I want to come home. I want to hug my kids, give my parents a monster hug for the help they've been in caring for them while we've been gone, I want to drive my own car, and I want to blow the doors of Taco Casa clean off their hinges. What I wouldn't give for a hot tacoburger right now . . .
However, you know exactly what's coming. I don't want to leave my daughter here. I want to somehow sneak her into my suitcase until we get past all of the official people at the airports, and bring her home to a warm bath and lots of Baby Magic lotion and hairbows. I want to bring her home to a big village of people that love her, and I want to rock her to sleep at night while she sucks her little thumb.
I told Craig a few hours ago that he was on emotional alert. That means that at any given moment I could burst into tears for any or all of the reasons listed above. We don't have to make a big deal over it when it happens, but its coming, and I think tomorrow, especially, is going to hurt.
When the staff handed her over today, her clothes were leaking from her own waste in her diaper. I'm hoping that they just didn't notice. I'm hoping that this isn't a common occurrence. I wanted to give her a bath right then, but they wouldn't let me. I'm hoping that she doesn't lay there for hours, sometimes, covered in stuff that makes her skin hurt. I'm hoping that God will pour his mercy over her for the next few months until we can return for her. I'm hoping . . .
Tomorrow completes our stay in Bulgaria. I'm so ready to see all of those that I love and cherish so much, and I'm ready to look into the eyes of our church members, our family, and our friends that have loved on us so and tell you all how worth it your support, in every way, has been. Maya saw Jesus this week, and for that, we're thankful. I pray that in the time she's left behind, she'll continue to see and feel him in a way that only a precious child can do.
I love you, my baby girl . . .
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