One week from right now Andrew and I will at the end of the 1st leg of our travels to our Rissa.
I cannot almost believe it.
We learned about this baby - our baby - only 2 months ago.
62 days ago.
It's too ridiculous but it's happening.
It's a miracle.
So, next Sunday we will be "leaving on a jet plane" (thank you, Karen Carpenter)
for about 3 or 4 weeks, heading over the Atlantic for 24 hours of flying,
set to arrive in our daughter's home nation late at night, long after her hazelnut eyes have slid closed and her even breathing escorts her baby's mind to dreamland.
She will not know we are there.
She will peacefully awaken the next day, expecting her comforting routine.
Instead, 2 pale, excitable, tearful faces will greet her and scoop her up and plant kisses on her surprised and maybe amused face.
She will not know why we are removing her from the people who have cared lovingly for her.
She will not know we are her people, now.
She will not know we have flown around the world and heartbreakingly left her big brothers,
back in a whole country full of pale people.
She will not know we love her.
She will not know she is safe.
She hasn't been waiting for us.
She hasn't been praying for us nightly.
She hasn't been counting down.
She will not know us.
And it breaks my heart.
We fly away from our sons, to find our daughter on Palm Sunday.
Palm Sunday: the day of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem.
Palm Sunday: the beginning of the end for Christ; the last loud celebration before agony.
Palm Sunday: gateway to the greatest challenge, the greatest redemption.
I can't quite find the connecting piece, here, between this and what we are embarking on but
it strikes me that
it's no coincidence.
We are going to need His redemption, to meet the challenges that Rissa's adoption brings -
the heartbreak and loss that are impossible to side-step.
She will be losing a great deal to become our daughter, make no mistake.
And we need Easter to come.