…feels like the dark woods. 

It’s cold. It’s overwhelming. We stumble in the dark. And push through. Day in and day out. 

Occasionally, our inner compass, gives us a glimpse of hope. But we can’t know for certain. We pursue the North Star, through the dark clouds. And, by faith, we progress. How lovely it will be when, eventually, the morning comes and we’ll realize we are out of the woods. We made it through. Because we will. How glorious that day in the meadow will be, we’ll spread a picnic and drink from the fresh spring, and lay on the green grass looking at the blue sky watching small wispy clouds passing by. 

We will travel again. 

We will see family again. 

We will see the ocean again. 

We’ll climb the mountains and sing with friends. 

We sit in silence with a cup of tea. The girls are asleep. We’ve made concerted efforts to have fun with each of them. Together and individually. To relax a bit. To allow for more cartoons and for more noise and music. I realize this time has been extremely hard. I don’t know if it’s been the post adoption depression or tail end pandemic depression. But re-reading an excellent book: “wounded children, healing homes” I found answers and encouragent and validation. This book must be read at different times on the adoption journey. 

So as we sit here together, talking, encouraging each other, listening, affirming, empathizing, I finally sense a familiar jolt of hope, of joy, of gratitude, of courage. This is our dark valley. A place to look back to with a stronger bond. We journey on. And this low reference point in our lives will not be wasted. 

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The boat could not course correct over night, as to not tip over. But we had to stay on course even if we couldn’t see in the night. I know I’m mixing my analogies, traveling through the cold foggy winter night in the heart of the woods. Or bracing a rough storm at night on the sea. That darkness, exhaustion, cold, lonely sensation is common.