My Future Favorite Holiday

You know adoption is hard when your day’s held a couple hours of human excrement clean-up and it’s not even in the running for the worst part of your day. 

The poop had nothing to do with our family, by the way. Goodness, all parents have had plenty of experience with that stuff, so it’s hardly news. But this cleanup was outside our home at one of our refugee complexes, brought on by someone upstream flushing something so egregious that total pipe blockage downstream was the result. 

The problem came to our attention only after raw sewage had gurgled for days right up out of our tubs, sinks, and toilets. The toilets were the grossest, as bowls would jam to the brim with solids then keep slow-flowin’ right out to the four walls and beyond. 

Today we cleaned it up. 

Cheerfully, much of it had dried so completely that a plastic hand scraper did the worst of the job just swimmingly. Unfortunately, one tub had a dripping faucet keeping its stool pie moist. Whereas the dry cleanup was like scraping at a cow patty, this tub was more like scooping out a layer of not-yet-set Jello-O.

But the very most nauseating part of my day was encountering the few turds that were not just turd in substance, but turd in shape. I must say that the sight of them (the perpetual sinus trouble that keeps me from smelling much most days was an especial blessing today) just about sent my stomach over the edge. 

But how funny to take note my mental self-talk: “Hang in there, guy. Steady now…I’ve got it: just imagine it’s child’s poop. That’ll be better. Some kid upstairs. Hey, what if it was even a kid you’ve just adopted—you’d be able to ‘love’ and ‘embrace’ this for them…”

Indeed I would. 

Embracing the stinky feet, poopy messes, greasy hair, or poor hygiene of a child of your own is a normal part of parenthood. Whether or not you can stomach the like from a friend’s kid or teen is another matter. What about a total stranger? Sometimes it might be revolting and we can’t help it. Even after that stranger is your adopted child. I’ve been surprised at how long into our relationship with our own adopted teenager these reactions can rise up in me. Yet I move to embrace him all the same, because he, too, truly is our own. It’s nobody’s fault we all missed the cute years together. It just leaves big holes.   

Anyway, neither scraping the dry nor scooping the wet excrement of multitudinous strangers was the hardest part of my day. That was reserved for the hour and a half before bed with my adopted son. Yet another tantrum. Oddly enough, it was his tantrum the night before that had sent me out the door for the poop cleanup escapade in the first place, distractedly searching for some kind of pick-me-up from my weary morning-after discouragement. And, I will have to say, it pretty much worked. Amazing the value that self-sacrifice can sometimes bring us, touching spots within that aren’t so easily reached by other methods, perhaps. 

But tonight: more violence. More screaming. More punching. More “I don’t care!s” and “Hurt me! Break my arm! You don’t care about me!” All over something practically meaningless. Refusal to give way. To simply obey. And all kinds of breakage, as usual. He guards and organizes so carefully for weeks, only to throw and smash and destroy so much so quickly. 

And this particular requirement of self-sacrifice the past three years I’ve often grown sick of offering, frankly. I’ve processed it and blogged it and prayed it and shared it and gotten up to move forward again…more times than I could possibly tally. This being the third tantrum this week, and that not being his normal any more, it hit me, suddenly…

Of course. It’s Christmas. 

What with his great and many improvements all the rest of this year, I’d almost forgotten how much I’d grown to hate Christmas the last two. Well, not hate Christmas, but hate missing it. Hate that what was always the most nostalgic, truly wonderful time of the year for me had become a season to dread. At one point or another we dreaded any and every holiday, even weekends, but Christmas was easily the the hardest to kiss good-bye. 

But Christmas remains just too hard for him. Too exciting. Too much anticipation. Too many days of waiting. Countdowns are brutal for him, and we cannot shield him from all of them. Christmas is part of the culture and part of our family. And so counting down the 12 days of Christmas became mainly nostalgia for the years when that was actually fun. 

But my point in writing today is not to complain, but rather encourage. Many have brought home a kid(s) from a difficult place. You are not alone. Up ahead…our valleys widen. Others fight on near you, even if most of us never hear of one another. 

Together, this Christmas season especially, let us embrace Hope. And push away the wishing. “I wish my life were different. I wish people knew how hard this was. I wish folks would pity us for all we continue to lose all these weeks/months/years later. I wish people would stop commiserating with stories of their normal children. I wish people would stop lobbing ridiculous solutions at our misery.” 

Christmas celebrates the coming of the Baby. A coming which grants us far greater and far more than wishes. His coming gives us hope. And only hope will carry us through pain, suffering, or loss. Pain, suffering, and loss all lay in store for the Baby, too, yet His birth announcement was an announcement of hope. Hope for us. “For unto you has been born this day, a Savior”!

Hope is possible in my valleys because of the Baby who came to die for me willingly. And He causes me to reconsider my burdens and lay them aside, also willingly, one more time, shouting, “Yes! I’ll follow. I’ll do what you ask. I’ll sacrifice anything.” 

I’ll even lay down the joys of my formerly favorite holiday filled with childhood nostalgia and wonder. 

Because of Him, my adoption became reality. I’m safe and sound in my Forever Family, and the Baby paid the price. Shall I not be willing to pay whatever price necessary to ensure my son’s place in his earthly forever family? 

Christmas will be good again, I know. 

[Update: while my quickly-thought-of original title, “My Formerly Favorite Holiday,” is not horrible, it struck me a day or so later that it conveyed a bit of that “wishful thinking” I was trying to move away from. This current one far better conveys hope.]