Children Of Dreams Part 12

...my cup overflows Psalm 23:5 The next morning I got up early to pray. I had no way of knowing if Luu would change her mind or if she would bring Joy to the hotel. I pulled out my Bible and turned to several pa.s.sages from Psalms. I ended with rereading Proverbs 13:12, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy."

The room was quiet as I closed my eyes and contemplated the events over the past few days. I wanted the floodgates of Heaven to burst forth with angelic praise, vanquis.h.i.+ng the evil one and casting him into the shadows from whence he came. Doesn't G.o.d promise He will overcome evil with good? In spite of corruption, greed, and deceit, because G.o.d is all-powerful and just, I prayed my heart would be filled with joy just as I longed to hold Joy. My prayers and philosophical musings were interrupted by the phone ringing.

"Your baby is here," the hotel receptionist reported.

When I went downstairs to receive my new daughter, Joy's birthmother had already left. Luu's tears of sorrow would bring me tears of happiness as Joy and I would begin our lifelong journey together as mother and daughter.

I thought of the parable of Matthew 13:45; a merchant had gone in search of fine pearls and when he found one of great value, he went and sold everything he had and bought it. The story seemed so fitting for Joy. Pearls are produced from the suffering of the mollusk as a means of survival to protect them from parasites or intruders. Joy was "my pearl of great price."

One of the translators from the night before handed Joy to me. After three long years, my arms were full with the second of my "Children of Dreams." I carried Joy up to my room as her wails reverberated off the walls. I knew from experience the first day would be the hardest.

When was the last time I put a diaper on a baby, I wondered? I thought about my brother's messy diapers over thirty years ago. I had not bargained for the diaper routine on my way to Vietnam and Manisha was past that stage when I adopted her. This was something I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams when I left Gainesville-a baby. I would worry later about how I would homeschool Manisha with such a little one. This day I would celebrate my new daughter's arrival. I picked out a pretty pink dress that I had bought the previous day. The difference in her appearance was stunning with clean clothes and a quick bath.

The next thing on my to-do list was to visit the doctor and have those nasty sores on her arms and legs checked out. Much like an ant bite that has become inflamed, her little fingers wouldn't leave them alone as she scratched at them relentlessly.

In June, Joy had been brought in for a medical checkup which showed she was anemic. Luu was given medicine to treat it, but on a return appointment in October, not only did she still have the anemia, but she had also developed scabies. Anne doubted that Luu had given Joy the medicine at all and suggested I have her rechecked.

I carried Joy down to the lobby in my arms and asked the desk attendant to call a taxi for us. After the previous night's difficulty with the transfer from the birthmother, the young lady was glad to see us together. We took the taxi to the OSCAT/AEA International Clinic in Hanoi, just a few blocks from the Lillie Hotel.

The clinic had performed Joy's previous examinations and provided her medical information to me in one big packet. Blood work confirmed the anemia had not gone away, and the nurse handed me iron to give her. The clinic also prescribed medicine for her skin lesions. I bought some Band Aids to cover the infected sores, but Joy protested loudly when she couldn't "mess" with them anymore. I cringed every time she dug her fingernails into the open wounds. It was a battle to keep replacing the Band-Aids she pulled off with new ones long enough for the sores to heal.

"Can you write me a prescription for worms" I asked the doctor. I knew the doctors in the States wouldn't give it to me and after what I went through with Manisha, I was determined to deworm her.

The doctor surprisingly agreed. "Yes, I think that's a great idea. Everybody should deworm themselves at least every six months."

I laughed to myself. I wondered what the doctors in America would say to that. Since we were already out, we explored the area for a restaurant to get some lunch. We found one on Hue Street, close enough to the hotel we would later walk to it. I asked for a seat toward the back where I could see an American television program broadcasting in English. Several tables had leather benches that Joy could climb around on and not have to be confined to a high chair.

My new daughter's favorite thing to do was eat. She would consume the crackers and play with the utensils while we waited, and surprisingly, she was willing to try just about everything I put in front of her. Rice, however, remained her favorite food. To give me a break so I could enjoy eating, the host or hostess would often offer to hold her. The restaurant workers were always warm and friendly to the adoptive mothers. I ran into several other adoptive mothers while in Hanoi and they all told me the same thing: The restaurants would take care of their baby while they ate.

After enjoying our first meal together, I took Joy shopping for shoes and a stroller. I realized early on that nineteen pounds was too heavy to carry for long periods, and a child of fourteen months was too young to walk everywhere.

By chance, I met someone who told me about a store that sold strollers. We eventually found our way there at a leisurely pace, as I carried Joy part of the time, and I let her little legs walk as best they could some of the way. I tried to explain to the Vietnamese man, who did not speak English, exactly what it was I wanted. A few minutes later, he walked out excitedly holding what he thought I wanted. Well, not exactly. It was a baby stroller for a doll.

"No, not for my baby to push a baby in, for me to push her in," I told him.

"Okay. I see," he said in broken English. "I be back." A few minutes later he returned with the real thing. I was relieved to have something to put her in as my arms were giving out on me.

For the first five days, the only time Joy wasn't crying was when she was eating or when we were shopping, but even that wasn't stress-free. Every time a Vietnamese woman would lean down to talk to Joy, she would turn away and scream. She didn't like people looking at her. The poor Vietnamese women would look at me apologetically. I eventually told curious onlookers, "Please don't look at my daughter."

"Where is your baby's cap?" The Vietnamese mothers would stop and ask me on the street.

"I don't have one for her." What was the deal with the cap, I thought? It wasn't cold.

"Your baby need a cap over her head to keep her from catching cold," I was told.

After several admonishments by well-meaning, but overly-concerned Vietnamese women, I thought I better buy one if for no other reason than to honor their custom. I didn't want to be accused of child abuse. I found a shop where I bought her a pretty pink and white knit cap as well as a pair of shoes since she didn't have any.

As I squatted down and put them on her feet, Joy squirmed out of the stroller to see if she liked them. The sound of poink-poink-poink as she walked was amusing, and as I would discover later, everybody knew when she was coming. She had the distinction of being the only one in the hotel with poinky shoes.

Over the next five days we shopped and ate lots of rice. We spent quality time at the Hoan Kiem Lake since it was a pleasant place with its many park benches, and as we relaxed under the cascading, graceful willow trees, I tried to take pictures of Joy not crying.

Each afternoon following our shopping, the Vietnamese kids would greet us with their pictures, books, and postcards on their way home from school to practice their English. They would dote on Joy and hold her while they tried to get me to buy something. A twelve-year-boy took a special liking to Jenni and hung around with us for the better part of a week. One afternoon I treated him to a meal in one of the more upscale restaurants to thank him for translating on several occasions.

After purchasing clothes, bibs, Sippy cups, diapers, hats, Christmas gifts, toys, or whatever struck my fancy for the day, we would grab a bite to eat. Rice was usually on the menu, topped off with ice cream as dessert. We would arrive back at our hotel room for a nap in the early afternoon.

Joy would always cry for Va, her grandmother, before falling to sleep. I hated the crying episodes and wished she would embrace my love. Particularly distressing to me was her refusal to make eye contact with adults. She would look away in a mournful, depressing stare. After a couple of days, I lamented, "G.o.d, what can I do when she refuses to even acknowledge my presence?"

My new daughter was not ready to embrace her new reality. The pain of separation from her past, as lacking as it was, seemed better. It reminded me of the Israelites in the wilderness following their dramatic escape from Egypt, who longed for leeks and onions when G.o.d wanted to give them so much more (Numbers 11:5).

I knew Joy was sad, but I wondered if there was anything medically that might be contributing. I continued to question her age. Jill from the adoption agency faxed a list of abilities that were expected of a two year old, but Joy couldn't do any of them. By the fifth day of non stop crying, I was frustrated and an emotional wreck due to a lack of sleep. I took her back to the OSCAT/AEA clinic and asked them what they thought.

"Could she be autistic?" I wondered.

The doctor performed a few basic tests and although she was developmentally behind, everything seemed to be there for her to eventually catch up. One perceptive, compa.s.sionate nurse grabbed my hand rea.s.suringly and said, "I think Joy will be completely fine. Give her some time. She is just one depressed little girl."

I went back to the motel encouraged but still feeling discouraged. I could use a lot of words to describe Joy, but joy wasn't one of them. She was the most joyless person I had ever met. How could I get her to accept me? How could I get her over "the hump"?

We also discovered she was very adept at temper tantrums. One afternoon shortly after receiving her from her birthmother, she was distressed in the hotel lobby. After much cajoling, I realized there wasn't a lot I could do to make her feel better about me or life. She would have to decide she didn't want to be so miserable. As we stood in the lobby, she yelled louder and louder to draw attention to herself. When no one took notice she stomped her feet. It was funny to see this little girl so full of anger stomping her poinky feet in defiance of the world. A couple of the people in the lobby started laughing. Joy did not like that. She stomped her feet harder as if to say, "How dare you laugh at me."

I reflected on how we are all born with a sinful nature. My new daughter was a sinner in need of a mother's love and G.o.d's salvation. I would need G.o.d's wisdom to bring such a strong-willed child into submission and obedience unto the Lord.

After several nights of not sleeping, though, I was tired, depressed, and wanted G.o.d to do something to make things better. Something had to change. I called Jenni on the phone a couple of floors below and asked if she could come to my room to pray for G.o.d to confirm I was doing the right thing. I wanted Him to take away her pain. Joy was so miserable that I couldn't bear it any longer.

We sat on the edge of the bed and prayed for the Heavenly Father to reveal His will. Later in the morning when Joy woke up, I immediately sensed a change in her spirit. She seemed "different." We got dressed and walked downstairs to the lobby. No longer crying, she stood quietly beside me in the lobby while I tended to some business.

The hotel clerk looked at Joy and remarked, "Is that Joy? She seems so different today."

Another adoptive parent made the same comment. "It's almost like she's a different child. What happened?"

I didn't tell them we had prayed, although I did wonder why we hadn't prayed five days earlier. Now that my new daughter was more pleasant to be around, I thought Jenni would enjoy spending time with us.

Eventually each day we developed a routine. After we got dressed, Joy would gather her shoes, cap and most importantly, my keys. Usually I had tossed them somewhere in the room and she'd find them for me. After the morning scavenger hunt, she would wait at the door as if to say, "Okay, I am ready to go. Hurry up."

I would grab my purse as she pulled the knitted cap over her ears, bend down to help with her poinky shoes, lock the door, and head down the hall to the elevator. If I was too slow with makeup or deciding what I wanted to wear, she would let me know. One day before we left our hotel room, I handed Joy bottled water, an orange, and a stuffed animal. I said to her, "Which one do you want to take with you?"

She grabbed the orange. An American child would have taken the toy, but Joy had known what it was like to go hungry. Food was more valuable to her than toys. Once I realized her insecurity about food, I always gave her an orange or something to carry with her when we would leave the hotel. When she realized food was always available, her episodes of crying almost stopped.

Compared to Nepal, Vietnam wasn't much different from America. I didn't have to discuss with chickens where the toilet was, go behind a bush to use the facility, or beg for toilet paper. I didn't have to carry with me my own bottled water, and I didn't return to the hotel every afternoon smelling like dirt. There were no motorcycle rides in dresses or propositions from men that stared at me. I didn't have to explain what "caste" Joy belonged to or worry as much about getting sick.

There were things that made it hard. It was not unusual to be accosted by beggars. The most heart-breaking were those that had missing arms or legs or both. The first one that approached me had no arms or legs and I was horrified at the grotesqueness of getting around without any limbs. Hundreds of Vietnamese have been maimed by long-forgotten land mines hidden in the killing fields, many of them children.

I always lost whatever munchies I had if one of the maimed ones crossed my path as I was headed back to the hotel. My heart melted at the kind of life they had been dealt and how fortunate I was to have two arms to carry my baby and two legs to take me wherever I needed to go. After a month of giving away chips, candy, and crackers, however, I realized if I wanted that chocolate bar when I returned, I better hide it from the maimed beggars.

In so many of the countries I had traveled, I had seen a dog that looked like Gypsy. On this day, it was no different. As we walked out of a store, a little brown and white long-haired stray was scrounging along the curb where someone had discarded a plastic bag. Looking for a meal, she appeared to have been quite successful in her endeavors, as she had a few too many pounds around the waist. I snapped a picture to add to my collection of "Gypsies from around the world."

My dog Gypsy from childhood was what G.o.d had used to teach me at an early age that there was a G.o.d who loved me. Wherever I traveled, G.o.d would always bring a dog across my path that looked like her. Why, I am not sure-perhaps to remind me of His presence no matter where I traveled, or that the neediness of G.o.d's redemptive love transcended every tribe and nation.

It was the Gypsy from Israel that haunted me the most. The frightened dog couldn't quit shaking as she followed us along the streets of Jerusalem. Gypsy from Italy had a litter of puppies she was trying to raise in the island of a gas station. The one from Nepal was emaciated and covered with fleas. My dog Gypsy from childhood will come to me occasionally in dreams, completely white, as if she is waiting for me.

A few hundred feet from the Lillie Hotel was a little store akin to a 7-Eleven. Each day before turning in for the evening, we would stop in to purchase my chocolate. On the candy rack were two kinds of bars-cheap and expensive. I always bought the cheap one and dreamed about how decadent the expensive one would taste. The cheap one tasted awful, but it satisfied my chocolate addiction by leaving a horrible aftertaste. In some tortuous way, I looked forward to my chocolate every night following dinner.

Although we were routinely awakened every morning, at least it wasn't because of people throwing up as in Kathmandu. The hotel had its own resident rooster that staked its territory at the front entrance. He was faithful not to let anyone sleep past 6:00 a.m. in the morning.

After a few days of adjustment and wanting a change in scenery, Jenni, Joy, and I took a couple of afternoons and visited some of the local tourist attractions. One temple we visited was the Temple of Literature. It was built in 1070 by King Thanh Tong and later became Hanoi's first university. We experienced a flavor of ancient Vietnamese architecture as the buildings were beautifully adorned in colorful relief depicting dragons, tigers, and ancient inscriptions. There were many paG.o.das connected to the temple with Buddha statues out front, and the burning incense created a mystical experience. From one of the buildings, the sounds of chanting monks could be heard. I stood outside the door curiously listening, but resisted the temptation to go inside.

Outside the temple by the lake, Western-style music played via loud speakers. Several Vietnamese women had a stand set up to sell souvenirs to tourists and I bought Joy and myself a s.h.i.+rt. A blend of the old and the new: It was a little oasis in the midst of honking horns and city life, a charming spot to spend a few quiet moments before heading back to the hotel.

On another day, Jenni and I were invited to eat lunch at the Sofitel Metropole with the two adoptive mothers we had originally met at the airport. It was a beautiful five star hotel a short distance from the Lillie Hotel. Out front a platform had been erected to display Santa and his snowmen, dressed in hats and scarves. The platform was decorated by a large sign with letters written in red cursive, "Season's Greetings." Santa Claus was seated on a bike with a carriage holding all the gifts. Bikes were the most common mode of transportation in Vietnam, and without snow, a bike worked better than a sleigh.

The entrance to the hotel was adorned in rows of Poinsettias, and red and yellow flowers beneath the platform framed a beautiful Christmas display. The Christmas music and decorations helped to transport me back to the familiar. At last, halfway around the world, I found myself in the Christmas spirit.

We were escorted inside and seated in a lovely Western-style restaurant. In contrast to Nepal, it was nice to share the adoption experience with other mothers and the camaraderie helped to alleviate stress. As we sat and waited, I took off my gold and silver Guess watch and allowed Joy to play with it. When my brother and sister were young, my dad would give them his watch while we waited to be served. I thought I would continue the family tradition.

A buffet lunch was served and the chef stir-fried pasta in herbs and oil. I can still taste the perfectly seasoned, spicy pasta, my favorite meal while in Vietnam. I have since learned the Sofitel Metropole has a world-renowned reputation for Vietnamese and French cuisine, even offering high-end cooking cla.s.ses.

With our taste buds whetted in antic.i.p.ation, we chatted and shared our adoption stories, admiring each others' new babies. The two families were from Canada, one country I hadn't visited, and I learned a little about what life was like in the far reaches of the north. Sometimes I forget, living in the Deep South, that the world's second largest country of thirty-four million people occupies a vast area of land north of the United States.

One mother showed me pictures of her home covered in snow. My mind got stuck on how cold it would be during the winter. Being born in Tampa and having lived most of my life in Florida, my thin blood would do me in for eight months out of the year.

After lunch, we took a tour of the lobby of the Sofitel Metropole. It reminded me of the Everest Hotel in Kathmandu with its stately gold columns and chandeliers gracing a high-domed ceiling. Too expensive for my pocketbook to stay overnight, it was a nice place to indulge our appet.i.tes for lunch. I hoped Joy and I could come back later for a swim. I took a peek at the Olympic-size pool and couldn't wait to dip my toes in the cool blue water.

When we returned to our hotel after lunch, I discovered my watch was missing and a.s.sumed I left it on the restaurant table. I made a quick trip back to find it, but it was gone. It was the first and last expensive watch I ever owned. I replaced it with a cheap one in Vietnam for ten dollars that lasted until I returned home.

I thought it would be fun to take a tour of the countryside surrounding Hanoi. I preferred trees, mountains and scenic vistas to the hustle and bustle of city life even though I grew up in Atlanta. I asked the young woman who worked at the front desk if she had any recommendations for a half-day excursion.

"You might like touring Bat Trang. It's a pottery village just outside Hanoi," she suggested.

That sounded like something enjoyable. I hired a taxi to take the three of us on a tour, hoping to see a little countryside along the way.

In some ways, the Hanoi scenery reminded me of Florida-flat and wet. Rice grew well in the waterlogged soil that is a food staple throughout Southeast Asia. A hard life for the field workers, it requires long hours bent over in the flooded land to tend and harvest the crop. Luu worked in the rice paddies north of us and I reflected on the future Joy would have faced had I not adopted her.

Frequently we pa.s.sed bikers wearing a hat called a Non La. I was struck at how life moved at a snail's pace in third-world countries, especially away from the city. It was almost like stepping back in time. I wondered, in my fast-paced, hurried environment back home in Gainesville, what I was missing. If only I had time to stop and "smell the flowers." I vowed to spend more time in my back yard working on my half-baked nature garden when I returned home.

Bat Trang was an interesting place to visit. Established in the mid-1400s, the pottery village had a history of selling exquisite ceramics that were exported to other Asian countries. The village sits on the Red River and produces its own unique style with crackle glaze and fine glaze finishes. The pottery from Bat Trang was also distinctive in design, decorative patterns, and colored enamels.

As I write today pondering Joy's ethnicity, I wonder how much Vietnamese creativity is hidden in her genes. Joy's artistry and proclivity for creating beauty out of the absurd is mind-boggling. I wished I could have brought some of the Bat Trang pottery back, but I was too concerned it would get broken.

Later in the week we returned to the Sofitel Metropole to swim. The pool was on the top floor of the hotel enclosed in a room similar to a fancy greenhouse with sides and a top that would open when it was warm. On this day the top was open and inviting suns.h.i.+ne beat down on the pool's surface. I wanted to run and jump in but Joy would not go near it, crying every time I tried. I had to be content to sit with her and admire the blue, inviting water.

I reflected back to Kathmandu with Manisha at the Everest Hotel when she had found it more fun to play with my makeup than swim. On another day perhaps I might come back without her. Jenni had offered to babysit for me if I felt I needed a "mommy" break.

With camera in hand, we walked outside to a veranda that overlooked the capital. The Sofitel Metropole was situated on a high hill like a citadel. From this scenic view, Hanoi was dotted with numerous small lakes and miniature skysc.r.a.pers. As gusts of wind whipped hair in my eyes, I tried to hold the camera still long enough to snap a few quick photos. Joy was preoccupied with the long row of flower pots in front of the railing. As she looked for the last remaining vestiges of red flowers and I admired the view, one overwhelming feeling superseded everything-how G.o.d had brought so much good out of so much adversity.

I snapped several pictures of my new daughter in a pink bathing suit that I had unearthed the day before in a local shop. In her hunt for flowers, Joy had managed to find one lone red flower still clinging to the otherwise bare branches. As I held up my camera, I captured my first picture of her with a charming smile. All the others to that point showed a sad little girl with tears, a scowl or a frown. The smile for the camera, though, would continue to be rather elusive. After a quiet, restful afternoon atop one of the highest points in Hanoi, we headed back to our more modest abode on Hue Street.

Each evening before bedtime, I would fill the bathtub with water. Sitting in the warm, bubbly suds, Joy would have spent the whole evening splas.h.i.+ng in them had I let her. I bought a couple of plastic ducks and she excitedly squeezed the little critters filling them with soapy water. Later I would have to extract the cold, soapy water trapped in their belly so the little ducks could survive another day without mildewing. Joy would have been too disappointed to lose her new bathtub friends.

One of the most frustrating things about traveling to foreign countries is when one can't speak the language. Once when I was in Mexico, I asked for towels and the maid brought me coat hangers. I tipped her for something I didn't want because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I am also not very patient. Add into the mix an impatient little girl who easily becomes frustrated and international adoption becomes even harder.

One difference in personality between Manisha and Joy was evident early. Manisha was happy to go with the flow and enjoyed talking to everybody. Joy wanted to swim upstream and have nothing to do with anybody, but as I watched Joy play with her ducks in the tub, I could tell she was frustrated with the language barrier that separated us. It was obvious she wanted to tell me how much fun she was having. She would sit in the bath tub and try to mimic a few sounds.

I knew enough about the Vietnamese language not to even attempt it. Considering that it is tonal makes it even more difficult for non-native speakers. The doctor at the clinic had told me that Joy understood the Vietnamese commands that he gave her, which meant at fourteen months she already understood two languages, her mother tongue as well as Vietnamese.

Depravity would describe Joy's life before I received her. As she became more comfortable and not so traumatized by her new surroundings, a beautiful flower emerged displaying a gentle delicacy wrapped in beauty. It was encouraging to see her come so far in such a short amount of time.

My new daughter spent hours stacking the blocks that I had brought in my suitcase from home. Sometimes the things children do when they are young are a foretaste of greater things to come. I saw a glimpse of what made Joy who she was, her giftedness, as she patiently and meticulously stacked the blocks into various shapes and designs. When she tired of that, she would stack the pots and pans she found under the sink. I think she enjoyed hearing the clanging of them as much as playing with them.

By far the most fascinating item in our hotel room was the mirror that vertically hung on the wall. Joy rearranged my suitcase so she could sit on it in front of the mirror and make funny faces. I don't think she had ever seen herself before.

Checking out the contents of my suitcase provided interesting and new things to look at. My new daughter pulled out each piece of clothing and examined it. The only one that grabbed her attention was my bra. She tried to put it on several different ways but it didn't fit. Perhaps two might work better. She went back into my suitcase and retrieved a second one. As the first one dangled down her back, she unsuccessfully tried to put the other one over her head. Returning to the mirror and frowning at herself disapprovingly, she ran over to me as if to say, "Here, you wear these things. How does this work?"

An afternoon nap was needed each day so I could stay sane. I would put Joy down in my bed-there weren't any cribs-and snuggle up with her rea.s.suringly. After she fell asleep, I'd grab my book from the Left Behind Series and read until she woke up. Compared to the Tribulation, living in Hanoi for a month seemed tame. At least I wasn't fighting the Anti-Christ.

In the bas.e.m.e.nt of the hotel was what I called, "the dungeon." Dark and dreary, I only went down there once a day. It was the small restaurant where Jenni and I had eaten previously on that one occasion when we talked about the ad. The cook was an overly-indulgent, thin, dark-haired, middle-aged woman who went out of her way to be helpful to the guests. She knew how to make the best rice soup in the world for adoptive babies. She showed me how so I could make some for Joy in our hotel room. I never ate any, though, because it reminded me of that soupy stuff they served in the "restaurant" in the Himalayan Mountains.

One morning when I went down for breakfast I ran into one of the other adoptive mothers, Jackie, whom we had eaten with at the expensive hotel. As I walked in and sat down, I noticed her little girl, just a few months older than Joy, was walking around with a limp. When I looked closer I realized she had a club foot.

Jackie told me how excited she was that her daughter, Jenni, had started walking. Since she came from the orphanage and was crippled, she never had a chance to try. Now she couldn't wait to take Jenni home so her foot could be repaired. I marveled at how doctors could fix a limb so badly mangled. I never heard how it turned out, but I can easily imagine her running track in the Olympics.

Shopping was more fun in Vietnam than in Nepal. I didn't have to worry about running into unsightly things like dead animals hung out as food or cows and their dung in the streets. There were many stores near the hotel, and we had an abundance of shops to choose from. Most of the items were cheaply priced, especially children's clothes.

Since Joy was much younger than the one I expected to adopt, I had brought no clothes that fit her. It was a good excuse to shop, and we bought lots of cute dresses and matching knit tops and bottoms for just a couple of dollars each.

When the weather turned cool after the first week, I bought her a red coat that kept her nice and cozy, especially Christmas Eve when we were out in the night air. Joy soon discovered most of the things I bought were for her and couldn't wait to get back to the hotel to try them on.

Since it was the Christmas season, I indulged and bought some festive ornaments to decorate our hotel room. It was more fun than I thought it would be to put up strands of ribbon and a small Christmas tree. After commenting to one of the restaurant owners how much I loved the nativity scene displayed in his window, he tried to sell it to me, but it was a little out of my price range.

I didn't watch CNN-news reminded me too much of work-but after awhile, I started watching MTV. I studied cla.s.sical guitar as a teenager, never having liked rock or jazz, and I was pleasantly surprised by the variety of the songs enriched with an Asian influence.

The quaint Vietnamese stores that lined the streets of downtown Hanoi were family affairs. It was quite common to see a mother and father with two or three young children out front with welcoming smiles to come in and shop. At one store I bought a beautiful twelve by fourteen inch hand-st.i.tched picture of a Vietnamese house surrounded by mountains. A child that reminded me of Joy sat on a donkey. It was hard to choose which one I wanted but I settled on this one, because it seemed symbolic of Joy's home in Vietnam.

I also bought Joy several souvenirs, including a child's ring, a red velvet lined trinket box, and a gold and blue laced fan. I had lamented in the years since Manisha's adoption that I had not brought home more souvenirs. For the next several years, on the anniversary of Joy's arrival, I would give her one as a present to remember her "Gotcha day."

It was fun in the evenings to go for a walk when the shops were closed. The families would cook in front of their stores, which were also their homes, on little open grills. Corn on the cob was a staple. The aroma from the freshly cooked corn and other vegetables each night whet my appet.i.te. Sometimes they would offer us some, but I always turned it down. I didn't want to get sick.

Each day brought us closer together. Despite the difficult beginning, I knew Joy was the child G.o.d meant for me to have. On December 8, 1999, at 1:40 p.m., I received this email from Jill at the adoption agency: I just wanted you to know that I am at home today. We are having another snowstorm. I am rejoicing in all that the Lord has worked out. It seems that you were never intended to parent that other girl, and G.o.d knew that. He knew this little one needed you to be her mommy.

G.o.d is so amazing! He knew what He was doing. We just need to have faith. I just think it would be so much easier if G.o.d just clued us in a little more. But then we wouldn't have the opportunity to polish our rough spots. I hope and pray you are enjoying your time with Joy. Please try and send me your email photo. I can't wait to see her. G.o.d is all powerful, Jill.

Jill's prayers and emails while I was in Vietnam seemed mightier than a legion of valiant warriors fighting a battle of lies, betrayal, and deceit. Only after I arrive in heaven will I know fully the demons of evil that were raging in the unseen world about me. She had just the right word to help me refocus on G.o.d even when things seemed bleak.

Everything seemed to be falling into place until...

Chapter Twenty-Seven.