Slow, color-full learning

We are sitting together on the carpet in her room. This firstborn mini me and I cradling baby dolls. Dolls of various colors, some with long hair, some completely bald, some with dark braids, every single one with a name.

She smoothes out ‘Mercy’s’ African kitenge skirt, this doll the namesake of one of our closest Kenyan friends. The colorful pattern a vast contrast to the plain pink shades of ‘Lindsey.’

“Mommy, you be the daughter. I’ll be the mommy.” Her big blue eyes squinting into an anticipatory smile as they peer up at mine.

“Ok, honey. Are these my sisters?” I motion toward to my comrades, and she emerges from her pretend play for half a second with a sheepish smile, thrilled I’m truly leaning into my appointed role.

“Yes, mommy, they are your sisters,” she giggles.

The light escapes from her barred window and splays across her cheeks and the one tangled dreadlock that’s formed from too many days without a bath. Her own baby doll face still visible through her early preschool aging. I look down to my dolls – er, sisters – and notice long, blonde hairs sticking up from the furrows of fuz underneath. How long has it been since we had this rug washed?

“Mommy…” Little taps on my thigh. “Mommy!” Now frustrated jabs from being ignored.

I’m brought back, my productivity-driven mind driven to silence. We continue playing, she teaching her dolls (us daughters) how to pronounce letters, me wondering, ‘How can I teach her something here?’

“Lyla, look at all of these little girls. Do they all have the same color skin?”

“No mommy. This one is dark. This one is white, like me.”

“That’s right, and these are just like girls all across the world.”

She quickly interrupts, “Like Kenya! And America! And Malawi!” My sweet girl.

I begin a lengthy monologue about people being made in God’s image. ‘What’s image’ she asks. Luckily I’m actually ready for this one, because Lord knows I’m not always, and I share how image means that we reflect what God is like. How we all look different, with different colors, personalities, gifts, yet all displaying parts of God’s character.

Look at me, discipling my daughter toward the beauty of God-designed differences. Boom, check.

But also, my daughter is three.

I probably continue, not realizing I’ve already lost my audience.

Meanwhile, Lyla’s eyes have long since glazed over and she is now interrupting my very important teaching opportunity about some insect she saw the other day and who the funniest kid in her class is and ‘Can I have a cookie?’

Nailed it. That lesson sure sunk in.

I take a deep breath and return to passing the time with my sisters Mercy and Lindsey.

—

I’m rustling through hundreds of papers, scrolling through countless emails. I daily use the kids’ naptime for the infamous “paperchase.” Does that form need to be an original? Was that the correct medical documentation? Can we get that done here in Kenya, or do we have to DHL that to the States?

We are adopting internationally. And we also live internationally. Better yet, we are adopting from a different East African country than the one in which we are residing. More complications on top of an already very complicated topic. I feel both steadfast in the decision yet all so very confused how to enter into it well. I start reading every book and listening to every podcast I can find, from trauma to attachment to transracial brokenness.

I read, “As adoptive parents… it is vital that we see our children’s ethnicities because they are God-ordained, beautiful expressions from a good and holy Creator.”*

Will we exemplify this as a family?

—

A few weeks pass by. Or maybe it’s months. I’m not really sure. Time is a funny thing.

She’s talking about her classmates… their similarities, and differences. She brought that up herself this time.

“Mommy, God loves Zedd, and Jasiri, and me, and YOU!” Her friends, some American, some Kenyan, all very different yet so very much the same… all loved by their creative Creator.

“Black is beautiful, brown is beautiful, white is beautiful!” she then randomly squeals, lips curling, nose crinkling, this time less sheepish and more delighted. 

And before I can express my open-mouthed excitement, she adds, “And purple people and pink people!” Oh, the winsome laughter that follows from her little four-year-old gut. “Mommy, what people are pink?!”

Annnnd, we’re back. 

She wants all things pink. Pink shoes. Pink clothes. So naturally, pink people. 

I shake my head and roll my internal eyes as I let out a chuckle. Don’t push too hard. Don’t force it. Enjoy the idea of pink people, too.

She can’t fully understand just yet. She has no idea at the gravity of it all. We’ll try again next time. Keep trying. Maybe she’s really starting to get it.

—

A year later. Or maybe it is a few months. I’m not sure. Time is a funny thing.

Her hair now reaches far past her shoulders and her baby curls are hidden behind longer locks.

A friend who has already adopted a precious girl with locks different from her own insists I know nothing about tangles yet, but the 45 minutes I spent brushing out my own daughter’s snarled mats makes me wonder at the relativity of it all. I don’t know yet what I don’t know, and this is what I know right now. Until then, I’ll try to know more.

We are sitting in the rocking chair. She, squished as always between my right hip and the wooden edge, her brother in my lap, the feel of their cartooned-pajamas soft against my own skin. We move rhythmically together, back and forth, book in my hand as my arm reaches behind them both. I notice a tear in the right hand corner of the chair that I swear was much smaller last week. I bring myself back to the moment, doing so sooner with every passing season, knowing these moments fade all too quickly while my kids grow at even faster rates. Their undivided attention will not always belong to me, even if I don’t think they’re listening.

The book’s name is Colorfull; colorfull with two l’s. How clever. My non-reading two year old and four year old will obviously be so impacted by that little tid bit. I try to explain the concept nonetheless.

“God loves all colors! He is so creative isn’t he?! He wants us to be color full,” I emphasize, “noticing and celebrating all the beautiful differences of His creation. Get it?”

They listen, quietly. No reactions this time. No pink people comments. Just four eyes staring intently at the cover featuring dark-skinned Imani and light-skinned Kayla.

We open the book, and I’m so thankful for another tool to help me navigate a world I’m hoping to continue entering bravely into myself.

I read the precious words aloud, “God must love color to have made all of earth’s people with such wonderful shades. That’s something to celebrate!”

I hope they’re listening. I think they are.

—

A week or two later. Maybe even a month. I’m not really sure. That’s the thing about time – you don’t see it moving until you take a look back. It’s funny like that.

I comb the tangles out of her wet hair. Less of a dread this time. The scent of her lavender baby lotion emanates from her soft skin as she sits on her knees in front of me, her head now reaching to my chin. I wonder what kind of lotion our future child will need.

Her dress is covered in pink and white squares. Pink, of course. She picked the dress out herself, laying it atop that same fuzzy carpet. Hairs and dust and dirt still present, but years of mental practice have proven there are more important things to spend my time on.

We start talking about the beauty of differences again. The divergent colors of God’s people all over the world. I’m still brushing. But this time, the conversation shifts to what it’s been shifting to a lot lately, especially now that the paperwork has been shipped off to Malawi and all we have to do is wait. And learn. And guide.

“Lyla, what color is your skin?”

“White,” she says, stroking the tops of her pruney hands.

“And what color is Rahab’s?” Rahab is our nanny extraordinaire and one of our dearest friends.

“Brown!”

“What about Winnie’s?” Winnie, our caramel-skinned roommate for over a year now. Also like family.

“She’s brown too!” she pauses a second. “Oh, maybe golden brown.” 

Here comes the shift. This time, it feels like a natural progression, seasons of forced habits and conversations now seeming to flow more fluidly. And more and more I’m entering with a deeper conviction. In light of our family’s choice and in light of, well, years of being around the colors of all God’s people. And loving them like crazy. Them loving us right back.

I ask her what color she thinks her future sibling will be.

“Also brown,” is her answer. “Not like mine. But still beautiful. All colors are beautiful.”

“That’s right, honey. Your little brother’s or sister’s skin will be like their birth mommy’s and daddy’s.”

She pauses. A thoughtful sadness. I lower the brush. She turns around and looks into my eyes.

“What’s going to happen to their birth mommy? Why can’t she stay with our little brother or sister?”

We talk about it. We enter humbly in to these hard conversations, as much as we can for her young, innocent heart. She, listening intently this time to every word, and me, shakily praying for wisdom and grace through every second.

“Mommy, I think we can pray for them right now?” It’s really a statement as she folds her hands together and I wrap my arms around her. The brush forgotten on the carpet.

Her sweet, soft voice begins. She thanks Jesus for her little brother or sister and their birth mommy and daddy, too. She asks him to bring her sibling home to us soon. She thanks him for making them all beautiful. Amen, we say in unison.

A second of holy silence. I let us sit in it for a minute.

“Thank you, Lyla girl. That was beautiful.” My eyes prick. Just when I think she isn’t getting it, I blink and it’s been years of interrupted conversations leading up to moments like this. Here we are. Where I am the one learning from her.

She turns back around, and I pick up the brush once more. Oops, another tangle. Sorry baby.

I think of my two children who are here now and my future adopted children, painted with vastly different colors. All beautiful, intentional colors atop beautiful, intentional hearts. I silently pray again, ‘Lord, may she always champion this.’

One long, final brush.

Maybe she was listening after all.

*It Takes More Than Love: A Christian Guide to Navigating the Complexities of Cross-Cultural Adoption – Brittany Salmon