One year. That's what it's been. 365 days ago I was standing in a courtroom in Russia. It was our second trip to the city of Cheboksary in the Russian Republic, Chuvashia. It was April and the days were turning warmer though still not warm.
I would say the day started when we awoke but that would imply some ability to sleep. Parents know that the night before your child comes, when you know the child will arrive the next day, sleep can be fleeting. We dressed quickly -- a benefit of travel, only one set of clothes suitable for court. We ate in a small cafe in the hotel. Yogurt, fruit, eggs. The details remain fresh. The room was full. It was warm.
Leaving the hotel we traveled a short distance to a non-descript building. Two flags flew in front, one of Russia, the other of Chuvashia. Through the metal detector, up a flight of stairs, through a hallway -- all the while following our facilitator and translator -- speaking in hushed tones as if to avoid being seen or noticed.
We were led to a room and instructed to wait. Soon a door opened into another room. This would be the courtroom though in fact it was more of an office or conference room. There was a desk, a long table and chairs lining a wall. We sat in the chairs. The familiar faces of the doctor from the baby house and the representative from the minister of education sat at the table with a new face we soon learned was the prosecutor. We all waited, quietly, for the judge who soon entered and took her seat behind the desk.
We had been told she was tough and rarely smiled. She was different than I expected. Short, petite, thick curly hair. The proceedings began. So many details are fresh in my mind, but the details of the proceedings are not. Perhaps because so much was in Russian. Trying to follow through a translator can be a challenge. Everyone had their turn to speak. I spoke of our home, our family, our son, my job. The judge was interested in Jacob and our adoption of him. She seemed pleased with the pictures we brought. She was curious about my job as a lawyer in the United States and asked a number of questions unrelated to the issue before the court. Terri spoke of our meeting Yulia. The love we felt for her. Our desire to be her parents. The judge smiled. Even laughed once. And then it was done.
The judge left and a sigh of relief was evident from everyone else in the room. Now we waited.
We left the building and went to a second hotel to eat at a cafe we had been to a number of times. Yulia was with us. We held her tight. She was pleased to have us back and we walked, her hand holding my finger, up and down a long hallway.
Everyone chattered about the judge . . . she smiled . . . she laughed . . . she liked us. The other players (translator, baby house doctor, etc.) talked about how strange it all was. The judge had acted out of character. Though we remained somewhat anxious, we felt good. We believed she would not only approve the adoption but also waive the ten day waiting period so that we could return home with our daughter.
Before we knew it the time had come to return to the courthouse. More relaxed, we were shuffled into another room that contained a judge's bench in front. The sun blasted through the tall windows and full of food, relieved that the morning was behind us, I closed my eyes and began to nod off.
Soon the judge appeared and we stood. She began to read her ruling. Our translator spoke quickly and quietly to us as the judge read the ruling. Certain words stood out. Words about Yulia. Words about the family she had never known. Words about those who took care of her in Alatyr. And then the words that the adoption was granted. It was those words we had waited and hoped for and smiles spread across our faces.
But the hearing was not over. Soon other words were spoken. Words about the law, the waiting period. "This requirement cannot be waived." What! Every person in the proceeding, including the prosecutor, had advised it be waived due to our young son at home and certain medical issues of Yulia. The judge said she could not consider these things. The air had been knocked out of us.
I don't really know how to explain it. One year later it seems like a glitch. In fact, we returned to Texas, returned to work, and then returned ten days later to Russia, this time with Jacob tagging along. I wouldn't trade that time in Moscow with our new family of four for anything. But that wasn't the feeling in the courtroom that day. At that moment we felt empty. Ten more days before we could be a family. Ten more days in an orphanage. Ten more nights alone. Another separation. And the chance, albeit slight, that a biological family member would appear and appeal the ruling.
That didn't happen. One year on, our family is together and happy. Yulia goes by Stella. She gives hugs and kisses freely, plays with her toys, fights and then makes up with her brother. Life is good. But one year ago today, we waited with hope and disappointment. At the end of the ten days, just before we went back to Russia, I wrote this post and included this statement, jotted down soon after the court hearing:
Had we known there was no hope of the period being waived, it would
have been hard but not so hard. Hope is strong and when it is dashed,
the fall is much harder. I can't help but think this in some way is
how Jesus' friends must have felt on that Friday - such hope at his
triumphal entry into Jerusalem - dashed on a Roman cross at the Place
of the Skull. But for the darkness of Friday, we know Sunday comes.
And so it seems somehow appropriate on Easter weekend to feel it again. To feel the darkness of this Friday while knowing that Sunday comes.
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