Gomabseubnida

Little tiny toes, mops of black hair, bewildered eyes. Nervous anticipation and a staggering wave of new responsibility. The blinking lights illuminating the tips of the airplane wings soaring and then stopping on the runway. Motherhood was finally mine.

Just a short eighteen years later, a similar scene played out, this time at gate 45 in the Incheon Airport again in the middle of the night. We made the journey to visit our children's homeland in Seoul, South Korea. The bewildered eyes belonged to us this time as we searched for our guides.

All new smells, colors, faces, sounds, and air enveloped us as we checked our certificates, documents, and identification. We were here. We made it. And just like that humid even so many years ago, the conversation in my head just kept repeating, "How did I get chosen to do this?" Again, feeling overwhelmed and so unworthy of such a gift.

When our children were babies, I'd often stare into their deep, dark eyes and wonder how they would ever possibly be able to process the vast chasm that they traversed from one world to another. I couldn't help buy think I'd only created a wound that could never be completely healed.

I listened to their questions, snuggled up close to them when they were sad or confused, and gave them space when they needed me to step away. Always a delicate dance. I was acutely aware of their wounds and that I was not the healer, just a soft place to land.

Blue seas, black sand beaches, prideful skyscrapers, mountainous land, bustling markets, and national landmarks storied and rich with history - this is South Korea. But there is another piece that shines even more brightly: its people.

Wrongly, I thought that Koreans might be angry by the way that we chose to build a family. Their tremendous loss fed our selfish desire to be parents. Instead, we were greeted by grateful eyes and eager questions.

In the markets, more than one shop owner quietly made a heart with their hands as we passed by. One told us that they rarely see their children who left the country as babies. He wanted our children to know how much Koreans love their country. As we turned to leave, he grabbed my hand and held it tightly. He thanked us for bringing them to their homeland.

I was amazed by everything: the sumptuous aromas, the shear enormity of the city, the painful kindness of the Korean people as it was apparent our family building included devastating goodbyes for them, and the immediate calmness our children were warmly wrapped in as they walked along the streets...they were home.

Those moments held us in an embrace of humility and beauty as we watched our children reunite with one of their missing pieces - if only for an instant. We can't be sure what piece they needed, we just knew it was missing.

There may be some pieces of their stories that never turn up, but just the knowledge that several may exist in form or another, may just be enough for now. They have the peace of knowing there are people that love them dearly on both sides or our planet. Again, I can't help but wonder how on this earth I was chosen to live this life with this family who was blessed with children whose hearts beat first in a country of people who unapologetically love their children no matter where they live.

Thank you, Seoul. Thank you, brave and strong birth mothers. Thank you for the invisible ribbon of quiet gratitude that instantly tied our family to the hearts of your beautiful people.