By mid-afternoon, Phoebe alternately paces and leaves the kitchen where we have all congregated to make yet another call to Des Moines. Finally, as the first shadows of evening descend on the Minnesota snow, she asks, Do you know anyone of political importance in Iowa? Holding my son, lost in the features I have yet to commit to memory, I look up. Political importance? Phoebe nods vigorously. Yes, someone who might help us.
The fact that we need help is not lost on any of us. Paul speaks first. I can’t say that we do. Looking up from my now sleeping son, I follow. No, I’m afraid we don’t. Phoebe purses her lips, and it is then that I notice perspiration in rivulets that move steadily from her temples along her chin line.
When she doesn’t speak, our hostess volunteers a solution. What if you faxed a copy of the parental release forms to Des Moines–you know as proof, an act of good faith and assurance that the original is enroute? Phoebe lowers her head in consideration and when she finally raises it to make eye contact, she says, This is actually a good idea. I’ll call my office.
Once again, she leaves the kitchen to make a call. Our hostess and Paul discuss the merits of the new plan, and I remove another bottle from the diaper bag as Quinn stirs from sleep. Although there are details and moments I struggle to remember, this I remember well: in the midst of dire circumstances, circumstances decidedly beyond my control–beyond anyone’s control–I float above the worry, the perspiration, the pacing, and the growing sense of a fate that Phoebe knows but does not yet speak. If the paperwork does not arrive in Des Moines at the appropriate office by 4:30 pm, we will not be allowed to take our son into Iowa. Phoebe will take him from my arms, put him back on a plane to Columbus, Georgia, and fly home. Quinn will return to his former foster home, and we will return to Iowa with an empty car seat. Then, after the Christmas holiday, we will attempt the entire process again. Sometime in mid-January, days and sleepless nights from now.
In the Sanctuary of Bethlehem, there is a peace that passes all understanding. Cocooned in this peace, I am strangely assured that all is well. This is a sanctuary and a perspective I have known but a precious few times in my life. Typically, I worry with seasoned experience and the expertise of a pro. I project myself into fates far worse than reality generally offers, and I see a future that threatens to undo me.
In the mead hall, Beowulf pretends to sleep, waiting for the monster Grendel to attack, while others who have drunk themselves into oblivion sprawl in blessed sleep on the floor at his feet. For most of my life, I have been painfully diligent, acutely aware of Grendel’s impending destruction. Peace and assurance have been gifts for others more deserving than me. But in these hours in a stranger’s kitchen, my infant son eagerly feeding in my arms, I sleep blissfully at the feet of those who worry.
When Phoebe returns, she has good news. Her co-worker will fax the papers, and she will call again in a few minutes to verify the fax and permission for us to legally enter the state with our son. It is 4:oo, and we have 30 minutes before the office closes for Christmas. Phoebe appears to relax, and our hostess begins to make preparations for supper. The girls grow restless, and by now, Paul would gladly walk the miles to Des Moines and personally confront those with the power to legalize our return to Iowa if he could.
The phone rings, and Phoebe smiles. This is it, she says, the word we’ve all been waiting for. But her smile turns quickly, as she murmurs something unintelligible, repeatedly. And then she hangs up, turns to expectant faces and says, Our office doesn’t have a fax machine, so we use the one in the office next door. They closed early for Christmas, so my co-worker is driving the papers across the city to a place where she can fax them.
I see Paul’s concern: Driving them across the city? With only minutes to spare? This is a hail Mary if I’ve ever seen one. Phoebe offers words of the palest hope. It’s worth a try. Kitchen cupboard doors open and close behind me as our hostess pours the ingredients of a casserole into a large Pyrex pan. In the living room, the girls are settled before the television where The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is playing. Quinn’s eyes are bright as I speak to him and pull the edges of our cocoon even more tightly around us.
At 4:25, Phoebe sighs and returns to the phone. This is the final call, the call that will seal the deal for better or for worse. Did her co-worker make the trip across town in time? Did the fax go through? Did the Iowa officials receive the fax in good faith and proof of the official papers to come?
When she re-enters the room, Phoebe has removed her glasses, which dangle from her left hand. Then the corners of her mouth upturn, gloriously. She made it–and the Iowa officials received it. They accepted the fax as proof of the original papers to come. FedEx is still delivering and said that the papers will undoubtedly arrive by 6:00. The bottom line? You can legally take your son home to Iowa.
Although our hostess’s back is to us, I can see her shoulders drop as she relaxes. Phoebe wipes the traces of perspiration from her face as we thank her again and again for her efforts to make this Christmas miracle happen. Quinn sleeps once again as I lay the yellow snowsuit on the living room floor and zip him in for the ride home. Our hostess removes coats, hats and mittens from the hall closet, and we we can’t get them on too quickly. Paul leaves to warm the van, and I have a moment with our hostess at the door as we leave. How do you effectively thank someone who has opened her home to you in your time of need? As a woman who has dealt in words my entire life, I am without any that were more powerful than simply I cannot begin to thank you. We look at each other squarely in the eyes, she nods, and with that, we turn to our own lives once again.
Though neither of us say it, we can’t wait to leave Minnesota. Finally as we cross the state line into Iowa, the girls and Quinn sleeping soundly in the back, Paul and I sigh. This is the sigh from those who are utterly spent, who have left it all on the field. And so we have. Yet, the victory is decidedly ours. A brown bundle swaddled in yellow fleece joins an Iowa family on an adventure of a lifetime.
The next evening, we attend the Christmas Eve service at our church. In the Sanctuary of Bethlehem, victory comes in the form of a baby whose love will change the world. As we place the infant seat with our new son beside us on the pew, by candlelight we sing and celebrate the births of two babies who will change our world: Quinn and Jesus.
Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.” [Luke 2: 11-14]
The most blessed of Christmases to you and your loved ones.
