Symbolically, Omari wore his baby-blue flight suit upon leaving the hospital. He spent the morning bidding farewell to his birth parents. After tears and laughing together over his double set of names, the irony of giving birth to a little one only to let him go, and reclaiming the reasons they had to care for him this way, we spent a hallowed quarter hour in the birthing room, Omari and his parents who were caught in the act of giving and receiving. The moment of making that decision seems to stretch out indefinitely. Who can tell what unseen power is tugging at our hearts at such a time?
On a bright morning in a tiny town called Independence, Omari's giving was signed and sealed by the wavering will of man, according to his life's course written on the eternal tablets of the Book of Life. His birthparents' decision that day was not so much in question as confirming what they had already chosen as the best way to care for him and themselves. And we were there to receive him with hearts long prepared for him.
Nana drove us to Wichita.
We got packed up and checked out with the help of his nurse, fitting him properly into the carseat, and walking out with our several little bags of lotions, formula, diapers and bottles. Our case worker was there to see us off, and wish us luck, with congratulations. Pictures were taken, and we headed out across the Flint Hills to await an audience with the Judge before we could leave the state a week later.
