364

364 days ago a woman walked up the steps of an orphanage under a moonlit sky. I don’t know what words were exchanged, what assurances were made, if any. 364 days ago the moon was still shining brightly in the early morning sky over Indiana. I remember that moon. I stepped out to pick up my newspaper, but I was mesmerized by the moon shining brightly still as the sun threatened to break. And in that moment, with newspaper in hand, I knew. You were here. I felt you as clearly as the air I breathe. I was so overcome with emotion in that moment—a feeling of awe and wonder as I marveled at the new life that had arrived. A sense of excitement to know, to finally know, that you existed beyond the wild imaginings of my mind. But that elation was tempered by what I also knew was occurring—relinquishment, abandonment, whatever you want to call it to make it more palatable. You were losing your family. I thought of you. I thought of your mother and the difficult choices she was making for her family. I prayed that God comfort her and bring her peace and I prayed that you would not lay out in the cold too long. I prayed for arms that would hold you and for lips that would kiss you. I prayed for food in your belly and love. Lots of love.

I could have never guessed all the twists and turns our paths would take. A year ago, you were born into loss. A few days later your Oma was diagnosed with cancer and for the briefest of time I got to experience a sense of the loss you were feeling. That time, so blessed, is still very bittersweet and often times difficult for me to verbalize. I don't think I will ever be able to think of your first days without some pain in my heart. Somehow, out of all the ugliness of that time, we became a family. Words are inadequate to describe what I feel for you and how my heart leaps every time you come up behind me and give me a leg hug and say "mama".

Happy Birthday, my little Moon Man.