The Day He Came

What is born in the sea

even if carried deep into

the breast of land

made dry in the desert

sage in the mountains

or sweetened in the orchards

shall yet and always carry that

old and familiar salt

-Jaiya John

Matthew is an introvert. He doesn't get that from me and he doesn't get it from his mother. But there you have it. He is quiet, shy, and anxious around others until he becomes completely comfortable in a situation. Then, and only then, does that funny and bubbly boy emerge. To this end, he doesn't make friends easily. He'd rather have one or two good buddies--or a backyard and his own imagination--than a room full of friends.

And so, I worried about our trip to Texas. I didn't lose sleep but I was prepared to watch my boy "turtle up" as we met his family. His quietness has, on more than one occasion, been perceived as rudeness and that was the last thing I wanted him equated with on this trip.

I needn't have worried. "What is born in the sea...shall yet and always carry that old and familiar salt." It was as though he'd known them forever. And, in some way, he had. All those 40 weeks spent dwelling inside her body. Swimming. Growing. Kicking. Hearing her voice. Knowing the gentle sway of the steps taken by her feet. His older sisters were there those 280 days. Buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind, is there the memory of Mama singing them to sleep while he struggled to Begin? Has he known them all these years because he knew them then?

He is there, in the car with me. Every step he has taken to this point has been difficult. He has only shared moments with me but it is there on his face when we board the plane. It is there over his eggs and bacon in the hotel--he seems somehow smaller and he uncharacteristically asks me to help him. It is heard in the nearly inaudible sigh from the backseat as we make the drive. And yet, his eyes dance with the excitement of what is finally coming.

"I'm really nervous," he says as we pull up in front of their home. I have every intention, the moment those words hit my ears, to take his hands, look him in the eyes, and tell him to breathe. I will pray over him. I will let him take as long as he needs before we make the journey from car to front door. But she appears from thin air, bending down, her face at the driver's side window. Her smile, broad. It is the smile I remember from our time together in years gone by, identical to the one that spreads joy across the face of our boy. 

As I open the door I say, "Well she's here..." We throw arms around each other and, like water over stones in a brook, she spills, "I had to take a walk. I got so nervous."

I whisper, almost silently, into her ear, "He's nervous too." Whether to give him time or out of sheer excitement, she turns and runs up the walkway, yelling to her daughters. Two of them pour from the house. Everything is happening so quickly. I glance at Matthew and he is stoic. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth but he walks cautiously, a trait that comes from his father, no doubt, because it isn't from this maternal side of the family.

One sister calls to another, "Get out here! It's Matthew, he's really here!" and then, before speaking to him, she runs back inside. "Come on!" I hear her yell, "Matthew's here!" I realize I'm holding my breath. It is as though she's played this moment so many times, but he was always just a figment of her imagination.

This day, though. This day he has come.

They bubble. All of them extroverted and clamoring for his attention. He is the audience they have waited for all these years.

There are hugs and introductions. The littlest one, no doubt the most confused by all of this, is enamored and spends the better part of two days touching him. Holding his hand. Kissing his face. Glued to his side. Matthew slides into the role of big brother. I've seen it with Will. It's the role he was born to play. 

My boy has always hated germs. Slobbery kisses from five-year-old girls, forget about it. Unless it's his little sister. She is not a stranger. She is instantly his girl. 

He finds his family hilarious. I can tell by the soft chuckle he emits and the coy smile he employs when they say something funny. He is hilarious, too, and it seems to dawn on him that his silly sense of humor might run through the blood in his veins. He hears stories and sees pictures that make him smile.

At the end of the first day, we are both exhausted. He falls fast asleep while I'm in the shower. I crawl into bed next to him and place my hand on his soft cheek. I feel like the luckiest mom in the world--this amazing kid is asleep on the pillow next to mine. I'm processing things I didn't plan to process. Like the fact that when he says, "Mom," he means me and it makes me bristle a little. I feel like I've stolen the title and a part of me wants to sit down and really explain that I know how blessed I am that she allows me to use it. She is so easy on me and with me and she always has been. Whatever she has struggled through behind closed doors, I have been shown great grace and mercy and love. I stare at his face and I start to cry.

I can't decide if it's exhaustion or life or both.

The next day he makes more memories. Little Sister hangs on to him as though he'll disappear if she lets go. Big Sister asks me to promise to come back next summer and I swallow the lump in my throat. Because I cannot make promises even though I want to. For these siblings. For this mother. For this boy. But I have always said that in adoption we must take it one moment at a time. I cannot plan for 525,600 moments from now. Mama spins him in a circle and says she won't ever let him go. I can't possibly know the feeling. Biggest Sister hitches a ride from me to a friend's house and shares an extra five minutes with him. This doesn't surprise me at all. She's an adult now but I will always see the nine-year-old girl who wanted her unborn baby brother to have a golden retriever and a good life.

Our adopted children are their families. They look like them. They sound like them. They share character traits and blood. If they are born in the sea, they may leave and prosper and grow and change in remarkable and wonderful ways but, they will always carry with them the ocean's salt.

We fell right back into our life here when we returned. At nine, my son seems content to live in the world he's always known. This is, of course, a current peace that I will not take for granted. When an adult adoptee friend found out we were going to see Matthew's family, she said, "I promise you are...creating the strongest foundation of trust with him."

My hope is that he finds a way to thrive in the sage of the mountains or the sweetened orchards but that he always feels accepted as the savory salt of the sea.