You hear these stories and you see the families, thinking that they are really stepping out there. Bringing kids home despite finances, racial difference, fear, special needs, time, distance, prejudice, persecution, and misunderstandings. You think: "They are so brave, wise, good--- they deserve to be praised for handing out such a blessing."
You look at the waiting children-- their faces on the internet-- and you cower at the need, the numbers, the despair. And you applaud those who are braver, holier, than yourself. And you cower.
But then something changes.
You start not just looking, but listening too. Is that laughter? Is that singing? Is that joy pouring out of those very houses where some of those scary, overwhelming, despairing faces now live? It sounds like a home over there. And you start to wonder why those sounds stir you.
Eventually, curiosity gets the better of you, and you jump. You start the paper work, maybe a blog too. You look around, now a part of "that" group, expecting to be patted on the back. You notice something strange: they aren't looking at you or even each other--- they're looking up. Its not the club of really good people that you thought it was. Someone passes you a note saying: "you are about to be blessed".
Confused but undeterred, you complete your dossier. Looking around, not up, because the sun is too bright. You get on a plane to bring her home. The waiting child with the little face in the picture that still makes you nervous.
You arrive. Someone opens the door, tugging a little pink bundle by the hand. The nanny leaves.
Suddenly, something starts to happen. The little face looks up at you, her eyes are sparkling and her legs are running forwards. You realize yours are too. As you embrace and she whispers "I love you, Mama", you break. Weeping, you begin to understand. All this time, you have been the waiting child.
