Dear Mama,
A cold mug of coffee sits
in front of me, the cream swirling reluctantly towards the surface as the minutes
tick by. Our two tiny hurricanes are
tucked safely in the cool of their room, sleeping soundly after a wild morning
spent running up and down the beach. It
never ceases to put a smile on my face to think of their relentless joy in
jumping breakers, or the fullness of their cheeks as they hold their breath,
eager to dive just beneath the roll of the waves. A riptide of thankfulness washes over me as I
recall the wide grins that appear permanently plastered across their faces as
they ride their pint-sized surfboards to shore.
This is us, almost every day—the beach is our favorite playground. Our days together look like endless blue.
They smell like the salty sea, taste like thick peanut butter and honey
sandwiches; they sound like swells of laughter that rise from grinning keiki as
they dive belly first into the waves.
We’ve lived this day together a thousand times over (and it never gets
old)—the ordinary, remarkable goodness of it all is not lost on me. It’s 1pm and now, gratefully, these sun-kissed,
sandy boys will sleep long and deep after a lengthy morning spent in the
Hawaiian sea.
I’ve started and stopped
this letter a hundred times. Where to
begin? How much story to tell? What do you want to know about us? This letter seems important. And my words always seem to fail. Adoption
has been swirling into all the corners of our hearts for a long time, now it
overflows onto this page.
I, myself, am the story of
an unlikely mother. Five years ago, I
would never have believed you had you told me I would be penning this letter
while two of our own lil men slept in the next room. Yet however unlikely, here I sit, heart heavy
with love and a longing to expand this ohana of ours. Motherhood is a remarkable journey. It’s easily
the hardest and most rewarding and best thing I have ever been blessed to be a
part of.
We have two biological
sons—and though their homecomings feel like just yesterday, somehow they are
already five and three. They are our
greatest blessing. Our wonderful, deeply
cherished, often sandy, growing yahoos.
I sit watching them play and goodness—this privilege of being their mom,
this crushing love, it’s almost too much to bear.
Ryker John
My biggest monkey turned
five this March. His newborn and toddler
days are forever burned in my brain because he was my first—the one who
reprogrammed me to love deeper, to fall asleep quicker and to stock dark
chocolate like the world is ending.
Because (truthfully) sometimes it felt like to was. And I guess it did, but not in the way I thought. In fact, we quickly added another baby boy
because my world that “ended” was just a whisper of how good a world (of how
much better a world) it is with him in it.
Ryker is full of grit. He
tackles all of life with reckless abandon.
He is my kindred spirit—my white-haired, old souled, brave, Hawaiian-born
warrior, whose catching, zest for life is utterly infectious. His genuine smile and demeanor just
make you want to cruise with him. He evokes the most welcoming stoke and is
always focused on the task at hand. He’s a true modern Hawaiian warrior with a
massive amount of aloha spirit. He’s our
hiking buddy, our surfing buddy, our adventure buddy, our big helper. He says he’s “strong like daddy” and it’s
true.
Finn Jameson
He is like the sunshine.
There is almost a palpable light and tenderness and warmth about him. And a dash of ornery “gremlin” thrown in for
good measure. Lately I keep finding myself amazed at how quickly he turned into
a little boy. I can almost never
remember that he is only THREE. His normal, everyday routine includes five bike
rides a day. This summer he swam half a
mile out into open ocean to spend a couple hours snorkeling with wild spinner
dolphins. Last month he was brave enough
to adamantly insist he get to enter the local surf competition. His big and strong legs have logged hundreds
of miles of climbing and hiking and skating. He’s curious, smart, talkative, empathetic
and my constant companion. He is happiest with his people and is the funniest
tiny human we know. I’m not sure if it’s actually possible to be immune to this
kid’s bewitching charm. He’s so much personality in one tiny peanut and a
constant source of joy and laughter and entertainment to our hearts. We love
him so.
Matt
He makes his boys hot
breakfast each morning, kisses me on his way out the door, is a medical rep by
trade, and is quick to rally the whole family for beach units and party
waves. And, even after almost 14 years
together, he still smiles at all my crazy adventure requests. He quite
literally makes all our dreams come true.
I speak for all of us when
I say that we are thankful for this man and his everyday love. For the way he
is continually, busily living his love for us.
For his love that gets up before dawn and kisses each of us as he heads
out the door to work. A love that never
tires of LEGOS and always makes time to sit down and really listen. A love that pours sweat and energy into
making all our fixer-upper dreams come true. A love that rallies at the end of
long days and work weeks to seek out new adventures when he’d rather be
resting. A love that tucks the kids in
bed each night with a story and a song. A love that believes in the God of his
father and mother and passes down the old stories to his sons.
In-as-much that I am the
story of an unlikely mother, my husband is the story of a man made and built to
be “dad.”
Matt and I have lived on
Oahu for over seven years now. We love that our boys were born here, and (every
single day) we are thankful to be raising our keiki here—where they often roam
barefoot and Huck-Finn-happy. On
“duck-row” in an old white house, tucked among emerald palms, with an engraved
wood door, where the windows stay open year-round. Amid surfboard racks and outrigger canoes.
Where they simply cannot be stopped from fishing out back and climbing the
avocado tree out front. Where we bike to
the beach and walk to the park. It’s a dream come true to live here—in this
land of emerald, razorback mountains, blue skies, palm trees, thick sunshine
and turquoise waters.
We are imperfect, but our
love is fierce. We are committed to this
family. To this place.
For me, the beginning of
this adoption journey, the writing of this letter today, is like an oyster
shell—rough, cemented to rock, clinging hard against the regular chaos of the
(wonderfully good, always overflowing life with two littles) tides. Writing this letter is a building up of a
single pearl, from a single grain of sand that has found its way, unexpected
and gloriously hopeful. This letter is
not the pearl- I think that the pearl must be this family—our being built
together in God. Perhaps this letter is
the single grain of sand, or maybe it’s simply a glimpse inside the oyster
shell—a peek into the becoming, the expanding of this family.
I hope in any case, that
this letter becomes a story of this expanding.
The boys are now stirring,
a sign that it’s time to bring this haphazard collection of thoughts to a
close.
Warmest mahalos for
listening.
And one last thing, dear
one. If you’re reading this and walking
down the path of choosing life for your little one/s. The road may feel long
and difficult. Stay the course. What you’re doing is a miracle. It’s something
more than a miracle. And if you ever look back and wonder what you’ve done with
your life, you have been God’s grace to your child, to the family you choose
for them—you are a miracle, something more than a miracle.
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