The Longing is the Hardest Part

We are only two to three months into this and my heart already feels thinned. Heavy. Not burdened all the time, although when the full weight certain heavy matters really sits upon it, then yes, burdened. But mostly in the quiet space at the end of day, when my constant fluttering about has subsided, it gets really heavy, like right before a good cry. And it longs and it calls and it does cry out all the way across cultures and cities and countries and oceans to find two small babies, or maybe young toddlers, that may not even be born yet, but who are my own. I see their faces – mash-ups of pictures of all the beautiful Rwandan babies and children I've seen. I call them by names. They are real children, not cast asides, not nobodies, but valuable children with unique spirits, created by God and we are privileged enough to get to raise them. The yearning to hold them, to love them, to tell them they are safe and loved, to protect them from every harm, is ever present; it is on the tip of my heart, at the depth of my heart. These children are already mine. Signed. Sealed. Now they just need to be delivered. And waiting for that is hard. Really hard.