Our one-week trip was coming to an end. We had spent four magical days in a Bulgarian orphanage, loving and playing with the child we would one day call our son. As our week ended, a pit in my stomach and lump in my throat would not go away.
The adoption process requires the parents to come for a week, meet their child and sign papers stating their desire to adopt this child. You return home and wait for the results of a process you cannot control. The wait time can vary, but three months—a full trimester—is the average time it takes to receive approval to return to the country and pick up your child.
While in Bulgaria, an interpreter accompanied us everywhere we went. Maria had never interpreted for an adoption trip before. She was learning with us how to navigate this process. We quickly fell into a rhythm with Maria.
Our days consisted of breakfast at the hotel, a morning walk to the orphanage, and playtime with Caleb. We would then walk back to the hotel, stopping for lunch along the way. Rest, local sightseeing, or shopping filled our afternoon and always included a coffee break. We would then return to the orphanage for more play time before Caleb would go to bed. On our evening walk back to the hotel, we would stop for dinner.
At the end of lunch, on the final day we would be at the orphanage, I could not hold it together any longer. I began to cry outside the restaurant and muttered, “How do we do this? How do we say goodbye to the child who stole our hearts? How do we say we will be back, somehow making him believe us? Even if we could offer him a timeline, he is too young to understand time.”
With tears streaming down my face, on the steps of a little pizza shop, our interpreter spoke words that were a healing balm. She looked at me with uncertainty and hesitantly said, “I think you just tell him you have to leave to prepare a place for him, but you will come back.”
Suddenly, everything became perfectly clear. I’m not even sure Maria knew she was speaking the words of Jesus. But in a country on the other side of the world, with a woman I had only met four days prior, she spoke words of life to me.
How often do we meet someone and immediately dismiss them because we don’t think we have enough in common? Or do we quickly assess “what can they do for me?” On the surface, our lives were vastly different. We didn’t attend church or clubs together. We didn’t share carpool lines or recipes. We didn’t even live on the same continent. She had “nothing” to offer me, yet in that moment only she carried and gave everything I needed.
That evening, we returned to the orphanage. We played and laughed with our son. And when it was time to say goodbye, the tears flowed freely. With Maria by our side, interpreting, I said the only thing I knew to say. “We must go home tomorrow. We are going to get your room ready for you. You will have your own bed and toys.” Caleb interrupted me, “And blue jeans?”
“Yes! And blue jeans.”
Amy McArthy lives in Columbia, TN, where she and her husband have raised their five children. Amy has been homeschooling for at least 20 years (she may have lost track). She loves canning, cooking, and coffee with a friend.
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