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"Gottcha!" That's what we we said to a twelve-month-fifteen-day-old beautiful, apple cheeked Chinese baby girl on the day we held her in our arms for the first time. The moment unfolded at a Chinese Welfare Institution in Nanchung. The room was small, unadorned, dimly lit and filled with anxious parents-to-be along with the hearty cries of our baby girl and eleven others who were united with their adoptive American mamas and daddies that day, November 20th, 2005.

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I remember holding my pearl of a baby girl on my lap as we took a bumpy bus ride back to our hotel. As the bus maneuvered scarily through frenetic Chinese traffic, I felt an overwhelming, marrow-deep homesickness. A longing to smell the hair of our boys, to hug them hard and long, to play the piano in my front room, to look at the pond from our dining room table; and, simultaneously, a homesickness for a place I've never been, a Place where my Heart will truly find Rest and Peace and Completion . . . a place where True Forever Family lives. Along with all these existential emotional gymnastics, I also felt a sadness that Bryan and I were about to take this baby girl away from the first home she'd ever known.

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Hoping to bring a part of China back to the states with us, I leaned over my seat to ask our guide, "How do you say home in Chinese?"

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"Jia," she said and smiled as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
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Jia, jia, jia, I repeated in my heart. Jia. Jia. I wanted to remember this word. I planned to say it to our child after we flew across the Big Pond, landed in the airplane, and drove via car down our driveway for the first time. Jia, I would whisper in my little girl's ear. Jia. This is your home, Sweetheart.

Today is the third anniversary of our GOTTCHA DAY (a term well-known and beloved by adoptive parents of internationally adopted children).

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Today, Emily and I will dress up for tea with hats, strings of pearls (from China), boas and sparkly plastic rings. We'll set a toddler sized table for four. Two of my grandmother's tea cups - most likely filled with apple cider - will be for us. Two others will be set out for Emily's birth parents who we call Ma Ma and Ba Ba (the Chinese names for Mom and Dad).

We will sing and talk, eat Goldfish crackers and bakery cookies. And we will sip our tea. When there is a pregnant pause in the festivities; we'll raise our cups, with extended pinkies of course, and toast to Ma Ma and Ba Ba in China. We will thank them for giving Emily life, for giving her her first home in China, for

letting her come to a new home in America.

Thoughts of China and pain bearing beauty, of Emily's birth family, of jia have been flooding my mind. I wonder if Emily is remembering, too. I wonder if this season brings up for her the memories: smells, sights, sounds, feelings of the day when her life changed and she found a new kind of home in my arms.

I wonder if she remembers that we were both wearing the exact shade of jade green when we first met. I wonder if she remembers the way the Aunties told us - using pantomimed body-language - that she could walk, that she was doing so well, that she had been deeply loved in China. I wonder if she notices the big and small synchronicities that come during this time of remembering. Synchronicities like the one last night as I read the last few pages of Madeleine L'Engle's Meet the Austins to all of my kids before bed.

On the last few pages, L'Engle artfully, specifically describes the Austin family activities upon returning home from a long vacation:

We piled out of the car and in through the garage and into the house, into the kitchen. It was home and I remembered it with every bit of me . . . We were all dashing all over the house to our special places. I ran up to Rob's and my room, and there was his little bed at the foot of my big one . . . and the catalpa tree outside the east window was still naked but I thought I could see the beginning of buds. I kept going from room to room, bumping into the others, and that's what we were all doing, feeling the feel of home again.

We all ran outdoors to the swing, to John's and Dave's tree house, John, of course, to the barn . . . We ran all the way around the house, looking at it from all four points of the compass, and then back into the house again, and Mother had a record on the phonograph, and the phone kept ringing, all the kids to ask us about our vacation, and the office phone, because Daddy's patients knew he was home again.

Rob grabbed my hand and pulled me back upstairs to our room and he said, "Oh, my bed, my own bed," and I knew his God Bless that night would go on for hours if someone didn't stop him from blessing every piece of furniture in the house and every tree outdoors.

Mother called us to help, and she was getting dinner and we realized that it was dinnertime and we were all starved, so we set the table and I mashed the potatoes and Suzy cut up the tomatoes for salad and Rob went around the table giving everyone three napkins. Then we were all around the table holding hands to say grace, and we said the kind of grace we always do on special occasions, each of us in turn saying his own . . .

Then everyone started to jabber all at once and to eat like pigs and it all seemed right and comfortable and home.

On the way to the bus stop this morning, I replayed this passage from Madeleine's book in my mind. I thought about the day we came home from China with Emily. I thought about the homes we go to each Thanksgiving and Christmas. And, I thought about a Home where I hope to live after these homes all pass away. As I thought, an acrostic for HOME popped into my head:

H - Happily ever after?
O - Ostensibly a
M - metaphor for the

E - eternal.

Once again, welcome home, Emily! This is your jia, your place of love and family and fights with siblings, mashed potatoes, loud conversations, piano music and growing trees. Welcome, welcome, welcome. We're so glad that you're here! Welcome home!

PONY TAILS!!!

Joy sneaks up on us and surprises us like pollen or summer seeds that stick to our socks or a pair of cut-off jeans. It grabs a hold of us, goes along for the journey until it sprouts a smile that's soul-deep and ineffably warming.

After waiting a life-time: through an inexorably long season of singleness, two pregnancies that resulted in the birth of two bouncing beautiful baby boys, chronic back-pain, and a rigorous paper-pregnancy . . . I finally have a longed-for little girl. It is fun, frustrating and fabulous having another girl in the house. It's also immeasurably joyful. The joys of having a daughter come at unexpected times, in surprising ways.

My soul smiles when she wants to help me 'make dinner' in the kitchen each night as the boys race 'round the house or sit transfixed by video games. Joy comes when she sees me crying and pats me on the back in a distinctly feminine gesture of healing care. It also bursts into being when she wants to help me wash my hair as we're bathing together. Or when we're at the Jewel and Emily says, "Mom, can I wear your purse? Then I can be the mommy and you can be the gorgeous girl."

On Valentine's Day, it was Em's pony tails that did it. Ribboned in red and pink, bouncing sassily with her every step the pony tails got me. Intoxicated me. I couldn't take my eyes off of them. I photographed them 500 times, tried to memorize the way they caught the sun, accentuated Emily's perfectly round and distinctly animated face like two quotation marks. Joy! Pure joy!

How has joy stuck to you today? In a note from a friend? A new word on the lips of your two-year-old? A verse from the bible that spoke straight to your heart? A kiss from your man? An unexpected e-mail? Pony tails?

If you feel lead, please share some of your joy and enlarge our circle of faith & friendship!

JOY UPON JOY TO YOU AND YOURS!

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Happy Chinese New Year!
Xīnnián kuàilè!
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Chinese New Year's Eve is known as Chúxì (除夕). Chu literally means "change" and xi means "Eve".

On this Eve of Change I'm reminiscing about one of the biggest changes our family has undergone in quite some time: when we adopted Ling Xu Ran (aka Emily Grace Ling Miller) on November 20, 2005.

It is hard to believe that Emily has been part of our brimming brood for just over two years now. She and her sister-cousins (the eleven other girls who came home from JiangXi Provence with Emily) have all assimilated, adjusted, and are growing, thriving with their forever families. Below is a picture of a few these girls - lost daughters of China - who have been found.

love love love love Our Emily is the third from the right love love love love l love love love love(in the pink on pink striped dress).

In honor of Chinese New Year, I'm posting two excerpts relating to Emily and the Lost Daughters of China from Girl Talk . . . God Talk: What Your Friends Can Teach You About Prayer (Harvest House Publishers).

AN EXCERPT ABOUT THE LOST DAUGHTERS OF CHINA FROM
GIRL TALK . . . GOD TALK

The other day, I heard God, loud and clear, after watching Oprah. Her show was about the ‘lost baby girls of China.’ It explained that thousands of infant girls are abandoned in railroad stations, grocery markets, and parks in China each year. It noted that this occurs partly because of China’s population regulations, and partly because of a cultural preference for sons. Thus, orphanages in China are overflowing with female babies.

I was riveted by Oprah’s coverage of this issue because my husband, Bryan, and I are in the process of adopting a little girl from China. (By the time this book is in your hands, our daughter will be in ours.) I cried all day, after seeing graphic footage of a little orphan named, Mei Ming, which actually means ‘No Name,’ who was left alone in an orphanage ‘dying room’ to pass away.

I pictured my little lacquer-haired girl needing me for a bottle or diaper change. I imagined snuggling her or feeding her a meal. I wept for my daughter, now alive in China, waiting for me. I also cried for the others who’ll be left behind when my baby comes home.

The morning after seeing the Oprah show, I felt God nudging me to spend some time reading His word. To be honest, I was a little ticked at Him, wondering what He planned on doing for all of the precious, abandoned babes of the world. So, I resisted His invitation. I got out of bed at 5:30 a.m., as I usually do. But, instead of accepting His welcome to read, I made coffee, did two loads of laundry, made some notes for this book, and lit a fire.

God’s still, soft voice kept nudging me, “Read, Sally. Just pick up my word, and start reading where you left off last.” Finally, I flopped open my Bible to Ezekiel 16. I didn’t think I had any tears left in me. Still they poured out warm and saline as I read:

“On the day you were born . . . you were not washed with water to make you clean, nor were you . . . wrapped in cloths. Rather, you were thrown out into the open field, for on the day you were born you were despised.

I passed by and saw you kicking about in your blood, and as you lay there . . . I said to you, ‘Live!’ I made you grow like a plant of the field. You grew up . . . and became the most beautiful of jewel . . . I looked at you and saw that you were old enough for love, I spread the corner of my garment over you . . . I gave you my solemn oath and entered into a covenant with you, and you became mine.”

Immediately, I realized that these were God’s sentiments toward my daughter. As I read I couldn't believe I found a word for her in Ezekiel of all places! Through this prophesy for Israel, God’s warm, friendly voice promised to take care of the China’s lost daughters, and all the abandoned babies of the World.

Though I don’t know how He’ll keep His covenant; I believe He will, in His time and ways. He’ll not fail His covenant of Love with any orphans, including me.


AN EXCERPT ABOUT CHINA'S BIRTH MOTHERS FROM

GIRL TALK . . . GOD TALK

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep [her] memory green in our souls.
-Clement Clarke Moore

One of my dearest friends is a woman I’ve never met. I don’t know her name, the timbre of her voice, or her favorite foods. She may like spicy Sichuan; or perhaps she prefers Cantonese stir-fry. She may be boisterous and funny, or quiet and demure. She may be a farmer, a teacher, or a stay-at-home mom. She’s probably close to my age. But, she could be a few years older than I, or quite a bit younger.

All I definitely know about this woman is that she has lacquer hair, and almond eyes. She lives in China, and is about to give me one of the greatest gifts of my lifetime: a daughter. This faraway friend is the birthmother of a baby girl my husband and I are going to adopt from China this fall.

I’ve given my friend a name, Meiying, which means beautiful flower in Chinese. I use this name when I pray for her and the baby girl, Emily, that she carried. Lord, please carry Meiying as she carried Emily. Give her a healthy postpartum recovery, and a sweet, lasting connection to her daughter. Please be with Meiying during these tumultuous times for the family in China. Help her find grace and peace as she’s forced to make the difficult decision of placing her baby in a location where she’ll be found, placed in a welfare institution, and ultimately adopted – by us. Let Meiying know that when she cries, you cry; and that you care about her as much as she cares about Emily.

For about six months now, I’ve been preparing paperwork that was just mailed to the China Center for Adoption Affairs (CCAA) in Bejing. The collection of documents is called a dossier. It includes: a petition to adopt an orphan, our birth certificates, copies of passports, a home study, pictures of our family, etc. All of the documents are officially sealed by the Secretary of State, and the Chinese Consulate. I’d describe the process of preparing this package as a gestation of red tape: a paper pregnancy.

During my paper pregnancy, I was struck by a serendipitous occurrence. Almost every time I had to get my stack of growing papers signed, sealed, or notarized; it was usually a rainy, hazy, or misty day. Time and again, I remember cloaking the documents inside my jacket to prevent them from getting wet. Sheltering the bundle felt much like carrying a little baby. Often, I found myself tearing up as I cradled the valuable paperwork in my arms, under my heart. I imagined that Emily’s birthmother was probably crying a lot, too.

I thought about Meiying, and hoped she was receiving some comfort from her religion be it Confucianism or Buddhism. I tried to picture her in the temple praying and receiving grace. But, I didn’t know if Meiying even lived near a religious shrine, or of she participated in any kind of religious practice. I thought about my missionary friend who’s currently in China; and hoped, among the millions, that Meiying might’ve been one exposed to faith in Christ. No matter what her story, I found deep comfort in the image of God collecting Meiying’s tears in a bottle (Psalm 56:8).

Also, as I reflect on many rainy trips to the Chinese Consulate in Chicago, and to my adoption agency, I realize that Meiying and I were not the only ones crying for Emily . . . for China. God was expressing His anguish, too. His tears over lost mothers and daughters of His beloved China symbolically fell in thunderstorms and showers, mists and heavy torrents of rain. The tears were numerous, and came throughout our entire adoption process.

In January our paperwork was complete. I put it all in a grand envelope. Noticing that the weather was a predictable grey, I put on my biggest, fluffiest winter parka. Like a mother bear, I was prepared to protect the documents that would ultimately link me to my daughter.

On my way to the adoption agency, the sky darkened. I thought about Meiying. I cried tears for her along with tears of personal joy, anticipation, and fear. By the time I pulled onto the long, tree lined drive leading to our social worker’s office; it wasn’t raining. It was snowing! Soft, large, white flakes floated from heaven, consecrating the moment as holy. Some of Jesus’ famous words came to mind.

Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.
Luke 6:21

I parked my car, looked heavenward into flecks of freshly falling flakes. And, imagined the day I will meet Emily’s birth mother. I see her. She is as beautiful as an orchid, with long black hair, and a slender body. I bow to her. She bows in return. Jesus wipes tears from our eyes. Emily takes both of our hands, and we skip down a golden street, laughing.

TREASURE IN A SUPERMAN BACKPACK

Today I found a treasure in my son Ben's backpack. It was two pieces of paper - the elementary school kind - with an extra dotted line to house wild, wondrous, some times indiscernible letters. The papers were scrawled with Ben's gorgeous, eye-pleasing, second grade scribbles and colorful illustrations. Stapled to the paper, a note from his teacher:

Dear Parents,

The class wrote personal narratives. First they brainstormed their ideas on a graphic organizer. They wrote a first draft and then edited it with me . . .

The writer in me perked up. I wonder how my son did with this assignment? Has he, perhaps, caught the Writers' Bug?! The curious mom in me stood at full attention. What could he possibly have written about?! What is racing 'round that juvenile, imaginative tabula rasa? I quickly flipped the teacher's note to the back of the treasure, almost liberating it with a riiiiiiip!

In the middle of the kitchen - one of the most holy, sacred sanctuaries of our home - I read:

THE DAY MY SISTER CAME HOME
by Ben

My sister came home from China at dinner time. At first she did not want us to see her. But then she ended up liking us.

After dinner my sister pulled me and my brother around the house. Finally we got to open our presents. They were panda shirts.

When we went to bed my sister cried. My mom asked her what was wrong. She said, "I want Ben." So I came in and I picked her up and took her in my bed.

But the only thing I do not like about my litter sister is she pinches me.

I love my sister.

As I post this blog entry I know that something has gotten lost in my transcription. It is Ben's handwriting: the tilting 'A's' and heavily filled-in periods, the reworked 'W's' and swirly 'O's' that speak so strongly of a brother's love for his sister who 'came home at dinner time.'

Some Children See Him

Christmas Eve morn I was putting dishes from breakfast in the dishwasher. My trinity of children, Ben, Ayden and Emily begged for some Christmas music to dance to. Bryan rallied them near the tree, snagged a small, flat, square present and had them give it to me: James Taylor's At Christmas. Wondrous!!!

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The kids boogied and bopped to Winter Wonderland, Go Tell It On The Mountain, Santa Claus Is Coming To Town and Jingle Bells. Bry even brought me close - cheek to cheek - twirling me 'round the kitchen for Baby, It's Cold Outside. By the time The Christmas Song rang from the speakers, my crew was off to the basement to play with Transformers and video games.

Alone in the kitchen, I mixed artichoke dip for the evening's fare and listened to James. A lengthy intro to a carol I didn't immediately recognize floated into the room, casting a spell on me. Usually I can name almost any traditional tune in just a few notes. This one simultaneously eluded and captivated me. What song is this? I wondered. Somehow the music started soliciting tears. I couldn't tell if it was the crescendo of strings or the piano stylings of my fav, Dave Grusin, that did it. But, there I was with a cup of Parmesan cheese in my hand and tears in the corners of my eyes.

The intro reached a swollen up-beat and Jame's folky tenor broke in, divulging the carol, Some children see Him lily white/The baby Jesus born this night. Some children see Him lily white/With tresses soft and fair . . . tears cascaded soft and copiously down my face. Though the words were as familiar as an old friend, the traditional melody equally comforting, I had no idea why the song was reaching into my chest and wrapping its pentatonic fingers around my heart.

Then, the third verse came:

Some children see Him almond-eyed,
This Savior whom we kneel beside.
Some children see him almond-eyed,
With skin of golden hue.

Without thinking, I walked (dare I say floated) to our dining room window, and gazing at a snow-covered park, started to weep. Gratitude for three-year-old, beautiful, almond eyed, little Emily who is my daughter warmed me like a woolen sweater. Prayers for all the orphans we met in China when we adopted her flooded my soul. And, the faces of Emily's twelve sister-cousins who traveled home to America on the same plane she did flashed across my mind.

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The classic carol has always painted a lovely, prismatic picture for me: children around the globe seeing the Christ child with skin the same hue as theirs, with eyes the same shape as their own, and hair of their texture. When I listened to the lyric as a child, I loved imagining multicultural creches around the planet in Mexico, Africa, Israel, China, Australia, Europe, etc. They were all vibrant in color. Some were complete with palm trees and sand, others with mountains and snow. As I grew up, I loved the way the lyric pointed out our abilities to see based on our life experience, our world view. And, I found it inspiring that God, in whose image we are all created, is seen/revealed in children of great diversity and beauty.

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Even though the carol had touched me, intrigued me; it had existed apart from me like a planet on a parallel orbit. This year - standing in our kitchen holding the cup of grated cheese, listening to James Taylor's hauntingly clear tenor - that all changed. The hymn came near, orbiting my very heart. Why? I wondered, and the answer came clear as the carol: because of the diversity in my own family, because of my gorgeous, tenacious, luminescent Chinese daughter, Emily. She has changed me. I am no longer simply a woman with deep deciduous Midwestern roots. I'm, now, a mom who, touched by the grace of adoption, has fallen in love with China and a little girl who is fruit of that wondrous place.

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As Emily and I have walked through Advent together, lighting candles, reading stories, singing carols, preparing meals and gifts, touching familiar icons I've been mindful to celebrate instead of indoctrinate. I don't want to wash away any of Emily's rich heritage by force-feeding her a distinctly American, materialistic, western Jesus. I want her to experience divinity as a daughter of China, an American adoptee, a child of God. I want her to know a savior who is big, unconfined by boxes and myopic religious practices (though He was willing to take on infant form). I want Emily to see the baby in the manger with her own distinctly beautiful eyes. The funny thing is that, during this Advent - the third Emily and I have shared - for the first time, I'm the one who is seeing baby Jesus with almond eyes.

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Some Children See Him

Some children see Him lily white,

The baby Jesus born this night.

Some children see Him lily white,

With tresses soft and fair.

Some children see Him bronzed and brown,

The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.

Some children see Him bronzed and brown,

With dark and heavy hair.

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Some children see Him almond-eyed,

This Savior whom we kneel beside.

Some children see Him almond-eyed,

With skin of golden hue.

Some children see Him dark as they,

Sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.

Some children see him dark as they,

And, ah! they love Him, too!

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The children in each different place

Will see the baby Jesus' face

Like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,

And filled with holy light.

O lay aside each earthly thing

And with thy heart as offering,

Come worship now the infant King.

'Tis love that's born tonight!

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In my moment of dip-making-carol-enjoying epiphany, I realized that I've become one of the children looking at a new and distinctly personal creche scene. Thanks to Em, my blond-haired, blue-eyed baby Jesus has changed. This Christmas he has lovely lacquer hair and smiling almond eyes. He has been baptised by an eastern perspective, a perspective of pain and the beauty of redemption. From this distinct vantage, Christ looks more mysterious, more powerful, more unexpected, more divine. My made-over manger reveals a Miracle holding surprising, unique, vast, uncontainable deity. He's the long awaited One who reveals God's wonder around the globe; and in organic, daily, unimaginable ways to unsuspecting moms through the eyes of their children.

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After I wrote this piece my mom shared an inspiring, sagacious article by Ron Grossman titled, Christian Art is Chinese History. The newspaper clip weds China, Christ, art, history, and antiquity. It really affirmed some of my thoughts and feelings. Check it out at:

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-scroll_02jan02,1,1219921.story?ctrack=2&cset=true