The Seen And The Unseen
Some aspects of 2017 were already not settling well with me. This is not unusual with me, or with man. When pressed upon by their particular years, Henry David Thoreau set out to live deliberately, and Huckleberry Finn threatened to light out for the territory. Neither of those were practical for a guy on a lunch hour and in a wheelchair, so I settled for a retreat to the green space situated in the middle of the college where I work. The combination of staid red brick and ever-renewing green grass colors my happy place.
Even there, I had ready grounds for discontent. The grind of landscaping machinery drowned out the gurgling of the fountain at the center of the college. The green sod that represented superficial tranquility to me was being disturbed by turning spikes. Men about their taming, rectifying work stood between me and even the illusion of reflective solitude. I was about to grumble and retreat still further into my inflamed thoughts when the pomposity of this discontent occurred to me. I was ready to grouse at and retreat from the very support and services which were necessary for the presentation of the little green space I usually enjoyed. Because they weren't placid in tone and pretty in action, I was about to reject the very means of delivery of some of life's sweeter moments.
As it turns out, the landscaping crew's lesson for the week that what goes on usually unseen may be more disconcerting than our speculations on the surface was reinforced more personally. My wife and I have been hanging our hopes on the hairpin turns that go with adopting an infant for years. Our thanks at Thanksgiving was tempered by the bittersweet experience of finding favor in the eyes of a mother who was to give birth at about that time – then grieving as she changed her mind. Still, there was the vague promise of action "after the holidays". We didn't think the agency meant Valentine's Day. Perhaps the lack of measurable progress toward such a compelling goal contributed the February fugue driving me to find pastoral retreat where I could. The upturn of stable earth to expose tumult beneath was just beginning, and the landscaping of the soul is anything but peaceful.
An adoption consultant who was hoping to be helpful, and also to profit from our process, cast doubts upon the adoption agency we are working with. We chose this agency, our second, because the new agency had a reputation for being able to recruit and work with far more potential birthmothers. The consultant warned us of trouble here. She insinuated that to this particular agency, we and the potential birthmothers who could find us were a numbers game. Make sure you are not forgotten, were her warning words as she manipulated the mechanical metaphor of the squeaky wheel getting the grease When my wife conveyed these concerns more graciously than the consultant-to-be, the agency upon which we are hanging our hopes told us months of silence screened us from the reality that we were rejected by birthmothers because (1) we are too old, (2) we don't have other children, and (3) I have a physical disability the birthmothers were not entirely comfortable with.
Sometimes knowledge is more disconcerting than the silence that leaves room for our speculations positive and negative. We were ready to respond to these aspects of our adoption profile with the candid confession that we could not change any of these factors. The courage to change the things we can, the serenity to accept the things we can't, and the wisdom to know the difference lays out a straightforward flowchart to deal with anxiety's initial assault. The subtle, insidious siege on our peace of mind continues, however. As the days drone on, so open the opportunities to consider, and reconsider, and reconsider any and every evidence for doubt. The very green spaces, mental and physical, that in happier times give us a place for perspective now become the Lexington and Concord in the battle of the mind. The mental soldiers representing our doubts spread out in array, obediently, silently, scientifically filling every void of quiet and space. Our emotions, one speaker said, are perfectly obedient servants to our thoughts.
Here, then, is faith's part. We must counter anxiety's unassuming but daunting soldiers who fill our green spaces with soldiers subservient to faith who are more than their match. With our friends, and whomever may be reading this, we can reflect on what faith has already accomplished in this campaign. Faith raised resources nearly equal to my modest, middle of the middle class salary so that this baby can come into the world unencumbered by adoption debt. What's more, Christ the Author and Finisher of our faith chose to fund the largest portion of our adoption in honor of grandparents who died decades ago and would not have had money for such a venture while they lived. Surely, by Paul's logic in Romans 8, the Father Who provided His own Son will therefore freely give us all things. Continuing the train of Paul's logic of generosity, if God has already shown Himself faithful in such a ready obstacle as the funding of this adoption, surely He will finish what He has so clearly begun.
Even there, I had ready grounds for discontent. The grind of landscaping machinery drowned out the gurgling of the fountain at the center of the college. The green sod that represented superficial tranquility to me was being disturbed by turning spikes. Men about their taming, rectifying work stood between me and even the illusion of reflective solitude. I was about to grumble and retreat still further into my inflamed thoughts when the pomposity of this discontent occurred to me. I was ready to grouse at and retreat from the very support and services which were necessary for the presentation of the little green space I usually enjoyed. Because they weren't placid in tone and pretty in action, I was about to reject the very means of delivery of some of life's sweeter moments.
As it turns out, the landscaping crew's lesson for the week that what goes on usually unseen may be more disconcerting than our speculations on the surface was reinforced more personally. My wife and I have been hanging our hopes on the hairpin turns that go with adopting an infant for years. Our thanks at Thanksgiving was tempered by the bittersweet experience of finding favor in the eyes of a mother who was to give birth at about that time – then grieving as she changed her mind. Still, there was the vague promise of action "after the holidays". We didn't think the agency meant Valentine's Day. Perhaps the lack of measurable progress toward such a compelling goal contributed the February fugue driving me to find pastoral retreat where I could. The upturn of stable earth to expose tumult beneath was just beginning, and the landscaping of the soul is anything but peaceful.
An adoption consultant who was hoping to be helpful, and also to profit from our process, cast doubts upon the adoption agency we are working with. We chose this agency, our second, because the new agency had a reputation for being able to recruit and work with far more potential birthmothers. The consultant warned us of trouble here. She insinuated that to this particular agency, we and the potential birthmothers who could find us were a numbers game. Make sure you are not forgotten, were her warning words as she manipulated the mechanical metaphor of the squeaky wheel getting the grease When my wife conveyed these concerns more graciously than the consultant-to-be, the agency upon which we are hanging our hopes told us months of silence screened us from the reality that we were rejected by birthmothers because (1) we are too old, (2) we don't have other children, and (3) I have a physical disability the birthmothers were not entirely comfortable with.
Sometimes knowledge is more disconcerting than the silence that leaves room for our speculations positive and negative. We were ready to respond to these aspects of our adoption profile with the candid confession that we could not change any of these factors. The courage to change the things we can, the serenity to accept the things we can't, and the wisdom to know the difference lays out a straightforward flowchart to deal with anxiety's initial assault. The subtle, insidious siege on our peace of mind continues, however. As the days drone on, so open the opportunities to consider, and reconsider, and reconsider any and every evidence for doubt. The very green spaces, mental and physical, that in happier times give us a place for perspective now become the Lexington and Concord in the battle of the mind. The mental soldiers representing our doubts spread out in array, obediently, silently, scientifically filling every void of quiet and space. Our emotions, one speaker said, are perfectly obedient servants to our thoughts.
Here, then, is faith's part. We must counter anxiety's unassuming but daunting soldiers who fill our green spaces with soldiers subservient to faith who are more than their match. With our friends, and whomever may be reading this, we can reflect on what faith has already accomplished in this campaign. Faith raised resources nearly equal to my modest, middle of the middle class salary so that this baby can come into the world unencumbered by adoption debt. What's more, Christ the Author and Finisher of our faith chose to fund the largest portion of our adoption in honor of grandparents who died decades ago and would not have had money for such a venture while they lived. Surely, by Paul's logic in Romans 8, the Father Who provided His own Son will therefore freely give us all things. Continuing the train of Paul's logic of generosity, if God has already shown Himself faithful in such a ready obstacle as the funding of this adoption, surely He will finish what He has so clearly begun.
A baby who needs our love and our home will prove, from the comfort of hindsight, the easy, the cuddly, the messy, the noisy, the funny, the fussy part. This, friends who have carried with me through a longer than usual, more intense, more personal, and more spiritual blog is the finishing, triumphant lap of this journey upon which you can join us. As the Lord brings us to mind, please pray that our roots in Him continue to be driven deeper through the barren soil of doubt and fear and find sustenance in His sweet and ever-renewing Living Water. THAT is where green pastures of good reflection find their Source. If our efforts persevere in your thoughts, please ask for awareness of needs you may not have noticed before. Perhaps you know someone facing an unexpected pregnancy. Or, perhaps, now that you have read this, your hearts will be attuned to such a need. Thanks for listening and participating in this great triumph in the making. The clamor is not immediately soothing, but the renown will outlast us. You can follow "Jennifer and Brian's Adoption Adventure" on Facebook or our page on adopttogether, which is https://www.adopttogether.org/eshlemans.
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ReplyDeleteI'm not being biased but I think this may be one of the best posts you have written. It may be because I can relate to the subject
ReplyDeleteNerdiness first, what's the purpose of the second comma in the fourth sentence of the second paragraph?
ReplyDeleteIs there a word missing from the fifth sentence of the third paragraph?
There is, I think, a habit of nonfiction writers to begin with a personal anecdote and extract from it some universal truth. This is not a criticism. The technique is effective. This entry begins along these lines. It would have been complete if we'd only followed the thought train from the grounds crew to wanting a clean rug without hearing the vacuum, etc, but here the author bounces back to the personal, this time on a deeper level. This degree of honesty takes courage, and I commend you. It's as if the cool intellectual tone of the series was briefly replaced by an overflow of emotion. The heart pushed the head aside, adding depth to the collection as a whole. Bravo!
ReplyDelete