Grief

We knew from the start that grief would be a part of this journey.  Either for the girls, or for us, or for our biological kids.  Somewhere, there would be grief.  We went a full 9 weeks without any crying, any sign of sadness, any talk of the home country, and very little chatter about the friends who were left behind.  In 9 weeks you can get comfortable and start to think that things are good, no one is really that sad, this family was a great change for them, and maybe they like it so much that they are really not going to grieve.  Maybe there will not be fits of anger and sadness and grief.  Ha!
While I know in my head that is not really true, you could start to be persuaded of that as you are living from day to day seeing things going so well and seeing such progress being made.  You could start to hope that you are already through the tough parts and think that you are on to smoother roads and greener pastures.  After all, there was some serious adjusting at first.  There have been tough days already.  (Your brain fights against this because everything you have read, been taught, and heard  is screaming to you that THERE WILL BE GRIEVING, but your daily experiences are showing you that maybe things will be different for you).  So you might be inclined to believe that there will not be grief.  But then it comes.
In a simple question, it all unfolds. "Mommy, Ayiti?  Me going Aiyti."
And a simple conversation follows.  You can imagine all the things we said.  How we explained that God gave you a family here in America to take care of you and how you have brothers and sisters and parents here to help you and tech you and love you.  In Haiti you would be lonely and you would not have your family.  And we would miss you so much.
Several minutes of quiet talking and cuddling pass and finally she curls up on her pillow and closes her eyes.  She does not cry-that is not really who she is.  But she solemnly thinks and quietly processes the magnitude of what she has just been told.
I am not going back.  I am staying here.  This is my family now.  No one asked me if I wanted this family.  What about my family in Haiti?  Wait, did I have a family in Haiti?  Why don't i have a fmaily in Haiti?
At this point I can only wonder what she is thinking and feeling.  There is a bit of a language barrier still, but there is also a part of her personality that just won't go deep.  She is not ready to talk.
After I leave her room, I have a pit in my stomach.  It takes hours of prayer and reflection to ease it away.  My wise and rational husband is quick to remind me that this is natural.  She is not lashing out against us.  She is not saying she does not like living here.  She is just coming to terms with the reality of this situation.  This is not a step back-in many ways it is a step forward.
Talking tonight with Naomi was a reminder that she calls me "Mom" but it does not mean the same thing as when the other kids do. It does not mean she has forgotten her past completely and accepted a new set of parents without hesitation.   "Mom" means that I am the adult in charge but it still does not quite mean, "I know you love me and will always be here with me and I know you can be trusted."  That will take some time still.
So grief came last night; not like a flood, more like a slow stream.  It then wound its way through our day in the form of little questions, comparisons, acting out, defiance, and even tiredness.  It pooled up again at bedtime with more questions and more solemn eyes,  and will likely gush again tomorrow and for many days to come.
I find myself praying without ceasing that her little heart will accept this, God's plan for her life.  I pray that the seemingly unaware little sister will remain blissfully ignorant of big sister's grief as she seems young enough that she is relatively unaffected.  I pray that time will heal a heart that is hard to read and that God will pour love over this little girl who hurts and ponders and is trying to make sense of this new life while grieving the loss of the old one.
And as I pray I am putting on my raincoat, galoshes, umbrella, and rain hat so that when the floods or streams or trickles of grief come I will be equipped and ready to hold a little girl in my arms in the midst of the flowing grief and show her what Mom really means.