Grieving for Desta

Post written in Dubai, September 12, 2009

I cannot sleep.  I have been lying in bed, listening to my music. I placed an artist on the iPod shortly before we left on this trip.  Gigi, a talented Ethiopian musician who sings haunting melodies. Every time I listen to this music, my heart grieves just a bit.

Tonight, my heart is grieving for Desta. The particular song I was listening to speaks of Africa and Ethiopia, the tune is in minor key, beautifully haunting (song title:Adwa by Gigi.)  As I listened, I began to think of all the things she will be leaving, never to have again in her life. She will never hear her birth mother’s heartbeat, beating against her chest as she is held. The sights of the mountains of Addis will not be what she wakes up to each morning. She will not hear the clicking sounds of Amharic spoken to her, not will  she taste the spices of her country each day.  Her culture will not be Ethiopian but rather African American in a biracial family.  She will stand out, not blend in.  She will not be part of the land she was born to.

I understand that grief.  Until I began this adoption journey, I did not realize the grief I still hold in my heart for my country, my land of Africa.  I still long, in the inner sanctions of my soul, to be home again.  Home for me speaks of palm butter and rice, boarding school and rugby matches.  It speaks chapatis and stew, injera and boona. Home for me is standing out, being white in a brown world.  Home for me is the blending of Nigerian, Liberian, Kenyan and  Ethiopian cultures.

I grieve for all I had and all I do not have. I long for a time when all these worlds I live in and love collide and become one. That is not realistic on this side of heaven.

As the tears gathered in my eyes tonight, I allowed myself to be swept to that place of pain that I usually push away.  I chose tonight, to allow myself to sit in that moment of what Desta could have had.  There are many things I gained by coming to the US, making Colorado my home. Desta will experience the same.

I don’t want her to forget what she had to leave behind.  I want to share with her my own journey.  It is possible to grieve and rejoice at the same time.  That is something I am now realizing.

As I sit here and anticipate her being placed in my arms, I am washed with joy and sadness.  I am sad for what was never allowed to be in her life. I rejoice in knowing that because it was not allowed, we are now starting a new life of joy and love.  Our worlds have collided and we will never be the same again.