My cousin and his wife are leaving today to pick up their babies in India. That sounds odd. Their babies. In India.
This adoption has been a long process, but everything’s just fallen into place so smoothly. I can’t believe they’re parents. I don’t think I could possibly explain what these babies mean to my family, the church family, and our community.
My grandfather, the patriarch of all patriarchs, died in February. He was 96 and a body once driven by and sustained by the earth just needed to stop. Oh, my grandfather. PaPa. What a man he was.
Dropped out of school by the eighth grade. Married at 21. Father at 21. Father six more times, grandfather to 17, great-grandfather to 22 - make that 24.
He moved his family over three farms before finally settling in town in 1950. They lived in that house for 44 years. Forty-four years. I can still see him sitting on the porch, paper in his lap, hat pulled down low. Every single person walking by would say "Hey Lige." Hey Lige. Hey Lige. Hey Lige.
If I tried, I don't think I could guess the number of people he helped to buy homes. He’d loan money to anyone. Poor farmers the bank shunned. Young families with no credit. He gave them his money. Told them to buy well. Pay me back when you can.
No one ever defaulted on one of his loans. Ever.
And in the process, with his shrewd planning and quick mind, he amassed a small fortune. He’s the reason my divorced, minimum-wage earning mother was able to move back to Ohio when her youngest daughter graduated high school. He’s the reason one of my cousins was able to buy a farm. His money put all of my rogue uncle's daughters through college. He’s the reason Matt and Lynn fly to another country to pick up their family today.
But PaPa will never meet these babies; never rock them in his arms; never tell them the story of how he chopped off half his thumb building a fence; never show them how to roll pennies and take them to the bank. Little Sophie will never kiss his bald head or marvel at how a man so old could have such strong hands.
Will Sophie and Sam know it was because of his genius, coupled with his never-ending generosity and love of his family, that they were able to join us? That their little lives became enmeshed with ours because 80 years ago a young man just starting out made a vow to whip the world by its tail?
What am I talking about? This is my family. By the time the twins are teenagers they’ll be so sick of their story. The story of their arrival, of their adoption, is one that will undoubtedly engrave itself in our familial history. And we’ll never shut-up about it.
It’s just such an amazing event I’m having trouble writing about it. Talking about it. Thinking about it.
About how it’s all connected. Everything’s connected.
Then I start thinking about destiny, God’s plan, my free will. I get myself all wrapped up in these things I sort of believe, still believe, don’t believe anymore. I permanently have that just-walked-through-a-spiderweb sensation.
Should I wipe it all away? None of it?
I don't know. Sometimes I don't know how I can doubt so honestly, deny so loudly, when I can see His hand moving so clearly. Right before my eyes.
I don't like being the Thomas of my family. The one who just can't let herself believe. Especially when the others let go so easily. They don't think about it. It's plain.
And their faith is being manifested today.
Today when Matt and Lynn walk into that poor New Dehli orphanage, crowded
with baby girls and sick little boys, and lift two of India's own out of her
despair.
