Oh look what God has done!

God has put a family together today.

Today I leave behind the names of lonely and longing and I become Mama to my little boy.

"He sets the lonely in families" Psalm 16:6.

They sky in Moscow is carpeted with one thick, grey cloud today, stretching from horizon to horizon. The temperature hovers around freezing and every few minutes it seems a dozen wispy snowflakes fall from the sky.

John and I are picked up by our facilitator and driver at 9am. Before we go to the baby home, we are taken to a grocery store by our translator to pick up some familiar toddler foods and two cakes with which the orphanage staff will celebrate Arie's home-going. I can't tell you what it feels like to give someone a cake who has raised your son for two years. It feels more than measly- entirely insignificant.

But we load our underwhelming cakes into the car and drive a short distance to the baby home.  The thick sky casts a shadow over the baby home almost like it is night outside; the lights inside the baby home warm the building through the windows. It looks cozy inside.

We park in the same spot as usual and enter through the heavy metal doors as we have done five times before.  This sixth time is our last time and I try to notice everything about the place, exacting it in my memory.  The black lab who greets us outside, the buttery hue of the baby home's stucco exterior, the diamond waffle pattern on both sets of doors as we enter.  This is my son's home, for only minutes longer.  For every electric fiber in me that cannot wait to pick him up and walk away, there is a spot in my soul that will hold eternal gratitude for this place. Gratitude for this home and its staff who cared for my baby when I could not. Deep gratitude.

Inside we remove our winter coats and turn left down a long hallway to the director's office. He greets us with a warm and accented, "Good morning!"  We sit down while our facilitator talks to him in Russian and then we sign what are essentially our son's discharge papers.  We talk for a while and John and I sit beaming on the couch.  We cannot wait.

The first thing our facilitator hands us from a stack of papers in front of her is something she knows we've been waiting for: Artem's baptism certificate. This is a gracious sign to us: a sign that says God knew our son before we did.  God called Arie his own before he bore our name. He was marked as a child of the covenant long before we even knew he was alive. Of all the grace in our adoption journey, this is my favorite.  Before we knew him, he was baptized.  Though he was was without a family for a time, he has never been alone. Always and forever in the sight of a God who is a Father to the fatherless.

We pour over the certificate and all its meaning for a while and then our facilitator asks us for the new clothing we brought.  I fish out the outfit we so carefully selected; a red plaid button up, white undershirt, thick warm blue jeans, red socks, and blue boots.  She takes the outfit from me and brings it to a nanny who is going to change Arie for us.

We wait some more, smiling all the while.

Soon, with almost an exact replication of the very first time we met him, the director says something in Russian and our facilitator smiles, "He's coming!"  We hear footsteps in the hall.

This time, where a shy and quivering little boy once stood, our Arie strides in confidently babbling loudly in Russian and proudly waving the little blue monkey lovey we brought for him last July. I try hard to notice the monkey and "wow!" over it, but all I want to do is scoop him up, so I do. I hold him tight in my arms, kissing his cheeks and telling him how much I love him. "Oh I've missed you!" I whisper in his ears.  He smiles and shows me the monkey again.

Arie's nanny has something to show me so John sits down and pulls Arie on his lap.  He sits quietly now, wide-eyed, watching and listening.

 His nanny gives me a thin cardboard folder filled with Arie's art projects.  There are drawings and painting and things he's glued.  She also gives me the photo-album of pictures I brought for him on our last trip.  In the back are tucked two dozen pictures of the last 2.5 years; pictures of Arie at a Christmas party in an adorable shirt and tie, pictures of him with his friends, of him playing at the park, and even doing tummy time as an infant. Again I think of that measly cake and I tell her the best thing I can think to say, "I will treasure these." She nods shyly and her eyes begin to gloss with tears.

Me, Arie, the nanny, the social worker, and the director.

We take a couple photos and it is time to leave.  Arie studies me as I put on his coat and hat.  He looks to his nanny again, likely wondering what is going on.  She is still fighting tears.  I once asked our facilitator what these home-goings are like for the nannies.  "They are very bitter sweet," she said.  "The nannies are happy because they know the child needs a home.  But they are sad to say goodbye."

We are walked to the door by the director, nanny, and the orphanage's social worker.  "Paka paka!" they call after us.  "Bye Bye!"  Before we get into the car I turn around to look at the baby home one last time and see more nannies crowded into an upstairs window.  I tell John to turn around; we wave and they raise their arms to wave back.

Then we climb in the car and drive away forever, to a new life.

On the way home we stop twice.  Once to get Arie's photo taken for his passport and visa and again to apply for the passport itself.  Arie is wide-eyed during this process, holding tightly onto our hands.  I hold tightly back and my heart is crying to him I'm not going to let you go. I know you're scared.  I'm not letting go.  

Toward the end of our journey Arie whimpers in the car.  He is sweating so I take off his coat and snuggle him tight.  I can tell he doesn't feel well. I whisper to John to pull out one of the barf-bags we took from the plane, wondering if is is even possible to catch a two-year-old's puke in such a narrow bag.  Thankfully, Arie falls asleep in my arms and I just stare at him the whole way home.

When we reach our apartment I wake him up and he moans again.  Quickly I open the car door, just in time for him to puke.  There is puke on him, puke on me, and puke on the ground, but none in the car.  My first motherhood victory! If you are the praying kind, you can start praying for his motion-sickness relief both for our next few car trips and our plane-ride home.  Yes, I will be carrying on at least one change of clothes!

In our apartment we clean up, eat a dry snack, drink a little and play.

Toddler's love for goldfish crosses international borders!

He and John are both sleeping now in our room.  Father and son.  Today we are a family.

Oh look what God has done!

xo