Paradoxical Lenten Letters

This might be a bit strange and probably unorthodox, but it’s where I’m at and what you’re getting right now.  Even though we haven’t officially begun the adoption journey, I found myself really needing to write to clear my head and put breath to the noise in my head.  So I began a letter to the maybe someday expectant parent who would dare trust us to raise their baby.  Who knows if this will ever get to her, or if it will be in completely different format or if we will decide not to pursue adoption after all.  All I know is that, for now, for this space in my processing, it’s what is helping me heal and break, together.  

As we enter the season of Lent, a time where the church as a whole pauses to repent, fast and prepare for Easter, my snippet below reflects the paradox of Easter—judgement and destruction deserved are remedied by the love and mercy given.  For me, it’s the wholeness that comes through breaking, a barren womb given new life.  While these are just two of the five or so paragraphs that flowed a few nights ago, I pray it helps you know how to continue to walk with us and shines a light on our fear and our peace.  

We are Kelcey and Alec Ellis from San Diego where the sun shines bright and the Mexican food is fresh.  Adoption has been a way in which Kelcey saw us growing our family since she was young and while Alec took a little longer to explore the idea, now we both embrace the opportunity to share our love beyond the ties of blood.  Parenthood will never look like the traditional route for our family because of unexplained infertility and, well, life just isn't fair. But, we’ve discovered, neither is the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of grace. We have decided not to orient our purpose in life around when we get to be the obnoxious couple with an Instagram full of every time our kid pooped. Our lives, instead, orient around the One whose great love never fails, whose compassions renew every morning. In Him we wait and hope and place our trust. 

So now, seven years after we said “I do” we find ourselves here, writing to you, trying to share a little glimpse of who we are, how we love and why we live.  And it’s hard.  And a little awkward. We mess up, with each other, with our friends, with strangers.  And yet, we seek forgiveness and we forgive.  We judge, we overanalyze, we assume.  And yet, we apologize and forgive.  It’s tough being vulnerable, but it’s how the God of the universe entered into relationship with us and so we press through.  We can’t promise to be perfect parents or that your little one will never feel pain or that we won’t have to apologize.  But we can promise to forgive and offer grace and second chances.  We we will fall short, will let the munchkin down and won’t have all the answers.  But we will provide opportunities for learning, room for mistakes and space for questions.  So although we are older, more worn around the edges, maybe a little wiser and a little less starry-eyed than when we started our marriage, we find hope in forgiveness and peace in the unknown. And rest in the juxtaposition of an unholy people, broken parents, only redeemed by a perfect Father.

“The house of my soul is too small for you to come to it.  May it be enlarged by you. It is in ruins, restore it.” St. Augustine