, down at my sneakers and then into the back of my mind picturing those left behind boots. Dang it.

But avalanche warnings and snowy routes weren't going to stop us from attempting that climb. Sneaker-wearing husband at my side, we slipped and plunged, snow melting on icy ankles, socks soaking through, slowy making our way up the mountain, hikers on their way down pausing just long enough to issue a friendly hello and a cursory glance at our ill-informed footwear.

For the first 15 minutes all I could think about was how on earth we would ever make it back down. It is one thing to claw your way up on icy paths and quite another to slide your way down without plummeting off a lethal embankment.

The only positive thing I can say about my preoccupation with our return trip was that it distracted me from the "how to survive a bear attack" sign that was so helpfully posted at the start of our journey.

The negative things, though? There are many, the biggest of which is this: for 15 solid minutes, I missed my surroundings. Sure, I saw the footsteps I followed, the white of the path. But I missed the life and beauty around me. I was so caught up in the potential of difficulty that I could not enjoy the healthy challenge of the present. It hit me that if I continued in this way then the only thing I would remember about this hike would be my worry about how it would end.

So I stopped. I asked God to take it, to guide us up and down, to suppress my 36 years of needing to have a solution to every potential problem ready in the back of my head, to help me just breathe in and out, to put one step in front of the other and foget that I was hiking in sneakers.

View of Lake Louise from above

Soon I could smell the pine in the air, feel the burn of cold, thin oxygen in my throat. Hear the quiet rustle of the evergreens, glimpse the views of the lake as it receded, all blue ice and blown snow, far below us.

At the top, we emerged at Mirror Lake. Possibly the most quiet, still place I have ever been. Maybe a mirror, miraculously, for my soul in that moment. I sat on a stump, a beautiful squirrel my companion, no fear in his eyes, feasting on a miniature pinecone while I feasted on the view and
silence.

Monsieur Squirrel, my little friend.

If only I could do this more.

I don't mean hike to quite places and have days and days to myself more often, though that would be lovely.

But what if I could let the what-ifs fade away and live right now? I'd leave the house more with my spirited toddler, potential public tantrums and ensuing embarrassment be damned. I'd stay out later with friends, potential fatigue tomorrow not taking away from the joy of good conversation and laughter that my soul needs more than an extra hour of sleep, anyway. I'd just live my life without my brain lost to what new problem or challenge might emerge tomorrow. I imagine I'd feel a lot less tired. A lot less fearful.

It is an illusion that I am ever in control of that return trip, anyway.

This is one of those lessons I have been taught over and over in my life and that still hasn't become a reflex. I am thankful that it only took 15 minutes to pause and reset this time. Maybe it'll be 14 next time and eventually 10 or 5 or 1.

At least for this trip, though, these sneakers will remind me to just live. To walk. To breathe.

And for those wondering, I only fell once on the trip back down, laughed about it and, quite obviously, lived to tell the tale.