Stillness is your Strength.

Stillness is your Strength.

Burundi Journey Episode 6.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

We breathe as a daily, moment by moment rhythm. We first exit the mother’s womb and life itself is accredited by it; our first breath. It is involuntary, sustainer of life, breath of life. Anxiety? Panic? State of Overwhelm? We forsake our breath in exchange for mind and in doing so, we forsake the wholeness of ourselves. Breath as prayer, as recognition of life, as appreciation for each moment in time, as significance in time. There is not human life without it. Breath, to be human.

Breath, to be holy. The Jewish Rabbis teaching that YHWH (or Yaweh) as it has been translated to many of us today is reflective of breath. YH, our inhale. WH our exhale. As we breathe, every breath we take, silently or labored, we are saying YHWH. Can you hear it?

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

In Hebrew YHWH means “I AM”. Reflective of God speaking to Moses at the burning bush, “I AM”.

Breath, a substantial need for life. Breath, a tool to deep healing. We think we need to be doing things all the time to be fulfilled, to be satisfied, living to the fullest as we say. But the longer I live I am convinced this is not true. Yes, sometimes we must take action, we must go farther than words, yet many times, that action is stillness. Stillness becomes our strength. For in stillness we take the deep breaths, the long inhales and exhales. The reminders of who we are and what we are made for, the strength of our remembrance, of our remembrance of beloved, our remembrance that we have nothing to prove and nothing to lose. For if God is our everything, than nothing can shatter our souls. The remembrance that light shall always have it’s way and triumph over the darkness. It is not to say that things shall go our way, or that catastrophic circumstances will end as we think they should. However, it is to say that goodness shall come running after us, even in the darkest areas of our lives. That even when we feel weak in every way, our stillness shall become our strength. Our breath our worship, our laying down and slowing down our gift of remembering this life we have graciously lived thus far. Our act of gratitude, our act of love. Our way to embrace and hold dear the reverence of YHWH.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

We worship. We remember. We learn to love.

And this is what this adoption season has been teaching me. That all the accomplishments in the world mean nothing if I have not learned that love requires sacrifice and within sacrifice I must learn to still. And within stillness I have the honor of breath, of YHWH. And within this time of breath I am whole. And out of wholeness can we courageous and boldly shine our light in ways far beyond that in which we might ever ask or imagine of ourselves. And this too is love. Learning that we have been created to love ourselves and love this world. But it starts with YHWH. It starts in stillness.

Stillness is our strength. Learning to still is how we change the world.

What Have We Done?

December 7, 2021

4:00pm. We continue our journey back towards Bujumbura, the place we currently call ‘home’, our resting place, our nesting place, our place of learning to come together as a family while in Burundi. We are watching Shiloh closely. I can tell she still does not feel great, but she is trying to be “strong” and pretend like nothing is wrong. I want to just cradle her and tell her its ok to cry and not feel ok and let whatever emotions come that need to come. Its okay to not be okay. But I hold her close and let her sleep on my lap and take selfies on my phone as we try to pass the time, longing to just get out of the car, get to the hotel where we can better care for her, have a bed for her to rest, truly rest, away from the people she feels bad inconveniencing who are with us as we journey back towards Bujumbura.

4:15pm. We should be getting close now, making our way into the outskirts of Bujumbura, but instead we come to a stop. No traffic is moving. We are at a standstill. At first, there is no thought of it. There must be something up ahead and soon we will continue to be on our way. You know these slow down points happen in America too. This is no big deal.

5:00pm. We still sit. At this point the heat of the van has risen to a miserable temperature. Yet we cannot get out. It would not be safe here and would cause quite the scene. They are telling us there is some sort of contruction happening and unlike America, there are no “detour” routes. We must wait out their working hours. My heart is wrestless. My patience slowly losing its grip. Can’t everyone see that my girl is trying to hang on in here, but she is not ok?! At this point Shiloh is sitting on Josh’s lap. I can see the discomfort in her eyes. She sips water and goes in and out of trying to sleep, but we all can feel that it is too hot to be able to stay asleep for long. We watch others walking around and talking with other vehicles. Children coming up, selling roasted corn, trying to make some money from the grumbling stomachs of all those perched upon this road, with nowhere to go. We cannot have this though, Modeste, our lawyer says the way it is cooked can make us as Americans sick. So the Burundian children enjoy, and we are happy to get something into them and we sweat and try to stretch the thinning patience we bear.

6:00pm We are moving again. We discovered a large glass bottle truck had toppled over and blocked the roadway completely. It took much effort to get it out of the way enough to begin allowing alternating traffic to navigate around it and be able to cross over a bridge. Now traffic to get into Bujumbura is in full on rush hour mode. It does not let up. We weave in and our of cars, try different routes, all in effort to get to the area we need to get to, to get back to our temporary home. But the lines seem to never end. What took us 20 min to get out of the city now takes close to an hour and a half to reach our destination.

7:30pm We arrive back to the hotel! I don’t think any of us had exited that vehicle so quickly on this trip thus far. Although the sights and excursions were amazing, nothing makes it feel worth it when your child is not well. We get back to the room, and Shiloh crashes on the bed. We want to give her body time to cool off from the heat of the van, the heat of being all clustered together for the majority of the day, because she is BURNING up. I keep telling myself, she just needs time to rest, to cool off from the journey of the day. Josh stays with the kids in the room while I head to the hotel restaurant for food. We have decided to just order sambosas and white rice for the evening, a sprite for me to settle the nerves and we are hopeful that getting something mild into Shiloh’s stomach will help. We have not eaten well all day and she must be hungry.

8:30pm Food takes a while to come here. And although I have ordered one of the simplest and fastest orders we know, I am still actually surprised to be returning to the room within an hour. Thomas and Theresia scarf down some food, both rightfully so, hungry after the day we have encountered. Shiloh won’t touch a bite. Now I KNOW something is not right. If you know Shiloh than you know food is her favorite thing! Last year for her birthday she told me all she wanted was to be able to go to a restaurant and eat “fancy food”. :) Food is such a savory space of goodness for her. And don’t I know, because she is so much like me. We won’t necessarily eat a large meal, but we shall snack all day long! But not today. She had not touched anything since our simple bread lunch, which for her was still to be lacking. Her forehead, burning hot. I brought an entire first aide kit, I knew I had to find our thermometer and see where her temperature was at.

9:00pm. I searched our room high and low and there is NO thermometer to be found. How could I bring our entire first aide kit, complete with stomach medicines and fever reducers and gauze and hydrogen peroxide and alcohol pads and Neosporin. You know, all the goods, EXCEPT the thermometer?! I was beginning to internally panic. We had already given her children’s Tylenol at this point. There was no denying she had a fever, the problem was how warm was she? We got on our knees to pray, not knowing what else to do. Our girl is sick in a country where we do not speak the language. In the poorest country in the world. We brought her here. What have we done?

10:00pm. Everyone is asleep now. Everyone but me. Maybe Josh too. For how can one sleep when their child is burning up beside them? I toss and I turn and I feel her forehead. She is not cooling down. She is still burning up. What are we going to do? What are we going to do?

December 8, 2021

3:00am. Shiloh is moaning now. She feels so uncomfortable . We have given the medicine more than enough time to take effect and it has not done anything for her. She is ravaging, rolling in discomfort. I head to the front desk, desperate to see if we might be able to borrow their thermometer, because the good thing about Covid is that everyone now has a thermometer. Everyone except us that is… We had regularly experienced temperature checks upon arrival. But the front desk is closed. No one is there. Lights are out. It is pitch dark everywhere. We are out of luck. I weep my way back to our room and tell Josh the news. We try calling our lawyer, our connection in the city, because at this point we think we need to go to the hospital. I reach out to a dear friend of mine, because the good thing about Burundi being 8 hours ahead and it being the middle of the night is that America is still awake. Her husband is a Dr and I am desperate to know what to do, anything to DO. For how can I sit and do nothing and watch my girl suffer so? She agrees we need to try and get to a hospital. But we can get no one on the phone. We text and we call, but all of our local connections are fast asleep, as would be expected for 3am. I know the front desk is open at 6am. Lord please get us through the next 3 hours. Please get us help. Please help us. Its all I can mutter as I pace our room. Please help us.

6:00am. I arrive at the front desk on the dot. Upon arriving I cannot even speak. The tears well over and I am sobbing. Concerned, the front desk staff member leans in. In an act of comfort rests his hand gently upon my forearm resting on the counter. “My daughter,” I squeak out. “So sick. May need ambulance. Thermometer. Hot. She is so hot. We need thermometer.” I am doing hand motions because some staff have minimal English and I don’t know how anyone might understand me through all these tears anyways. But Vianney understands. He has been our Bellhop. We met him with Modeste at the airport and he helped us first settle in. We see him daily and we know he is compassion. We know he embodies love. I turn, not recognizing until that moment in time he had approached, but thankful to have a familiar face at my side now. I simply weep “Shiloh. So sick. Thermometer.” He takes off running, I know he understands. I know he feels the gravity of it all. And even in that moment where I feel as if time could not be moving more slowly, I still feel as if he had to have been back in less than 3 minutes. We run together to our room. He knows exactly where to go since he has so graciously helped us so many times thus far on our trip. We have been in Burundi for 2.5 weeks now. We are only a few days shy of our travel to Kenya. Yet here we are, in a terror of health spiraling down.

6:15am. Vianney stays with us as we take Shiloh’s temperature. She is 39.4 degrees Celsius. That is a 103.03 Degree fever. My body shakes. She has never had a fever this high. Vianney confirms this is not good. He tells me he will immediately call for a doctor. They have a doctor who works with the hotel. They will get him on the phone and get him to come now. I am grateful. Grateful for this care. Grateful we do not have to succumb her to another car ride in her current state. Grateful selfishly not to expose her to the hospital as cover cases are currently rising in country and we have to test in 36 hours for our own ability to leave the county in just 3 days.

9:30am. The doctor arrives with a couple of nurses too. They draw blood, take her temperature again, which has remained high. They tell us to keep offering water and Tylenol and say they will get lab results to us soon, within a few hours. I am so grateful for their kindness. For genuinely they are with us for over an hour. They agree her fever is much too high. We all fear it is malaria. Shiloh’s misery remains.

3pm. As most medical things go, we hear no answer quickly and my hope is deteriorating . Shiloh is too miserable to get anything down. I am fearing her dehydration at this point more than anything else. The fever still pressing in with all its got. I have never seen her like this. Never seen her this sick before. And I can feel myself on the verge of my own mental breakdown. Anxiety knocking on my door. Shame tearing away at me. How could we risk her life for this? And yet, my dear friend, knowing what is happening as we stay in touch knowns my mind before I speak it or type it: “And Laura, don’t you dare begin to question bringing your kids on this trip. Do you hear me? You were supposed to bring Shiloh and Thomas. That was confirmed before you left the states. It is important that you were there TOGETHER as a FAMILY to get Theresia. Shiloh is supposed to be in Burundi with you. You made the right decision to bring them. Don’t you question that. God has got her. And though the fire is raging He sees you and He sees her and He will carry you through this storm. He will carry you through and I will not stop praying.” More weeping spilled over as she spoke to the exact shame all over my heart. For as mothers we long to comfort and take care of our children. To watch them suffer is immensely painful. And to be genuinely concerned for her life…. Well it makes you question everything. I will myself to continually quote Psalm 34:7: “The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him; and He delivers them”. This has been the verse, the chapter really that I feel the Lord has used to carry us through the wilderness season of the adoption journey. And here we were yet again, crying our for deliverance, for life, for healing and for tender mercies to overcome the illness.

4pm. We receive her blood results. No Malaria. We are relieved. But, it does confirm some sort of serious infection in her body. They are not sure what it is, but the doctor is on his way back to the hotel. They are bringing medication now and a shot. A shot that is a fever reducer. They know her fever needs to come down and we need to get it down quickly. It has been over 24 hours now of it sucking all the life out of Shiloh.

5pm. Our doctor arrives. Praise the Lord. And even further, her fever has actually dropped to 102.7, almost 103, but to such it has dropped just low enough that they cannot give the shot. Shiloh is relieved and I am relieved that we at least have movement in the right direction even though the fever is still high. It takes us maybe a full 10 min to get Shiloh’s first dose of medication in. We have to continually beg to get her to take in the tiniest amounts, but the first dose has been given. And now we try to rest and pray that we have taken the right course.

8pm. Shiloh is sleeping soundly now, I am encouraged and slightly hopeful. What a wild day and a half it has been and my fears are still wild in my mind. But at least we have confirmed no malaria and we pray this medication is right for her. She has kept it down and for that I am so thankful. I continue to pray for deliverance. And in my exhaustion I too, finally fall asleep for a bit.

December 9, 2021

12am. My alarm awakes me. It is time for Shiloh’s next dose of medicine. We have a thermometer of our own now, praise the Lord!! Her temp is still well over 100 deg farenheight, but Shiloh too slept soundly for a bit. It again takes quite a while to get the medicine in, but we get it down, and she falls back asleep, her body working so hard to fight this thing within her.

4am. Shiloh is awake, but she slightly smiles. It is the first smile I have seen in almost 2 days. I don’t feel good mama, but I do think I feel better than I did. Her fever closer to 100 now. We are declining, praise God!

11am. Unfortunately even after the last couple of days we have had, today is Covid testing day. We have to get out and get tested to be able to be within the window to board our flight to Kenya in two short days. I could tell the entire way Shiloh wasn’t feeling great, but she made it through. Never had we been so thankful for a simple throat swab test instead of the nasal one that hurts.

8pm. We pass the rest of the day with iPads and quiet play with the other two. We survive another day. We are getting a few more fluids in her now. And, her fever has now BROKEN!!! Within 24 hours of this antibiotic her fever has come down. It’s working!!

December 10, 2021

Today was a day for packing and gathering the final things, for tomorrow we fly out to Kenya. All of our Covid results come in, and we are all negative. And that final evening, that final night in Burundi, God brought us just the gift we needed; wild hippos in the waters just outside of our dining room. Josh had been waiting the entire trip to see hippos, outside of the guided tours we had been on to experience them. But this time, it was just us, with our friends who we got to enjoy dinner with each evening, and there they were, the most beautiful hippos I had ever seen, one even yawning for us. And, as I stood there, Shiloh close beside me, lighting up and smiling with the rest of us at the amazement before our eyes, I smiled deep in my soul. Our girl was returning to us. She was returning to the wonder she sees in the world wherever she goes, returning to her love of animals and love of life. She still would need several more days to really recover, but what a testimony to the quickness of recovery she was experiencing verses the state she was in. From darkness to light.

And in the stillness I found the strength I would need to face the next battle up ahead. For Kenya was coming, and we had yet to know all that was about to go down in Kenya. But, here we stood, in beautiful stillness. The tenderness of God to draw us back to nature, to creation, to life before our next challenge.
The reminder that YHWH was with us, within us, within each breath, within each echo of our cries. For within the stillness of our days and the misery of the unknown, we found the strength to believe that this too was to be a part of our story. For in the stillness we found the strength, the audacity to hope. Oh what a gift!

Praying that you are met with the stillness of your own heartbeat this evening. Stillness of your own YHWH breath. Stillness of your own:

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale Exhale.

Moment this evening.

Life is surely too short to miss the extraordinary gift of presence. Thank you for being present with me and my family here in this space.

I will see you soon then as we prepare to make our way onwards into Kenya!

With all the love I have, pretending you are right here in the room with me as we have just had this heart to heart moment, tears in eyes, tea in hands, moments held in presence. You are deeply loved and deeply beloved. Never forget the power and impact of deeply listening. It matters more than you know. So thank you for listening to this story we have walked. I do not take your presence lightly.

~Laura

Have you missed any of the journey thus far? You can catch up here:

Episode 1. Back to the Beginning: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/2/26/back-to-the-beginning

Episode 2. Heartbeats from Heaven: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/9/heartbeats-from-heaven

Episode 3. Harvest Days: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/16/harvest-days

Episode 4. Moon Miracles: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/29/first-signs-of-struggle

Episode 5. The Journey East to Waterfalls. https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/4/6/the-journey-south-to-waterfalls

The Journey East to Waterfalls

The Revelation of Rain.

Burundi Journey Episode 5.

I have always loved water, loved rain. From some of my first recollected moments as a small child I can recall rain hitting the windows of the car, the pitter-patter of it’s call. I can remember the fresh smell after a rainstorm. I can hear the waves of the ocean, gentle whispering its love song as it crashed through my fears and worry, colliding right into me like romance. Water moves me in a way I cannot describe fully by word; calms me, soothes me, restores me. What is better than laying back, submerged in the stillness of water, the way it keeps you, holds you, molds to you and invades you, intimately knowing you, cleansing you, nurturing you. Waves in their rhythmic nature pursue our hearts in theirs. For what is more beautiful than the sound of water?

And yet, I never felt so alive, so moved or wooed by water as when I had this fresh revelation of water during our wait in our adoption journey. I remember we had freshly sent off our Dossier Paperwork to Burundi. The first set of paperwork to finally have the authority to make its way across countries and oceans and end up on the desks of those in Burundi. Six months of hard work, signing our lives away, investing in entity after entity from doctors to social workers to fingerprinting companies to police offices to tax accountants, to marriage history to home history to background checks to child protective services checks to TB tests to home inspections…. If you can think up a way to find any amount of information on someone, we likely had to fill out a form about it or go through a procedure for it. Never in my life have I felt so investigated, on trial, splayed out with every detail released and diligently pursued, as if I was in trouble, yet all to see if we were “qualified” enough to become parents to another, vetted in a way to make sure no hidden shadow was left unspoken for, unaccounted for. Every error, every mark, every blemish looked into. What a system to make you want to keep pursuing an adoption journey. It is not for the faint of heart. I used to think that there were those who may pursue adoption with dishonest integrity, that some may wish to adopt to be able to have some “prize” or some sort of elevated status to prove to the world that they do good things in this world. I know its a low level thought, but within the fragility of my humanity, I have thought it. But now, after walking the road, taking the journey, I am utterly convinced that no one on this journey for themselves would make it through to the finish line. There is too much vulnerability, exposure and expense for that. And yet I have digressed. After 6 months of work, the beginning of our paperwork journey was sent to Burundi.

The following week as I was listening to a podcast, I heard a woman speak of how the same water we drink today, the same water flowing in rivers and oceans and streams, along sidewalks after a rainstorm and in kitchen sinks of homes, within toilets for those who are fortunate enough to have them, the very water that provides nurturents to the soil and helps to oxygenate our planet. Yes that water is the same as it was in the days of Jesus. Explosion moment of the brain!!! We eat, drink, survive on the same water as Jesus. The One who was the Savior of the world, the One who leaked water from His side after His death, the One who turned water into Wine, the One who is the essence of EVERYTHING I need and EVERYTHING I am. This Jesus whom I owe everything to. It was a simple statement, not really quite revelatory within the podcast to the women. But to me it changed everything. This water that has always been a space of peace, of nourishment, of serenity now took on a new shape. It still held all those same qualities, but now it was HOLY.

The same water Jesus touched cycles through the earth, given by trees, sent into clouds, and released back down to earth in the form of rain, this has sustained millions of years and has remained the same. It is steadfast, these rains from heaven. Somehow now as it rained it felt like tears from heaven, heaven weeping with me, rejoicing with me, dancing with me, restoring and renewing me. And now not just in the tangible form, but in a spiritual revelation form. Rain became holy. Rains would come and I would hear the whisper of God in my life, feel His presence near, the Lord intimate into my story and my space and my time. Water became a place of “withness”, a space to bear witness to the glory, the holy, the wonder of God.

And so, the morning after we first heard word of our match with Theresia, that day, as we drove into town for groceries, my heart still literally swollen with Joy, delight and unbelief that all that we had poured ourselves into for over 3 years was sitting before us in a picture, already printed out carefully hung on our refrigerator, a picture in an album I had newly created in my phone, and literally life, breath, heart, soul, alive, living in an orphanage in Burundi. This day as I drove, rains released from the sky. The beautiful, heavy, full rains, but not in the violent way, in a gentle, yet abundant way. The heavens were crying with me, tears of joy, heavens come down holy with me in the car, on a simple, mundane journey for groceries, to meet tangible needs for the next week, yet God was coming down, washing over soul needs for the next year and a half to come. Reminding me of presence, reminding me of “withness”, reminding me that this story has been, and shall continue to be carried by someone, something, somewhere much higher, farther, beyond what I can ever comprehend. Oh the revelation of rain that has held me through some of the most fearful valleys of my life.

Journey East to Waterfalls.

Tuesday December 7, 2021

5:30am. An early morning start today. Wrestling the weary muscles, the journey beginning to remind me that this is not my home. Hours off, food off, weather off. But awakened for an adventure coming today. For today we head to East Burundi to see the waterfalls. So, I pry my worn body out of bed and make my way towards the restroom to splash water on my face, trying to turn my body around, towards awareness, towards energy.

6:00am. Time to awaken the children, stirring out of bed towards the dining hall for a quick breakfast of bread and fruit, grabbing a few pieces of fruit also for the road, and to the van which awaits us out front.

6:45am. We are a few minutes late to get out front for what was supposed to be our 6:30am departure, but we make it into the van all the same, ready to merge into morning traffic of Bujumbura, cars driving as if there are no rules, yet come to find out there are honks of varying degrees, giving clarifying direction to the cars swerving all directions on the road, cars so close we don’t allow the children beside the window because an arm out the window, even a child’s arm will very likely result in collision with another vehicle, Moto, or bicyclist. The waves of colors continue as far as we can see, yet we slowly crawl along through the city, picking up our lawyer, guide and friend along the side of another congested street. Eventually we creep out of the city and onto roads less crowded with cars, yet flowing with constant stream of people lining the sides of roads, making their way towards villages for food for the evening meal, or to renew a phone card, or for children to hustle in to school, or for men to transport sugar cane, glass soda bottles, corn, long strips of wood, tree trunks, chickens, and much more, to their destinations.

8:45am. We are getting closer now. The winding roads along mountains, passing through gorgeous scenery of tea planted mountainsides, valleys of rice planted fields, smoke spewing off of fields as they burn down grasses to sell as fire starters. But further in to the mountains we travel, closer we come to the highly spoken of waterfalls. This entire journey, Theresia laughing and telling stories with her dear friend from the orphanage who is also coming to America with another family. The two very close in age and closely bonded you can tell. We laugh, their joy infecting the van and we smile as we continue to take in the marvel that is Burundi.

10:15am. We are pulling in now. Approaching through gates into what I can only describe as the scene of Jurassic Park. Lush tunnels of trees lining over head, monkeys in trees and the sound of rushing waterfalls close, near enough to hear the verberating roar above the roar of the older car engine that has carried us this far. Thankfully no dinosaurs though, just the beauty of it all. We pull in just in front of the waterfall. The water cascading down the side of the mountain, sound taking breath away. The long road traveled here now seems so worth it. Isn’t it this way so often? The journey, the road taken seems long, seems unending at times, yet once the destination arrives the worth of the journey is of far greater value; the endurance worth the reward. We all leap out of the van, hearts skipping in joy, childlike wonder rises up in us all, as the kids climb rocks, and we all soak in the glory before us.

10:30am. After a few minutes soaking in this first waterfall it is time to venture on, for there are several waterfalls in the area to see. Little did I know that the journey would be quite strenuous, involving steep decent and climbs along the mountainside, with uneven surfaces and the heat making none of it any less intense. But the journey onward continued and the views amazed us each and every time. Continuing on, we had to cross a long, very high cable bridge. If you know me well, you know that this was no easy crossing for me. The one who when I was younger, riding cable cars up mountainsides during vacations would be crumbled in the middle of the floor having an anxiety attack. Heights and I are not friends. I am not adventurous in this way. I love to hike and to climb, but please do not put me on the edge, and please do not allow me to see straight down. Theresia and Modeste (our lawyer and now dear friend) on the other hand thought this was absolutely hilarious. They discovered one of my deep fears and there was a joy that rose up in Theresia’s laugh. She found an area where mama was not strong, she watched as Josh lovingly teased me, knowing my boundary lines and she beamed in radiant joy of it all. For how could we fly around the world to come get her and yet struggle to walk across a measly bridge? Isn’t is strange the things that trip us up in this life? What some deem as courageous we have strength to carry, what others deem as fun, we simply crumble at the weight of it. So, how much more do we need each other, need the differences we carry, need the helping hands through our struggle, need the courageous hands of our embarking, need the compassionate understanding that to each we have our courage, and to each we have our struggle, and to each we are human, and to each we are loved.

12:15pm. After a couple of hours of a hike I was clearly not prepared for, we made our way back to the first waterfall, back to the van. I had not brought nearly enough water with me in my backpack, so we were all thankful to return to our supply of water and food. We took time to nourish our bodies there beside the van, everyone a bit exhausted, but grateful for it because of what we got to see. Then, back into the van we went. We had one more adventure coming before we were to head back to Bujumbura. Little did I know it was the biggest adventure we were to experience yet and it would require the most courage I had yet to give.

1:00pm. We drive almost an hour towards our next stop. I look back fairly early on and notice that in the back row, where all the children have gathered as children in curiosity do, Shiloh has fallen asleep. This is not surprising. She is always my one to fall asleep in the car, the repetition of the rubber to the road, the vibration of the vehicle carefully rocking her to sleep. Yet, you know when you just have this visceral, mama gut response? It is the only thing I can describe it as. Her face looked too red. Yes, we were all hot and sticky in the van, for we had hiked miles up and down the literal side of a mountain without enough water, yes we were all hot and tired. But something was different. Her face too splotchy, white areas that didn’t look right. Her sleep looked disturbed, not rested as usual. I chalked it up to my overactive brain, that nothing was genuinely wrong, she was just tired, her body a bit out of whack. We were entering our third week in Burundi and our bodies had conquered a tsunami of change in this time. She has always been our tough one, hardly crying when she faced those two surgeries as a baby, always ready to take on any challenge. Our little warrior. So I expected nothing more of this. I was tired and seeing more than was there. That was it.

1:15pm. We pull in on the side of another large hill. We have made it to one source of the Nile. They have built a small pyramid on the top of a large hill to document this special place. Yet, as we are walking over towards the next large hill we are to climb, I hear Shiloh “I don’t feel good. I think I am about to throw up…” And I know it’s coming. I know that my intuition in the car is correct. I can count the number of times Shiloh has thrown up in her life. Now poor thing allergies wreck her each spring, sneezing, itchy throat, watery eyes, all of it. But vomitting? Vommitting is not like her. She did go through a short period I will say where she got carsick a few times and vomit was the ending result. But outside of that, the only times she has vomited have meant severe infection….

1:20pm. This was one of those hard parenting moments. We had to make a quick decision, the party already beginning to hike up the mountain, not understanding the full gravity of how poorly she felt. We knew one of us must go, we had driven all this way and it would be rude to not continue on, yet we could not ask Shiloh to climb another large hill the way she was feeling. Josh told me he would stay. If he needed to carry her off somewhere, he was much better suited for the task. So, with heart breaking, splitting in half right there on the side of that mountain, I began to hike my way up with Theresia and Thomas at my side, leaving Josh and Shiloh behind. Modeste said it would not take long, we would not be gone long. I told myself everything would be ok, but once that dam of worry begins to crack open, it takes almost everything you have to keep it from rushing right through you. And I could feel the leak beginning to break through. I could feel the cracks in me as I took step after step up that mountain. I could feel my own stomach churning in nerves for my child, in a foreign country, sick.

1:30pm. We reached the top. It wasn’t a bad hike after all. Praise God. But I didn’t realize we were about to endure a history lesson. Any other time I would have been more than excited for this. I actually LOVE learning all the details behind just about everything. I feel as if everything in life is connected and there is such beauty found in that connection. But right now, right now, all I wanted was to appease our gracious hosts and to make our way back down that mountain to my girl. The man speaking, being translated into English, and all the while I was wishing they could translate my heart, see the way it was breaking with each passing moment away from my child who wasn’t feeling well. And then sweet Theresia, “Mama, toilet?” Oh no. We have one at the bottom feeling she may explode from the top and not another from the bottom. This was only getting worse. I tried to explain we had to be patient, asked her if she thought she could hold it just a few more minutes until we were able to climb back down? She said yes, and we both impatiently waited atop this glorious view. Honestly it was likely the most beautiful view we encountered the entire trip. The view showed boundary lines of Burundi to Tanzania. You could see for miles, mountains upon mountains, the light catching in glorious wonder. And all I could think, was “God if you are glorious enough to create this masterpiece before me, could you also create an escape for me to get back to my girl?”

2:00pm. Thankfully, we made it through, and the decent shortly thereafter began. I couldn’t walk fast enough. It didn’t matter we were all exhausted at this point, I was practically sprinting down this time. For when your heart longs to be reunited with a love, you will cross whatever you need to get to your return. Praise God, we get to Shiloh and Josh and she is smiling. “I feel much better now Mommy”. “Yeah, she had a nice vomit into the trench over there, and we had some interesting conversations with the Burundians while you were away” Josh explains. He smiles, we are all thankful for a moment of relief. Maybe it was just car sickness I think to myself, maybe it that’s it. I hope for the best. I mean we are all exhausted. It’s been a long day. We find the restrooms, find our way back into the van, back on the road for Bujumbura, back on the trek towards home. But the dam is still cracked, mother intuition fresh. Was this just body’s response to a long, hard day, or was this indeed something much, much more?

We’ll continue on the journey here next week as we approach our final days in Bujumbura.

I’ll see you soon then, as I stand with you in the middle of the breathtaking beauty, and heart wrenching pain of life, layered together, layer upon layer of life.

Rooting for you dear friend. Thank you for being here.

~Laura

Miss any of the previous Episodes of our time in Burundi? I am providing the links here for easy access for you!

Episode 1. Back to the Beginning: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/2/26/back-to-the-beginning

Episode 2. Heartbeats from Heaven: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/9/heartbeats-from-heaven

Episode 3. Harvest Days: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/16/harvest-days

Episode 4. Moon Miracles: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/29/first-signs-of-struggle

First Signs Of Struggle

Moon Miracles

Burundi Journey Episode. 4

Genesis 28:15 “I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

Each evening after we received word of our match of this litle girl in Burundi, the one whose name means, “The one who brings the harvest”, this harvest child, this person placed before us with need of care, with need of home, each evening I would look up to the moon and find my miracles. The moon became my hiding place, my gentleness in the chaos, my peace in the storm, my light in the darkness. Each evening as I looked to the moon, I would feel her presence, I would feel the presence of God and be reminded that the same God who exposed our eyes to this girl, the same God who is the very creator of the moon, the stars, the earth and the sun, the same God who knew her name before we did and was there as her heartbeat began, this God was with me, was with us, was watching over us, and would deliver us through the valley towards unification as He has promised our hearts in so doing.

The moon became the rich soil, the place for me to plant my dreams, desires and hope despite tornados of doubt, disappointments and heartaches happening in our midst. We endured heartache, failure and loss within our paperwork status over the course of the year we were in process post match. To say that adoption is for the faint of heart is to not see the full picture of all that it entails. To the outside world it costs money; to those walking close with us, they know it costs a piece of our very selves. To which we happily gave, but it is an interesting emotion; to stand on one side of the world and be told this child whom you hold a picture of shall be your child, shall dwell in your home, shall laugh with you and cry with you, and you have never heard the sound of her voice. To be told you are to become her guardian, the one to care for her, to nourish her, to listen to the cries of her heart and soul, and yet she has lived 6 years of her life without you. To feel as if you are walking into darkness, grasping hold of any tangible light you may find, while the waves of worry haunt your mind “Am I making the right decision? The best decision for this child? What will others think of our family? How will she be treated in America? Will she miss Burundi every waking day of her life? Will we ever truly discover the delights of her soul? Will we be able to bond as we have with our other children? Will we be strong enough to endure the storms?”

Winds howling in the insecurity of the mind, but this is what I would come back to time and time again in the storms of waiting, “I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you”. (Gen 28:15 as quoted above). This is not to say that Theresia’s suffering was an answer promised to us. But rather this adoption to which God called us to show up for, was going to be fulfilled. And we would await until God’s perfect timing allowed all the details to sort through and for our feet to land on Burundian soil, or fingers to meet, our palms to merge together into the beginning of a story we never saw coming, yet one God had been lighting the way to for years. Our moon miracle.

The Start of Suffering

Wednesday, Dec 1, 2021

The days continued much in a similar rhythm: breakfast, pool or play, lunch, activity, dinner and bed. Yet the tensions began stirring this second week in Burundi. The waters were being tested. All the classic traumas of adoption were already beginning to unfold. Could we be trusted? Would rejection occur? Did she fit in with our family? Suddenly, over the course of 4.5 years, but then just as suddenly as a child exits the womb into the harshness of existence of life outside the womb, a requirement of breath, and bodily functions of temperature regulation, a need of food, neaurological connections to keep brain in step with body, this entire process of keeping oneself in balance begins, the struggle becomes real and the tear evident. In fact, this is a sign of health as we exit the womb, proof that air and breath has entered our lungs correctly, and we cry out from the pain we so bear in this literal gift of existence. The literal cutting off from the umbilical cord, the very space of life giving nutrients from the first nine months of creation. And so too, there was no exemption through adoption.

This sudden birth from two to three children, a merging sharp and sweet. This severing of life from an orphanage, from the place that had become home, become heartbeat, become natural, become routine. Tears began to flow. Tears of grief, tears of loss, tears of frustration and deep sadness. For change is a scary thing. We desperately shall cling to the shadows all of our lives unless we are ushered into the light through encouragement, through an act of courage. The shadow spaces that have always surrounded us, those places we have always known, whether healthy or not are the hardest spaces to leave because they define us, they become the framework for how we view the world, they feel like home. Even fear itself can become the place we choose as our blanket. For if it is what we have always known then we find shelter and comfort in its presence, however sharp and painful it may be to bear. And yet growth asks us to step into the light, to have courage of sacrifice, to wrestle with the sin and selfishness of flesh to make room for another. For one whom we do not understand and for whom we have yet to know. And on a day to day practical level this was really hard, IS really hard. For our ways many days are set, our rhythm as a family is natural, it ebbs and flows through its normal struggles sure, but the knowledge of each other is known. The areas to which we are sensitive to, compassionate towards, tender around are known, the fractures have been evidently on display for years to come and there is an understanding in it all. Empathy for the pain and trauma because there is a mutual understanding. But now? But now our entire surroundings have shifted. That which we knew so well before has now unraveled into complete disarray. Nothing is the same, and yet at the same time, peace is still held, courage remains, hope remains. And the foundation remains the same. This foundation of a heartbeat seeking the One who knit us together, the One who is making way for light in the midst of incredible darkness. The One who holds space for the darkness, for darkness is not dark to the Creator of all things. And there is a tenderness, a humility, a deeper level of patience that arises out of the ashes of grief. For as one grieves we have an understanding that grief takes time, and so we shall allow it to be instead of rushing it away, for it must fully come, fully emerge to be able to heal. And this I am finding can be a journey of a lifetime.

And so, as the euphoria of wears off a bit and the reality sets in that the birth has arrived, the healing process begins. And healing is slow. And some things we do we find are helpful to mend and heal, and others we think we are healing, we come to find we are rubbing raw, irritating the burn. And so the “I’m sorry’s” and the tears and the “I wish this were easier” or “I wish I had more patience in this” moments begin. The moments we thought may wait weeks to come, they come knocking right away. And we are scared that we shall not be enough to do this right, and we know that there is no “right” way, there is only showing up each day and trying our best each day again and again. And we know that we shall never be the same again. But isn’t this birth? It marks us, literally scares our bodies, and yet the process in a way allows us to see so much more. We see courage like we never knew we had within us. We see what was once sadness as now a deep empathy. We see that the fruit of life is not in serving ourselves but within serving another. We see that the greatest gift is genuinely to give ourselves away. We see that love is more powerful than anything else on earth, that loving another will defeat any and every darkness. And yet why is the flesh so present and real each day? Why does my heart plead for grace, but my tongue spews from impatience? Why does my soul long for compassion, but my flesh closes doors of intimacy for barricades of complaint as a protection against vulnerability?

And yet, we know that the exposure of our vulnerability becomes our relatablity, our extendability, our humility.

And yet day in and day out, my selfish, arrogant, fearful pride rises again and again.

Why is it that the very things that ask us for the most courage, also ask us for the most humility?

And this is the road we have walked this second week in Burundi. One of many smiles and laughs and outright joy to be certain. But now, we also grapple with the struggle of a human heart, a selfish heart, a fearful heart of the reality of life as it is now. An understanding that we would never change an ounce of our journey, and yet a reminder that the call of obedience is not a call to a life without struggle. The reality is that pieces of this are really hard. That sometimes we feel very undeserving and underqualified despite all the books, classes and resources we walked through before this moment. Because isn’t it true that you can be as knowledge filled as possible, but when you walk the road of experience, the foundation of knowledge crumbles at the crack of deep suffering?

And so we declare this to be true, “I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go, and I will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

We know that each of us one day shall breathe our last. The days we have here shall come to a close, and through all the heartache and struggle we can be sure of this, at least we had the courage to try.

I remember the moment our plane first landed on US soil. Chicago O’Hare to be exact, and the pilot had a smooth, gliding landing for us. But, there was an emotional wave of completion that rushed over me. Similar to the moment of walking out of the hospital with Shiloh. There is full knowledge that the journey is just beginning, and yet, there is a deep exhale too, a moment of acknowledging the birthing road that has just been walked and lived through. And yet, as we landed I also felt an extreme sense of pressure. In Burundi, this process of adoption was honored, respected and valued. It felt as if we were entering into suffering together, hand in hand, leaning in, looking each other eye to eye, as if we were family and we would support each other. A mutual respect, love and care. We each had understanding of the pain that has occurred to be in the situation we are now, there was no denying it. But also this mutual desire and heart to invest in action, to look into the eyes of heartache and lean in close, close enough to see the pupils, to hear the heartbeat, to touch the skin of flesh of the pain and to not look away, to not become indifferent or think the country is better off trying to solve it on their own. In no way trying to be above Burundi or impart American ways into Burundian culture, no a far cry, in fact I believe America has much to learn from Burundi. A mutual agreement to love each other well, for us to bring Burundi to America in all its culture and beauty and to respect, learn and grow in loving each other mutually. But in America, this story of adoption seems to be either over glorified, or spewed with hate. Either we are seen as “saviors” or “white saviors”, both leaving a bitter flavor of disgust. Here we are vilified by the look of our family before our story is known. And yes, there is quite a piece of brokenness to this story to be sure, but, I felt the pressure of all that adoption is seen as in America. It is a heavy load to carry, a struggle we shall gladly bear, but we were not entering the US blind to the stereotypes and struggle we were bringing upon our family. And yet, I couldn’t help thinking still, in this first moment upon US soil, solidifying Theresia’s US Citizenship, at least we had the courage to try. At least we didn’t let indifference steal our hearts. And as much as we get this wrong, I pray good shall come, for the cost has not been cheap, this merge is hard, yet I pray that one day we are able to see the holiness of God in it all. And within that holiness is equal space to hold the injustice, hardship, humanity and hope of it all.

Dearest Theresia,

I know our struggles our just beginning because, well struggle is a part of life. But I also believe that it is worth every moment. And so we acknowledge the hardship this transition may be for you Theresia. How do we even begin to do justice for all you deserve? For how do we give space for you to be uniquely and wildly you while also protecting you from the harshness of humanity? How do we find a balance of honoring and blessing this culture of your past, while also teaching you ways to thrive here?

But in it all I hope you know we are grieving with you, that we are forever WITH you. For whatever struggle comes, may it be true that we stay, the withness WITH you. Whatever comes we stand in devotion to never leave the struggle, never leave the chance to wake up each day to you, to try again and again, to each day discover more of you, to each day learn what lights you up inside, just as the delight of the moon, to learn your dreams and loves oh beloved one. For though our worlds have begun as separate, I believe that this collision of story has power to change the world. For you dear one are the courageous one. Each day waking up to say, at least you have the courage to try. We see you in the struggle, we see you in the pain of this all, we see you and we love you dearly, we are transformed by you, and each day we know you are kept by Almighty God as He is keeping us the same. Together, cultures merge, languages shift, humility stretched, pride crushed, surrender extended, vulnerability exposed, relatability risen, cruciform lengthened, humility harbored deep within. This journey with you an adventure of a lifetime, a cradled gift, a wildly beautiful story, and its only just begun. Oh the miracles shining forth from the light of moon, from the story of you.

I’ll see you soon then, on this journey across the mountains of Burundi, one of my favorite places I have ever been. For when you find the roots of your child, you find the roots of treasure.

~Laura

Miss any of the previous Episodes of our time in Burundi? Here is some easy access for you!

Episode 1. Back to the Beginning: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/2/26/back-to-the-beginning

Episode 2. Heartbeats from Heaven: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/9/heartbeats-from-heaven

Episode 3. Harvest Days: https://www.lauradugglebyphotography.com/blog/2022/3/16/harvest-days