Perspective

Many fall mornings in Oregon are completely fogged in if you live in the valley. With mountains all around, the heavy damp air settles during the night and can't escape... so it sits in the valley. When you wake up, it can be rather depressing. It's quite gloomy. It's damp and cold and makes you long to curl up inside and nap. The air around you actually seems so thick that sometimes it blocks your view of the beautiful things around. The sun just can't break through until it warms sufficiently in the afternoon and burns off the fog, layer by layer.


The interesting thing is that the sun is shining. It's just way above the valley... above the many layers of heavy fog... above the places where the gloom gets stuck.

We drove out of the fog to visit the sun one morning. At least that's what Jason said we were doing. I had my doubts. I mean, the fog was so thick that we couldn't see ANY trace of the sun anywhere. We drove for 30 minutes up into the base of the mountains. Still foggy. We drove up the roads that lead to the lumber roads. Still foggy. We drove 20 minutes past the point where the lumber roads begin, where nothing else exists except for trees, trees, and some more trees. Still foggy. Although... I have to admit, it's kinda beautiful now... yet still gloomy.

Then a funny thing happened. I saw a sun ray peeking through the branches. It wasn't overly bright, but it was sun. After driving just a few more miles, it was all different. Everything had changed. We pulled over and stopped. It was amazing. The sun was pouring over everything. We could see the tops of the mountains on the other side of the valley. It was warm instead of clammy and damp.

The fog was still there. It was as heavy and as thick as it ever was. It hadn't changed.

We were just above it now.

Now, after toiling up the mountain... we could see that fog from a different viewpoint. And though it looked gloomy and depressing from below, I have to say that it was crazy-beautiful from above. It looked like an ocean surrounded by mountains. It looked like a sun-kissed sea. And you'd never know it, but there were cities and towns and people all hidden underneath.


Perspective.

It's all about how we look at things. How we choose to view something. What angle we give it.

It was the first full day of our trip when we got a call from our adoption coordinator, who has also become a dear friend. More bad news, just weeks after things looked really possible for the first time in a long time. (I'm sorry I can't share details, but it is a protection for Liberia's kids and their chances to get home.) It's not like we haven't been through disappointment before. It's not like we don't know how to deal with it. But this time, I really grieved. I grieved the loss of my kids in my heart. I have said before that this has felt like a miscarriage at times. It does, but worse than my actual experience with miscarriage many years ago when all I really grieved was the loss of the idea or dream of someone. Because we have held Kelvin and Hawa and loved them tangibly, the feelings of loss are greater and wider and deeper.

Well, since things change daily in Liberia, we heard a week later that President Sirleaf dismissed all of her cabinet except for one person, making it altogether possible to get a different answer about the future of adoptions than we got before. So, I guess I am supposed to be glad.

The thing is that I am not glad. I'm not anything. I really dealt with the hopeless thing again. I really questioned God's goodness. I found it difficult to talk to him for several days... and that's tragic because he's my best friend. Thankfully, as he always does, he draws me back to himself with tenderness. He causes me to remember the many, many, many times in the past that he has shown himself faithful and worthy to be trusted. He lets me ask my questions, feel my pain, and have my bad attitude. Then he asks me to stand up and be a big girl. He asks me to trust his goodness, to keep going, to be humble and know that he is God, and to know that His ways are most certainly higher and better than mine.

I don't know where things will end up, or where my kids will end up, or where I will end up when all is said and done. But, I'm choosing to have a different perspective.

It feels gloomy and dark and depressing sometimes. I'd like to curl up and shut my eyes and avoid going out in it. I'd like to give in to the illusion that there is nothing around me but this void. But here's the great thing about knowing Jesus... I can tell a lie from the truth now. I can give in to the fog of discouragement and despair, or I can recall the way things really are, and remember the beauty around me... even when I can't see it anymore. I can choose to take that long and hard and sometimes doubtful journey to the place where the perspective changes... where there is light and sun... purpose and hope. I can trust God enough to lift me out of my fog and to trust that one day, not only will I really enjoy the view, I'll also understand the beauty on the other side of the fog. In fact, maybe it's all the more amazing because the fog was there in the first place.