In 1997, a 6-year-old girl stood on the threshold of the room where Todd and I sat waiting, hearts beating wild with anticipation. She wore a red velvet dress with matching bow in her brown hair. Next to her stood a boy wearing a pink Lion King sweatshirt. We learned he would turn 4 the next day.

A woman, gray haired pulled back in a bun, leaned low and whispered to Anna in Russian while pointing to me, “There’s your mama.”

Anna smiled wide and broke loose. She dashed across the massive oriental rug and jumped into my arms squealing, “Mama! Mama! I’ve waited so long for you, Mama!” I had no words other than, “I love you so much!” spoken in my newly learned Russian.

Sergei, whom we renamed Zachary, also ran across the room and hopped onto Todd’s lap. After a brief hug, Zach jumped back to the floor and began bouncing all around on a big red ball with a handle.

This was bliss.

The four of us left that Russian orphanage for a whole new life far, far away. Todd’s and my years of grieving infertility were over. Finally, we had a family. Finally, we had an opportunity, birthed through grief, to turn loss into new life.

In 1999, Todd and I returned to the same orphanage and brought Nicholas home with us. He was 19 months-old with chubby cheeks and towhead hair. He weighed only 15 pounds, couldn’t stand, couldn’t hold a sippy cup. Developmental delays, we knew, were common but  temporary. A generous amount of proper loving care would help all our kids catch up, so we thought.

Within two years, Todd and I heart-birthed three kids and became an over-the-moon happy family of five. Shortly thereafter, grief came knocking again, and again, and again—a most unwelcome intruder.

Continue reading at Jolene Philo’s Different Dream.