Hey kid.  Quit looking at me like that.  You know it works…

You were only 7 months old.
So small. So tiny. So perfect.
It was cloudy outside and the roar of Korean diesel trucks was louder than our failed attempt of thanks happening inside that fluorescent lit room.
There were a few things hanging on the wall and a tv in the corner of the room.
The intensity of what was happening in the room made the room warmer than it actually was.
My mind was spinning and my heart was racing.
“What if I screw this kid up?”
“Can we back out now?”
“OMG. He just cried when I held him. He hates me.”
“I cuss sometimes and I’m a pastor. I didn’t tell them that. Shit. I wonder if they would take him away if they could read my mind?”
“I’m Mexican. My wife is white. He’s Korean. He’s doomed.”
The thoughts kept flying.
I gripped Heathers hand a bit harder than normal and she looked at me with that look I have grown accustomed to…
RELAX.
So I did.

The moment that your Oma placed you in Heather’s arms and released you from hers I saw so much.
Your brother and sister were standing 4 feet behind Oma. They were as respectful and serene as the old lady I sat next to on the bus the night before.
Almost reverent.


When he came to shake my hand he gripped it strong enough to show strength and peace at the same time.
Within the serenity and peace they provided there was a flicker of hope.
A flickr of hope that I am in no way going to mess you up.
That I’m actually only getting to borrow you for a lifetime to watch the amazing thing that God is going to do with you.
It was the glimpse of peace I needed in order to not crawl in the corner and suck my thumb.
When we walked to the lobby doors we saw the cab.
It was the first time I saw any emotion from Oma.


She placed her hands on her head for a moment.
A single moment of “This is too much. I love him so. Please don’t go.”
Then when we got in the van I noticed something.


You never took your eyes off her.
Not until she was out of sight.
And as we pulled away I saw one more thing.
A single tear.
Gathering.
Waiting.
Gliding.
Falling onto the hand she had covering her mouth as to not let us see the intensity of her cry.


She had cared for you alone all day and night for 6 months and she was strong.
Strong enough to let you come with us.
And it is the strength of that moment…
The strength of her sacrifice…
That will press me towards reminding you that you have been loved with a ferocious intensity by those in front of you, those behind you, and Him inside you.

And I thank your Oma, for allowing me to be… beside you…
Dad.