Closer to Love

I think about this Mat Kearney line a lot.

"I guess we're all one phone call from our knees."

It's a stark truth. Our current reality, whatever it is, is fragile. Happiness rests on mortal things and mortal things are, well, temporary? fleeting? Mortal.

I want to write about Mexico. The tropics. Joy. Vacation. Security with four children, six bags and two strollers, which was nothing short of hilarious, unless you happened to be ME and in charge of moving said circus through TSA's hoops. I want to tell you what I told a friend yesterday. It was fabulous. Exhausted, sandy, dirty-footed children in bed at 6:00 p.m. fabulous. Pina colada in my hand at 6:05 fabulous.

But, there's something else. Isn't there always? That needs to be moved out of whatever part of my brain is forever writing sentences as a way to process and analyze and memorialize my existence. Here it is: Before this vacation, we hadn't talked to our son's parents in a long time. Way too long of a time.

Even that sentence was hard to write. I slogged my way through several versions.

We hadn't talked to the parents of the little boy we adopted in a long time.

We hadn't talked to the parents of the little boy that used to be ours in a long time.

I suppose those are more accurate in some ways. I know from reading comments on articles and posts about disruption that many people object to calling a child that you gave up "yours" or "son." But, he was, however briefly, and, viewed generously, it conveys the right emotions.

We hadn't talked to our son's parents because I couldn't, I physically couldn't, pick up the phone and call them. It's hard to articulate why.

Fear. Yes. But, not the kind you think. I had no doubts that he is fine; that they love him; that he thrives as a part of their family. The fear was for me. For the fragile peace in my heart. For the finally healing scab. The potential for tears in carefully closed boxes. As much as I want him to be perfectly happy and well adjusted, it will hurt forever that it wasn't with me.

Avoidance. Probably. Wrapped clumsily around more fear. That she, his mother, his real mother, would say something from which I would never recover. There's something wrong with you; how could you not love him enough.

A few days after the earthquake in Haiti, the mother of his biological sister - I'll call her Vivienne, she has a different, beautiful French name, but that will do - Vivienne wrote me an email. I had been, not ignoring, I swear. That's too harsh. I had been failing to deal with her emails for months. She couldn't reach his parents. I knew that; Their email wasn't working, I had tried it. She wants to stay in touch. I knew that too. We had updated each other frequently, a broken communication, her gushing in French, me responding to what I could understand and gushing in English. In light of the recent tragedy, she wrote, I thought you might have heard from his parents. She knew we all must be thinking about Haiti at this time and our children's connection there.

Her simple email unparalyzed me. The undeserved generosity. The lack of judgment or accusation, though this was her third email in six months, all without response. I had them in a folder labeled, "wimp." Knowing if I let this opportunity pass, if I let the momentum die, if I let two days become two months, I would never have the courage, I picked up the phone.

It was really hard. My heart hammered and my palms were sweaty. I don't know what horrible thing I possibly thought could happen to me over the phone. Phones can be put down. Stirring rice for dinner, my spark of courage carefully timed to give me the out of my hungry children, I listened to a phone ring many states away.

And then, they answered and it wasn't. I spoke to his mother.

I'm sorry, I know it's been too long, so long it's embarrassing. It's not because we don't care. Your email wasn't working and I didn't want to intrude. How is he doing?

He's great. He still plays soccer, but he loves baseball. He's adjusted. They have a new email; they are so sorry. I can give all of their contact information to Vivienne. Of course I can. I can call any time. They love to share about him.

Okay. Well. Thank you. For everything. For your time. For...everything.

How do you tell someone you barely know except on paper you are so unbelievably thankful that they exist, that they are who they are?

It was over. I still lived.

Okay, I said again, intending to say good bye.

He completes our family, she told me abruptly, as if she'd been trying to get it out too, as if she also lacked words for this sharp, awkward, fragile connection we had. We'll be forever grateful to you and your husband for bringing him to us.

I hung up and cried. They will be grateful to us. I don't share that because I think we deserve it, or because I think you should think we are noble in some way. We don't think so. I share it because sometimes, there is more generosity in the world than you deserve.

Sometimes, you are one phone call from your knees. One phone call from resolution. One phone call from comfort. One phone call from unexpected understanding. One phone call closer to love, maybe even of yourself.

********

Dear Vivienne,

Thank you for not giving up on me. I know I haven't responded to you as I should have. Their email had changed and calling was so hard for me. I spoke with his parents this evening. He's doing so well. Here is all of their contact information. Please write to them, they would love to hear from you. I hope you will write me if you need anything.

Stacey