december 2015.

Fall has lingered in South Carolina this year, coming late to us because of all the rain, so as I look outside this afternoon I still see colored leaves drifting lazily to the ground. The windows are open to the fresh 70-degree air, even as the lights twinkle on our Christmas tree across the room.

What a lovely December.

Last Christmas season, in the midst of baking and Advent hymns and whispered secrets about gifts, I carried an ache deep in my chest. We were waiting, waiting for Baby Gentino, and each day I begged myself not to live on pins and needles, straining my ears for a phone call from our social worker, but I did it anyway. We’d been a Waiting Family for a mere six weeks, which is really no time at all. Yet I wasn’t sure I could go on waiting months — possibly years? — longer.

I cried a lot. I trusted God, but I longed for the part of our family who was missing. I wondered, “How can I miss someone I don’t even know?” And also, “What if I got all of this wrong? What if God really doesn’t have a child waiting for us at the end of this journey?”

On December 12th, 2014, I wrote in my journal a prayer for a boy, and for not one child, but two. For siblings. I remember how hard it was to write those words because the request felt too big and too specific, like I was asking for more than I really had a right to. I prayed every single day for our child to come by Christmas.

I tried so hard to be thankful, to daily recite all the gifts God had already given me, and sometimes I managed it. I tried to live in the moment. But that’s hard when you’re in a waiting season, isn’t it? I wish I would’ve known that gratitude and heartache can coexist together peaceably. I didn’t need to strive so much against the heartache.

Still, I’m glad I fought to give thanks. It’s not the natural human disposition, and it is always a battle worth fighting. It’s one I still must fight.

Mostly, I think about myself last Christmas with compassion.

I pray that God gives me many more Decembers on this green earth, but this one is special. There will never be another like it. The gratitude just flows out of me like the tears that spring, unbidden to my eyes. I know that I don’t deserve any of this.

I think of how close David and I came, time and again, to giving up on our dream of adopting a child. There were so many obstacles. We’d already been blessed with two lovely children. We were happy. Was it sheer madness to mess with a good thing?

I thank God from the bottom of my heart for planting deep in us that steely drive to keep searching, to get to our other children.

If last December echoed the longing of those who strained forward, waiting for the light of their Messiah, then this December is full of comfort and joy. Our Light has come. And our family is together.

I see Christmas through Gabriel and Noah’s eyes, for whom all of this is new and magical. Noah stops and exclaims over every Christmas tree and strand of twinkly lights and yard art blow-up reindeer, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. We leave Grandpa and Mum-Mum’s house in the inky darkness, and every single time he shouts, “Wow! Grandpa made a star!” He plays with our nativity scene (whose characters are already missing a few more body parts this year), and sings to himself, “…world without end, amen, amen.”

Gabe runs up and throws his arms wide and says, “Mommy, I love you this much!” He bounds around the house and giggles and plays imaginary stories with his toys. He’s still busy and inquisitive, but is less the frantic ball of energy that he was before, needing to know the exact plan every moment, trying to control everything around him. He’s blossoming into an innocent, goofy little boy. He battles us less and smiles more. He’s settling into himself.

David asks me, “Is he changing, or are we?” Maybe we’re all changing.

I waited and I wondered and I prayed, but I couldn’t have dreamed these boys up. They are so beautiful it hurts.

Judah and Amelie can’t wait to introduce their brothers to every tradition. “Gabe, you get to put the star on the Christmas tree!” “Wait ’til you see the gingerbread cookies you’re going to decorate at Mrs. Gayle’s house!” “You’re going to love the Great Wolf Lodge!!!”

Their enthusiasm spreads through the whole house like the gust of toasty-warmth as we finally switch the heat on, and Gabe and Noah are still such little boys that they teach every one of us to slow down and soak in each moment. There’s no rush. They don’t care about counting down the days until opening presents; they just want to inspect every single ornament on the tree.

This year I watch and listen and try to notice everything. I file these moments away in my heart, the best Christmas gifts I could possibly receive.

And while I’m changing too, bit by bit, December shows me that in many ways I’m still the same person under all the layers of this past year. The waiting. The adopting. The adjusting. The too-big emotions.

Yesterday I slowly ate my lunch under the oak trees on our last day of Classical Conversations, and instead of spending the hour jumping up to check on kids and averting crises and comforting one who struggled, week after week, to enter in and make friends, I chatted with other moms and watched my (four!) children playing happily with each other and with their school mates.

I wake up a little less exhausted at the day spread out in front of me, and I don’t live, white-knuckled, for the few hours of alone time on Friday afternoons.

I’ve sworn off adoption reading and problem-solving for awhile, and just want to be with my kids and with myself, the way we are right now.

As I look ahead to 2016, I want to spend time with my nephews, who I’ve missed these last eight months because I’ve been so wholly absorbed in the little people in my house, and I want to become more involved in our church again. Those are good signs, aren’t they, that I may just be moving past survival mode? That perhaps I have more to give than just what it takes to get through today?

Is it possible that I could be emerging from the tunnel?

Rather than spend time exploring that question, I pour another cup of decaf into my Christmas-red Fiestaware mug, and turn the James Taylor Holiday station on Pandora. In a few minutes I will preheat the oven and mix up a batch of Chocolate Snickerdoodle cookies with Gabriel.

On the outside our December is busy, filled with people and food and memories, but inside my heart is at rest.

Happy Christmas, everyone!