Brian pulled the schoolroom desk into the girls’ room and set up the computer as I tucked blankets around weak girls and filled water bottles. It didn’t take much tucking or settling. Both girls were feverish and lethargic, the misery of sickness already well established. Even so, it didn’t dampen their excitement that the evening was ending with a skipped supper and movie-of-their-choice in bed.

I hate that moment standing on the edge of a cliff that either turns out to be a one-foot drop or a yawning canyon. That terrible moment when all you see are the early signs of infection and germ. The wondering drives me crazy and my pessimism reigns supreme. I’m just sure it’s going to be the worst, and last forever, and roll through our family one at a time dragging out the experience to its absolute extreme. This time I wouldn’t be that person. I could do this, baby and all. Oh… baby. Oh no. What if baby gets it?!? What do we do? What if we have to medivac and nothing is finalized?!?! We can’t leave the country! Panic sets in with a whole lot of frustration that this was happening RIGHT then. Baby (we’re calling Cricket), had only been part of our family for two weeks, and then this. WHY.

Immediately we quarantined Cricket from the girls and myself. I was feeling off and could see what was in store for me by watching Ray and Willa. We pulled a mattress into their room so I could sleep nearby the sick girls, and away from the healthy members of the family. Around midnight Willa woke me up, chirpy and very much her normal self. She was hungry, so we snacked on bland food quietly on her bed. I checked her temperature, and it was higher than it should be, but not alarming. She easily went back to sleep, and so did I. At 3 on the dot… I don’t think I’ll ever forget the exact time… I woke up to a very strange noise coming from her bed. I rolled over quickly sure I was going to be catching vomit. Instead I was face to face with Willa, her eyes wide open but unseeing, her throat making strange guttural noises. It took me a second in my own compromised state to figure out she was having a seizure. And I panicked. The dos and don’ts of how to handle this situation ran through my head all meshed together. Quite usefully, I started yelling her name at her over and over. Because, well, useful. It passed and she lay totally still. Deathly still. Her eyes were vacant and, though I knew she was alive, my Willabean wasn’t there. She was just gone. Willa, Willa, Willa. I was still being strong and calm in the crisis, weeping and calling to her. Over. And. Over. Ray was awake at this point, with no real understanding of what happened or what was happening. I had her go get Brian who came rushing in with a clear head and more in his brain than a fog of grief and maternal despair. He rushed her to the shower and brought her temperature down. We saw her return, and the watershed of emotion left me utterly useless.

This was the beginning, and the lowest point, of what was to be a long eleven-day ordeal. Others endure the experience of watching their children seize frequently, and I don’t know how they emotionally survive it. To see our bouncy, joyful Bean like that… I still can’t dwell on the image without feeling a gut punch of pure fear. Despite our concerns that Cricket would catch whatever this was if I stayed in the baby’s room during the rest of the night, Brian and I switched. I couldn’t cope, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t be useful to Ray and Willa in that moment. Cricket was struggling to take a bottle and rest, I was struggling to understand what just happened.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt God asked us to walk the road of adoption. Beyond any shadow of any doubt. I remember where I was and what I was doing when he absolutely spoke it to my heart. Then Brian and I had one of those couple moments where I was sure he would laugh me out of the house when I brought it up. But he didn’t. He just said, “Yep. We should pray and seek counsel, but I don’t know why we would say no.” And I couldn’t say no. To say no would be to defy the Most Holy. Adoption is something that has been in my bones since I was a girl, but we had Ray and Willa. My threshold for chaos is pretty low, so two on two seemed about the limit. That same day God pointed us down the adoption road, he showed me my own idols of order and household peace. Do I stand before him at the end of the birth pains of this world and hear him say, “Well done keeping a quiet and clean house. What about my orphans? Why did you love your peaceful, orderly home more than my orphans?”

So here we found ourselves. Cricket was home for a mere two weeks, and we all got so sick we could barely function to take care of ourselves; Willa getting hit the worst, shaking me to my core. When daylight broke after that first night, we called on our team. They swooped in and loved on Cricket, caring for our baby for the next almost two weeks as the doctor encouraged us to keep the baby away from whatever this was. At first I was so sick I was just glad Cricket was away from it. Then I stopped being able to walk by the crib, I was so confused. How could God allow this to happen? We were doing what he asked, shouldn’t there be a measure of protection from this?? I mean… a cold, okay. A 24-hour bug, okay. But fevers, a seizure, total lack of energy, and more than a week of vomiting? REALLY.

“Gird your loins, gal – and get to it!”

When we sought counsel about adopting, I emailed someone I barely knew. She and her husband adopted in this country years ago and we felt God could use her to speak to us. He did. She ended her email with the phrase above, and we haven’t experienced a true fight yet with this whole process. Not really, not like others face. When The Illness hit and didn’t go away like a good stomach bug should; when the separation from Cricket dragged on and on; when the chapters upon chapters I’ve read preparing for adoption popped in my head, reminding me this separation was disrupting our bonding. When I despaired this one line came back into my head: gird your loins.

This is a fight. It will not be easy. He does and will protect. But he will not shield us from the battle we chose be a part of by taking a clear side. Cricket, Ray, and Willa are ours right now. They will hear about Jesus every single day they are in our home. Satan can try what he will, but it won’t keep us from fighting for each of them. Because of The Illness, Willa and I had some very sweet times bonding. Because of The Illness, Cricket established deep and lasting connections with our team, both expats and Papua New Guineans. Because of The Illness, I learned to cling to the Rock. Because of The Illness, I remembered the fragility of life and it has galvanized me to evangelize my children with renewed vigor.

Because of The Illness I remembered this is a battle. And we will fight for Cricket. And Ray. And Willa. Every single day through every awful illness.