The beginning.

Every story starts somewhere. Right?

And yet, even though it's a question I'm asked frequently, I actually don't know when or where this story - the journey to our beautiful daughter in China - truly began.

It may have been thirteen years ago when, as newlyweds, my husband and I realized that we both shared a desire to adopt. Or throughout the next decade, as we watched dear friends build their families through adoption; as we asked questions, and considered, and prayed. Those were the seeds that were planted in our hearts, to be sure. But not exactly the start of the story.

Maybe it was during the year our family spent volunteering in a Central American orphanage. When we confirmed that, without a doubt, we could deeply love children not biologically ours. And that, in fact, we already did. When we learned that it would be impossible to adopt from the Panamanian orphanage, our hearts ached. And yet, they also stretched, and opened. And dreamed.

That same year, shortly after we made a decision about our family size remaining as it was with our incredible three sons, something happened. A surprise. A loss. A life-changing experience. God whispered to us that we weren't done yet. That HE wasn't done yet.

A door had been opened.

Fast forward a year or so, to November 2011. The day I first saw her photo. Maybe that was the true beginning. And in the weeks following, even though I'd been told that her file was not available for review. When I couldn't shake her beautiful face from my memory.

But our paths would cross again exactly three months later. This time via a woman advocating for the adoption of a little girl in China. The woman was an adoptive parent herself, and offered to answer questions about the lovely toddler's file. Could it be? The same girl?? The one and only photo I'd saved to my computer over the many months of exploring China adoption?

She was still on my desktop. Just as she was still in my heart.

But the story's beginning may go deeper. Our paths crossed on a day even earlier, in a way that could have only been divinely orchestrated.

When we received our sweet girl's file, a certain important date caused me to wonder. I couldn't be sure from memory, so I looked back at the blog I kept during our time abroad. On that date, this is what I'd written:

I didn't feel like going to the orphanage this morning. I didn't want to go.

This morning's weather was gloomy.  (Okay, okay, considering the fact that I could be suffering an Indiana winter right now, that excuse was fairly lame.)

There were lots of bugs during today's morning walk.  And a dead snake (blech).  Both of those make me grumpy.

Muscles that I didn't even know existed were in pain from yesterday's excursion.  I felt old.

My Spanish isn't great.  Kid-speak is even harder to understand than adult conversation.  And sometimes, there are no words.  What else can I say to the 17 year old whose newborn baby I held last week?  I have so many questions for her.  But I do not dare try to translate the difficult ones.

I was disheartened.  Last week the kids didn't have running water.  How could they expect sixty five kids to survive without water for a week?  And why the shortage in the first place?  Unfortunately, it is all too common an occurrence for the orphanage.

I was frustrated.  It bothers me to see so many beautiful, wonderful children who have virtually zero chance for a life outside orphanage walls.  And especially when there are a gazillion equally wonderful people who would jump at the chance to love them.  I understand that the reasons are complicated.  I know that there are people working on the situation.  I realize that the appropriate solution takes time.  But understanding doesn't diminish the frustration.

It would have been much easier to keep snuggling on the couch with my own two year old than to trek down to the orphanage this morning.  More comfortable to go for a walk, or check e-mail, or even do some laundry.  But something pushed me to get in my car anyway.

And I am thankful that I did.  Before I'd even gotten out of my neighborhood, I saw three of the other "regulars" who volunteer at the orphanage.  They were stranded with no ride, so they piled into my car and I set off again.  It was a pleasure to get to know women who are not only my new neighbors, but who also have a love for the children.  I found myself smiling again.

Once we reached the orphanage, the children's giggles and laughter were enough to sustain my smile and chase away my frustrations.  It turned out to be a beautiful day (of course!), and there were volunteers playing soccer, handing out stickers, practicing Spanish songs, and coloring with the kids.  I hugged my 17 year old friend and asked about her baby, who was taking a nap.  I comforted a toddler who had taken a spill; when his tears stopped, he led me to a table to build legos together.  I pulled out my clear nail polish when another teenager mentioned that she'd like to be a beautician.  Of course, then all of the girls wanted shiny nails too.  I'd somehow mistaken nail primer for clear nail polish, so the girls' nails ended up cloudy instead of shiny.  But they didn't mind one bit; instead, they asked for second and third coats!

The time to leave came all too soon.  But I left with an uplifted, grateful, and surprisingly comfortable heart.  Quite different from my idea of a comfy morning, but much, much better indeed.

This blog entry was the only time I wrote openly about my experience in the orphanage. It was tough to put into words. And it was just...too difficult. Too painful. Too beautiful. And too close to my heart.

But, that day, I felt compelled to go. And to write about it.

That day. It was a day that someone, for some reason, made a decision; one I cannot comprehend. It was the first day that our daughter-to-be, on the opposite side of the world, spent in an orphanage.

For the skeptics out there (like me!), of course it could have been coincidence. As well as any number of things. From her province being the one I'd prayed about, to the dimples that I'd dreamed about, to her Chinese name resembling that of the little girl we'd grown closest to in Panama. To the peace gleaned upon learning that the Panamanian toddler was able to go live with family - finally freed from orphanage life - the same week that we received the file for our daughter-to-be in China. And on, and on. It's hard to argue when coincidences abound.

So our story - her story - may not have a clear beginning. But it is a special story indeed. It is one of redemption. One of beauty. One arising out of tragedy and pain, as nearly all adoption stories do. But one that shall be as treasured, as amazing, as the child to whom we will one day retell it.

I pray that I can tell it well.