Just imagine being almost 2.

Imagine someone you don’t know arriving in your house.

Imagine your parents being angry.

Imagine the sounds of heated arguments, raised voices.

Imagine seeing uniforms you don’t understand, faces foreign to you.

Imagine being scooped up from your cot and put in a car you don’t know with a baby you’re terrified of.

Imagine being driven by a stranger in the dark.

Imagine her taking you to another house.

Imagine being left there with more strangers.

Imagine screaming as they gently wash the ingrained dirt from your hair, encrusted in your eyebrows.

Imagine being offered milk in a different cup, and it doesn’t taste the same here.

Imagine sobbing as they put you in a bed you don’t know, in a room that smells weird, whilst they sing songs you’ve never heard, stroking you with hands you’ve never touched.

Imagine trying to frantically climb away on legs that don’t work from the baby trying to touch you.

Imagine feeling it all without the words to voice it.

Imagine experiencing it all without the power to fight it.

Imagine over time building trust and growing to love and starting to feel safe. Of the old life gradually fading away and the new one becoming home. The strangers becoming family, reminding you you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But imagine that every time something changes or you feel afraid, you are transported back. Back to the two year old, paralysed with fear. Back to the two year old, unable to speak. Back to the two year old, who can’t run away. Back to the two year old, not knowing who is safe. Back to the two year old, having everything and everyone you know ripped away in moments.

And then imagine the fragile world you’re slowly starting to trust stopping with no warning. Those feelings rising up again. Familiar faces gone again. Familiar places gone again. You cling to the safety of home, of family. But you become so used to being there, that each time your Mummy or Daddy goes to leave, the panic rises up again. The world outside is different now. There are germs, there are rules, wash your hands, don’t touch, don’t cough, stand away, don’t hug.

And then imagine change again. You want to try. You want to be brave. You want to go to school. You pack your bag, you put on your uniform, you walk up the drive. And there it is. School, but not the faces you love. It doesn’t look the same. All those rules you must keep. Those invisible germs that might hurt. The fear of friends coming too close. The teacher doesn’t come to welcome you with her open arms and smile – she stands at the door, distanced. No one comes near to take your hand. Nothing feels the same.

Except the old familiar feeling of panic. Of paralysis. Of perhaps there is danger. Perhaps your parents won’t come back.

Imagine. Imagine the fears. Imagine the tears. Imagine our Monday morning.

People said kind things, encouraging things, well meaning things. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great day!’ ‘It’ll be so nice seeing your friends again!’ ‘It’s only for a few hours, you’ll be back for lunch!’

But those things don’t wash when your brain is in fight, flight, freeze zone. When the pathways to the reasoning part of your brain have still not grown.

Adoption is beautiful, and adoption is broken. Because there’s no gain in adoption without loss. And there’s no quick fix, easy answers, textbook remedies for the damage done.

And let me be clear, the trauma is not just from the two years of abuse. The trauma of being removed from all you’ve known – even if what you’ve known was harm – is equally as real.

But, God.

I believe in trauma. I believe in brokenness. And I believe in hope. I believe in redemption. I believe in rainbows in storms. Of finding the gifts of grace.

Yesterday, even as I sobbed around the corner from her classroom, there were rainbows. The kind friend I bumped into in the supermarket, whilst still shaking, still crying. The senior staff member ringing to update me, who acknowledged, we can now see the need for support. The friend walking past the school who messaged to say she could see her, she is smiling, she’s talking to a friend. The teacher texting photos over the two hours, she’s drawing, she’s making, her special things from home are on her desk. The teacher she loves sending her a video message saying how proud she is. The messages from family and friends, asking, loving, caring, praying. The cuddles when she was safely home.

And knowing God knows my girl. He knew her before she was. He designed her. He loves her. His heart breaks when hers does.

He came to heal the brokenhearted. To free those held captive in their pain. To release them from their prisons. To bring joy to the mourning. Giving beauty instead of ashes. Gladness instead of sadness. To repair the damage of previous generations. To rebuild the ruins. To fight for justice. To protect the vulnerable. To counsel the hurting. To bring hope, joy, salvation, freedom. To bring His kingdom to earth as it is in heaven. (Is 61, Ps 146, Matt 6).

It wasn’t the first tricky day and it won’t be the last. But even when I’m sobbing in my car, I’m always surprised and grateful that we get to be trusted with these precious lives. To be the tear wipers, cuddle givers, tickle monsters, hope bringers. To be the ones trusted with the big questions and the big feelings, all the good and all the bad. I’m grateful for not doing it alone. And I’m grateful for hope of an eternity with no trauma or tears, no brokenness or abuse, no violence and absolutely no viruses.