Day Four. The Reckoning.

Day Four, Part One

This morning we dressed up for court. Olivia wore a pantsuit, Zahria wore a skirt and top, and Natalie wore a beautiful traditional Ethiopian dress. In their own words: “We look like social workers!!!!” 

Our driver came and picked us up at 8am. We drove to the courthouse, which by now feels like an old friend, it’s dusty stone steps welcoming us yet again. We went through security, and then I led the way to our courtroom. This isn’t my first rodeo. I know every turn of the halls, every numbered door. #106. The adoption court room. 

It’s a different judge this time. They change out every two years. I know, that as always, the judge will most likely be surprised and then pleased to see us with our current kids. They are so big, and we are so young, but it is clear that everyone is thriving. We know we will win him over. 

We wait for a half hour or so, chatting with the agency representative, and with the other waiting families. I beg the representative to get us our court order TODAY. I tell him I have promised Micah that he will leave today. The representative is unsure if the order will be ready today, but then he says something that gives me hope: “You are a very experienced adoptive family and clearly you care very well for your kids. If you take Micah today, it is no problem. You know how to care for him. I think it will not be an issue. I will call the orphanage later.”

I thank him profusely and tell the kids to keep praying. I think that it will be okay; Micah will be with us TODAY, and forever hereafter. 

The secretary opens the door to the courtroom and calls out, “Abas Ruper!” We file inside, the kids first. There is a big table, with seating for eight. The kids take up one entire side; Abe, the representative, and I take up 3/4 of the other. The judge looks up, surprised. He counts us. He asks, “THIS is the family?” We affirm. He is puzzled. He studies the paperwork in his hands. My kids sit tall and proud, respectfully quiet, but with big smiles. Honestly, it’s fun to surprise people with our family dynamic. 

The judge looks at Abe and me. “These are your children???”

“Yes.”

“They are Ethiopian?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmmm.” He flips through the stack of papers. The secretary’s eyes meet mine, and I grin at her. I can’t help it. I know this is serious, but I am SO happy. All of our hard work, tears, and pain, have led to this moment, and I have no doubt that we will pass immediately. She smiles widely back at me. 

“Do they know Micah?”

“Yes, we have visited him many times over the years and most recently, we saw him yesterday.”

“How long have you been trying to adopt him?”

“For many years, but with CHI, 3-4 years.”

The judge turned to the kids. “Do you love him?”

All six of us simultaneous, firmly, and loudly, answered with a resounding “YES!!!!!”

The judge actually laughed. He smiled at the kids. “Hmmm!” he muttered, but it was more a sound of approval than anything else. And the smile on his face betrayed him. 

“Do you agree this contract is permanent, and shall not be reversed? Do you understand you cannot change your minds? That you will keep and call this child your own?”

“YES.”

“Then I hereby pronounce from this moment forward that Abas Ruper is your son—“

We were cheering and laughing before he finished his sentence. He cracked another smile. We thanked him one by one, smiling as we shook his hand. I spoke to him in Amharic and I saw him shake his head in approval. We went outside and shrieked and hugged each other.....and then attacked the agency representative with big hugs. He laughed with us, and everyone crowded around, crying, “Congratulations!!!!” Several families took our picture for us. Then we went outside to look for Selam. She took us to Khaldi’s to celebrate: the Ethiopian equivalent of Starbucks. Caramel macchiatos were drunk all around and our happiness brimmed over like the scalding drinks in our cups. God had done it. Micah was OURS. Forever. In the eyes of the law. We would never have to leave him again!!!!! 

Now we sit at the hotel, impatiently, excitedly, waiting for that court order. I do not want to go see him until what will happen. It is 11:22am right now. Abe is napping on the couch, and I am out on the balcony, overlooking the city and listening to the sounds of the country I adore. For the first time in 7.5 years, I feel like I can breathe for a moment. The crushing weight that has strangled my soul is gone, and in its place is a light, airy feeling. The feeling of knowing my child is safe. 

I breathe. 

Day Four, Part Two. 

We went back to the hotel after court and coffee. We were told that we had to wait until we got a phone call that the court order was ready (remember, it typically takes 1-3 days, and THEN you can go and pick up your child). 

Problem. I had told Micah I would pick him up TODAY (Tues, March 20th). I had promised him. So I had two options. Get the court decree and take him with me, or go and have to be physically removed by authorities, because I wasn’t going to break my promise. 

We waited all day. I won’t bore you with the details, but I could not relax, could not sit, could not calm down. I paced the hotel like a caged animal. One hour....two....three, four, five. 

Poor Abe tried to comfort me, but I was gearing up for Plan B. You know, the one where I get dragged out of the orphanage and then sit outside the gate in the middle of nowhere all night long. Or end up in a jail cell. I changed and dressed myself for the occasion. I could see a look in Abe’s eyes: he didn’t like Plan B, but he knew he was powerless to stop it. NOTHING gets between a lioness and her cub. 

I could barely think straight. It was so late in the day....3:30pm. The workday was basically over. Micah’s orphanage was an hour’s drive with traffic, at least. I had told him I would come.....and now I had to go. Time had run out. 

I called my driver. She came to get us, and I asked to borrow her phone. It was 3:45pm. I called the agency representative and asked him if he had heard anything. “I’m at the courthouse right now, getting the court orders,” he replied. “Meet me at the office at 4pm.” I was motioning the kids into the van almost before he finished his sentence. We drove to the office. There was no parking, so our driver dropped us off and we walked in. Through security, up to the 8th floor. The agency reps started handing out paperwork. “There’s been a problem with one of your cases,” one began. My heart stopped. I looked at Abe. “No, no, no,” my heart pleaded. Begged. Demanded. “The judge put the wrong date on one of your papers.” I stood frozen. Waiting for the bomb to explode and shatter me into a million pieces. “The family of *******....”

...a ringing sensation followed by a wave of relief and joy, followed by a feeling of deep sympathy for the other family. It wasn’t Micah. I swallowed a huge gulp of air, feeding my starving lungs. I had stopped breathing. 

We took two copies of the court decree. It was 4:30pm. We ran to the first floor by the stairs and out to our driver. And then we drove. 

It was such a long drive. Heavy traffic, potholes, heavy heat, and the impatience to reach my baby before the orphanage closed for the evening weighed heavily on all of us. I didn’t like the oppressive feeling, so I turned on a playlist of songs of encouragement, hope, promise, and power. And we sang together, the music rose and floated the suffocating air away. 

Our van dipped and jerked as we came to the unpacked roads. The sun was gone, though there was still a grayish light out. Poor Micah! He must have waited all day, only to think we weren’t coming after all. I willed the old van to go faster. 

Some of his nannies came into sight. They were at the edge of the road, waiting for a taxi. We rolled the windows down, handed them gift bags we had prepared, and continued on as fast as we could. They cried, “We will come with you!” and hurried on behind us. The van bounced and swayed over the ruts and ridges. As we pulled up, I grabbed my bag and hopped out of the car, clutching the copy of the court order in my hand. The gates were closed. I rapped sharply on one, and the old gate keeper opened the door a crack. I darted inside and his milky eyes were kind as he raised his arm and pointed. We didn’t need words. It’s not the first time he’s seen me. 

I ran across the grass. Children appeared out of nowhere, pointing and whispering. I said in Amharic, “Where is Micah!!!” and they grabbed onto me, dragging me towards an entrance. I ran inside, just as Micah was coming out. I grabbed him and hugged him tightly. Then I showed him the court decree. “We did it! We did it!!!!! You’re coming with me. Get your stuff, baby! We are LEAVING!!!!” 

He grinned and nodded and walked outside. People were mobbing us left and right. His friends were crying, the nannies were crying, I was crying. Everyone was kissing and hugging, and one special nanny fell into my arms wailing. She had seen me come four years ago, and three years ago. She saw me sobbing hysterically as I left him in 2015. 

“YOU DID IT!!!!!!” she cried. “YOU DID IT!!!! You are a JEGNA!!! A JEGNA!!!!! NO ONE could have done what you did! You fought and you WON! No one else would have done this! No one would fight for any of these children like this! You are a warrior! You are of JESUS!!!! For years and years I have prayed for Micah, and after you left last time, I cried to God so many times for him. And now look! You are HERE! For all the other kids, when they go, we cry of sadness, but not for Micah! For him we weep with JOY!!!!! This is a MIRACLE! You are strong! You are the strongest! TENKARA JEGNA!!!!! You know he asked for you all day, every half hour? He kept asking when his mom will come? We didn’t know when, and he was so mad at us! But you are HERE!!!!”

We sobbed in each other’s arms. I thanked her for caring for my son, and for loving him while I was gone. 

It was almost completely dark. My driver motioned that it was time to go. The roads weren’t safe this far out for firinge (Americans), and the darkness only added to the level of danger. 

We told Micah to collect his things. He was wearing borrowed clothes and had to exchange them for some other clothing shared by the orphanage. He came back wearing a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a pair of shoes. In his hand, he held two worn photo albums. Ones that I had given him four and three years ago. 

“You have nothing else?” I asked him. My other kids came with almost nothing: the clothes on their backs, some school books, and whatever we had sent them previously, but he had even less. He had nothing but our pictures. Twelve years spent in an orphanage, and he left in borrowed clothes and a handful of dog-eared photographs. My heart broke for him. 

The nannies were wailing as we turned to go. They loved him. Everyone loved him. 

He left without turning back. He moved with purpose, away from the place that had been his only home, and yet also a kind of prison. My kids walked beside him, wrapping their arms around him. He stopped to hug the grizzled old guard, who swiped away tears. Then the five of my kids, arms holding each other, walked straight and tall outside that orphanage gate. I ran to the guard and hugged him fiercely. “I will love him forever,” I whispered in Amharic, tears blurring my eyes as this strong old man cried on my shoulder. 

Then I stepped through the metal green gate, where my children were waiting.