Murmurs of Peace

The heart is a bloom

Shoots up through the stony ground

There's no room

No space to rent in this town.

I've heard that song millions of times. Really, millions.  It's one of my favorite songs, by my favorite band; I've seen them perform it live multiple times. But almost every single time I hear this song, it reminds me of a particular moment in my life. I was merging on to I5, on my way to Seattle during a stressful and depressing period.  But the sun was shining, U2 came on the radio, and for some reason as I watched all the drivers, in all their cars, representing all their lives interweaving before me, I just knew in that moment that everything would be okay. Even now, though I associate it with a terrible time, whenever I hear Beautiful Day, it makes me happy.

So I wasn't too surprised to hear it on the day I scheduled my son to have open heart surgery.

The heart is a bloom

We knew this day would come.  In fact, you can go to my post from almost exactly a year ago and read through my thoughts on adopting a child with CHD-a congenital heart defect.  We knew it when we first saw Max's referral sheet, back on July 17th, in a stuffy little office in downtown Kyiv. We heard it from the orphanage doctor as we sat and waited to meet our little boy. We heard it from our International Adoption Dr when we emailed him Max's EKG from our (first, I think!) apartment next to Maidan.  Our family pediatrician told us when we took Max in, 4 days home, for a worrisome cough.  And the cardiologist confirmed it when she first met Max in November, and said that she would perform surgery when he had gained a little weight and was stronger.  

So I'm not exactly sure why I was surprised to hear her say he was ready for surgery when we went for our follow up appointment the first week of January. Maybe because you never really believe that a Doctor will look at you and say a nurse will be calling in a few weeks to schedule a time for them to saw open your baby's chest and sew up a hole in his heart.

Shoots up through the stony ground

I firmly believe that Max would not have survived this surgery had he stayed in Ukraine.  He was so malnourished, failing to thrive, refusing to eat.  To undergo major surgery and not have someone fighting for every ounce of his strength would have been a death sentence.  Now, with a little love and a lot of energy, he has discovered that he is a fighter.  He pushes through milestones with nothing but sheer determination and does not seem to realize that he shouldn't be able to accomplish big goals like learning how to play with his sisters when no one ever played with him before, and climbing onto the couch when it's almost taller than he is!  That last one may be driving me crazy...

Thankfully, although his CHD is serious, it's not as scary as it could be.  Still scary. He has a small hole in the wall of his heart, and also on one of his valves.  They expect to be able to sew him up-he'll be in surgery for the better part of the day-and then in the hospital for about a week.  Success rates are high, our hospital is in the top 20 of the country for this procedure, and he should lead a fully normal rambunctious couch climbing life. On the other hand, it's major surgery.  On his heart.

Has anyone watched Parenthood lately?!  That show is trying to destroy me.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll 

On the day I found out that we needed to schedule Max's heart surgery, I read something crazy by Horatio G Spafford.  How I came across this reading was random, except it wasn't, and totally new, except it wasn't.  If you haven't read about Spafford, I challenge you to look him up.  You'll probably think he was crazy or cruel and you'd probably be right. I've known his story for years and often vacillated between admiration and annoyance.  If he drew peace from the greatest tragedy of his life, that is awesome, sort of. I really want to have that fullness of peace.  But unfortunately I also want to hold onto just the tiniest bit of the chaos, clutching it in my sweaty little hand.

And I just can't have both.

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well, with my soul.

But as I read his story in the morning, before going to see the Dr, and as I heard his song, on the drive back home, I thought, maybe part of this man's story as he stared into cold ocean waves was that over a hundred years later a little boy's mama would hear and believe. Maybe he was part of something bigger. Maybe he was loved by something more.

See the world in green and blue

See China right in front of you

See the canyons broken by clouds

See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out

Of course I'm emotional.  Of course. I know that in just over two weeks I'll be sitting in a hospital waiting room and the hours of waiting will be utter torture. I know he'll be in pain and I won't be able to bear it. Five to ten days of being in the hospital, first in ICU, then hopefully getting stronger. Shifts back and forth with Bard so that a child who was once an orphan never knows being alone again. Family flying in, meals brought, back up plans. Prayers.  This will be life changing. Life giving.

See the Bedouin fires at night

See the oil fields at first light

And see the bird with the leaf in her mouth

After the flood when the colors came out

Because I've seen the other side.  This adoption journey began for me years and years and years ago. And it's not over.  I can step toward unimaginable sacrifice because in my heart of hearts I believe the promise that has already been given. To love. To serve. And Max will continue that journey, bearing his scars like the warrior he is, proof to the world of how strong he is and how vulnerable we all are. 

So when you stare at the ocean, the waves might not be there to crush you, but rather to show you the depth that lies underneath.

What you don't have you don't need it now

What you don't know you can feel it somehow

What you don't have you don't need it now

Don't need it now

It was a beautiful day.