The Safest Place
In the summer of 2018 our family was scheduled to take a furlough in the United States after almost a decade of serving in Sarajevo, Bosnia. We were looking forward to this time to reconnect with our home country, send our four kids to local school, attend our sending church, see our family and friends. But shortly before our return we received devastating news: my mother, my dearest friend, was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. The diagnosis came as a shock: my mother was active, healthy, and full of life. Not even a year ago we spent the summer on the Croatian coast laughing with the children.
A month after diagnosis, we also received the joyful but life altering news that our adoption paperwork had been pushed up the timeline by 3-4 years: we had a referral for a little boy with special needs in Bulgaria who desperately needed a family. A week before we left for America Josh and I traveled to Bulgaria to meet our future son, at the same time trying to say goodbye to our home and wrestle with the fear of my mother’s diagnosis.
After returning to the US for a few months it became clear my mom was not getting better, and worse: her mind was slipping. My mother was not the same carefree, laughing, helping mom she was before. She was confused, paranoid, and not able to hold real conversation. Over the next year we saw her slip away from us right in the middle of welcoming another child into our family. Isaac is a gift, and with the gift of adoption comes trauma. And Trauma is hard to navigate as a family.
We returned to Bosnia in June 2019. Within weeks of our arrival Isaac had respiratory issues and my mother’s health continued to deteriorate. She passed away in October, and Isaac ended up in the hospital that February after several bouts of bronchitis and pneumonia. Things felt very heavy at this point but we had no idea what was coming for us in March 2020.
When the coronavirus came to Sarajevo, we had plans to stay. We had so many people we could help and we could continue to serve our students. But after a few days and a conversation with crisis management, we made the difficult decision to leave our beloved home of 11 years so we could be close to Isaac’s respiratory specialists and children’s hospital in case covid affected him severely. Within 3 days, we packed what we could, found a place for our dog, and left our country, never to return. We got no goodbyes, no closure, no time to think what was important to keep and what needed to be given away or sold.
That summer it became clear we were not returning any time soon. Isaac was diagnosed with autism and multiple delays and needed intense therapy for the hope of a positive future. One of our other kids was diagnosed with severe ADHD and anxiety and was in need of therapy and medication. None of these things could be found in Sarajevo. And I was angry.
I had a hard time believing that this was it, our time in Sarajevo was over. And on top of that was a lockdown that never seemed to end. America was no longer the home I remember. No mom and no community. For the first time in our family’s history we felt alone.
I went on a walk in our neighborhood. I had to get out of the house and have a serious conversation with God. Why would He call us and let us fall in love with Bosnia only to rip us out? Why would he call us to adoption knowing that it would be so hard? Why would he allow our children to struggle? Why would he take my mom and my kids’ grandma away so young? As I hashed this out with God, I got to a place in my walk, my driveway that converges with my neighbor’s driveway. There are trees and shrubs all around and it leads back into the woods. I stopped there and I heard God. “what will you choose?”
Choose?
I knew I had a choice, once again, to either allow God to give me grace to trust Him more, or to give up.
And honestly, I really wanted to give up.
“God, I’m tired of trusting You! Is that all this faith walk is? Hard, trust, more hard, more trust? Will it ever stop? Can we ever get reprieve? I’m just tired! I don’t know if I have what it takes to continue to trust you, to walk with you. I’m so weary!”
And what I heard back surprised me.
“I hear you. And you don’t have to trust me. It’s okay if you don’t want to this time.”
I’ve grown up believing that trusting him is the only way, and that if we don’t he will whack us back into shape. Trust is the only way, right?
But hearing this made me pause. I looked at that driveway. One path led to the house. Comfort. Ease.
The other led to the woods. Unknown. Suspense. Adventure.
Then I heard the Lord speak again. “If you choose to not trust me, I will still be with you. I will still love you and support you and eventually you will turn back to me. But I promise, all along that walk of distrust I will be with you. Or you can choose to trust me and you know what that means.”
Somehow hearing this from the Lord made him feel the safest I have ever felt around God.
He was safe. I was loved no matter what.
I chose to trust him.
I chose to walk with him into that wilderness and adventure.
Life today is still difficult. We still face the daily walk of trauma, grief and special needs. I still miss my beloved Bosnia and my beautiful mother.
But I still choose to trust in the God who proves himself safe.
The God who will never let me go.
“Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” -Psalm 23:6
