Author: Amy Medina Page 96 of 233

Dear Birthmother

My children are mine, no doubt about it.  Legally, emotionally, forever and always, through late-night fears and throw-up on the floor, first toddling steps, fingerprints on the walls, bright scrawled drawings on my refrigerator.

They grin at me and yell “Mommy!” when the tooth comes out.

They look to me and whine, “Mommy…………” when life is unfair.

They cling to me and whisper, “Mommy” when the doctor comes at them with a needle.

I am Mommy.  But you are too.

There is a part of them that is yours, and always will be.  I look for you sometimes, in their faces, in their movements, in their reactions.  I wonder if you have the same shoulder dimples, if you have the same almond-shaped eyes, if you have that slight frame.

One of you gave your life bearing my child.  Tragedy. Sorrow.  So unnecessary, because if you had given birth in another country, you would never have died.

I think about that day, when my child was taking her first breath, and hours later, you were taking your last.  Did you get to hold her?  Did her fingers curl around yours?  Did you get to comprehend, at least for a few minutes, the beautiful miracle you brought into the world?  Or did fear and pain overwhelm it all?

And the other two, you who held my child for nine months.  You felt her kick against you.  You watched your belly grow large with him.  A miracle, a life, a breathing, feeling, child in the image of God, growing inside you, yet you felt only

despair.

What caused your hopelessness?  Was it the lack of love in your life?  Were you afraid of losing your only chance at an education?  Was it rejection by your own mother, your empty purse, a broken heart?

I wish I had known you.  I wish I could have come alongside of you and given you hope, and helped you realize that there could be another way, that this child who was knit inside of you for nine months could have always been yours.

If I met you today, I would collapse at your feet and thank you.  The child you bore made me a Mommy.  The child you bore has overflowed my cup.  The child you bore is beautiful and intelligent and loving and full of hope.

I wish you could see her.  I wish you could see him.  I wish you could see me.  I wish we could help you fill the holes in your heart.  I wish for hope for you.  And Redemption.

Your sorrow meant my joy.  Your loss was my gain.  I am sad that you will never know.

Dear Birthmother, you have given me an indescribable gift.  I am forever indebted to you.

Truth on the No Good, Very Bad Days

The day started when one of my kids woke me up a half hour before my alarm.  “My bed is all wet,” the child mourned.

And that was just the beginning.

“Mom!  I spilled my smoothie all over myself.”

“Mom!  Look out the window!  Leo chewed up another patio chair!”  Leo is the dog we recently acquired.  He happens to be the Most Obnoxious Dog on Earth.

“Mom! Daddy says he has a migraine.”

Of course, all of these things were also happening in semi-darkness, since we’re having electricity issues (again) and currently none of our overhead lights are working.

“Grace, go get the fan from your room so that we can try to dry the laundry from yesterday.”  “Mom!  The top of the fan broke off!”  Of course it did.

That was all before 7:15…which is also when I remembered that we had a flat tire, which we had not changed because yesterday it was pouring rain.

The kids were 45 minutes late to school.

I’m with Alexander; I want to move to Australia.

It doesn’t help that this comes during a time when I am battling discouragement.  Ministry isn’t going as well as we had hoped; things are hard; we don’t feel good at this; we feel out of our league.  I have been anxious and emotional.

Then this morning I read, Truth affects our emotions when it is believed.

Yes.  What is the Truth I need to believe today?

His grace is sufficient.  Give thanks in all circumstances.  Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.  In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.*

Some will say, “Well, that doesn’t work for me.  When I hear truth, it doesn’t have an emotional effect on me.  It doesn’t take away my anxiety”…..If the Bible’s arguments are not having an effect on you, it’s because you have little faith in what it says.  Faith is massively important here.  We must trust.  We must believe what Jesus says.  (John Piper)

If the Bible doesn’t apply to days like today, then it doesn’t apply at all.

Here’s to believing.

* (2 Cor. 2:9, I Thes. 5:18, I Peter 5:7, Prov. 3:6)

The Black Girl on the Birthday Card….and Other Lessons on Race

I worry about screwing up my kids.

Maybe everyone has that worry, but I think I’ve got more reason to.  My kids are Tanzanian by blood, growing up in Tanzania, but by American parents.  Where will they fit?  Will they be able to identify with Tanzanian culture?  Will they be able to identify with American culture?  I read the news and think, Will they be able to one day navigate African-American culture?  I look at my skin color and think, Am I adequate to help them figure all of this out?  

I’ve learned a few things by raising black kids.  They’ve helped me see the world through their eyes.  My daughter Grace received this birthday card from a friend earlier this year:

I’ve never seen my nine-year-old get so excited about a card before.  “Look, Mommy!” she shouted.  “This card has me on it!  That’s me!  How did they find a card with me on it?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the drawing on the card really looks nothing like her.  But in that brief exchange, my daughter taught me a whole lot about race.  It only took brown skin and curly black hair for Grace to see herself.  I’ve learned that Yes, it’s really important for kids to see themselves in movies, books, and billboards, whether they are black, white, Asian, or Hispanic.  It’s a good thing that more of this is happening in our culture.

So in our house, we celebrate brown-ness and make sure it has a prominent place in our family’s culture.  We love Gabby Douglas and Michaela DePrince.  Our favorite movie right now is the new Annie (which makes me tear up every.single.time) and my kids even have a Daddy who went to the movie theater and asked to bring home the life-size cardboard cutout.

Being mom of black kids has made me notice the subtle superiority of white-ness in my own culture.  Have you ever taken a close look at the make-up aisle in Walmart?  Most department store mannequins?  The color of standard band-aids?  The color of Jesus in most Bible story books?  How the color peach is often synonymous with skin-color?

Then I wonder, Is it really superiority that causes this?  Or it is just that we are from a white-majority culture that tends to be clueless?  I was recently bemoaning to Gil the lack of pre-teen chapter books that have dark-skinned main characters.  But he gently reminded me that this might not be an issue of racial prejudice.  It could just be that most authors are white, and people tend to write about what they know.  Is that true?  Or is there really a bias among publishers?  It could be neither.  Or both.  But is it right to assume the worst?

It’s so complicated, isn’t it?  We cannot deny that racism still exists in our society.  We cannot deny that minorities often have a right to feel angry.  I’ve lived as a minority in Tanzania for 11 years, and it’s given me just a small taste of racial profiling.  Even yesterday, when I was in town, I was slapped with a big fine for an inconsequential traffic violation.  I felt very picked on for 1) being white and 2) being a woman.  I was absolutely furious, and it took 15 minutes of ranting to Gil before I calmed down.  I can’t imagine what it must feel like to experience things much worse over a lifetime.

But at the same time, what is the answer?  Affirmative action?  More laws?  Diversity training?  Can we force people to think differently?  Our society has tried….but has it worked?  Maybe to some degree, but obviously not entirely.

Change has to come from the heart.  Not from the government, not from the schools, not from the newspapers.

So as a mom of black kids, what will I teach my kids about race?  How do I keep from screwing up their identities?  How do I make sure they understand their value, give them the confidence to stand up for themselves, and yet prevent a victim mentality?

I find my answers in the gospel.

1)  The Bible teaches that every person has value.  Every person is made in the image of God, regardless of race, sex, culture, country, whether handicapped, unborn, or terminally ill.  Every person has dignity.  Every person has an eternal soul.

I would challenge you to find one other worldview, one other world religion, that gives that kind of value to every single person in the human race.  There is none.  Of course, not every Christian acts this way (see point #2).  And of course, people with other worldviews can still believe it, but if they do, they will always be borrowing from Christianity.  The only way we can see every human as having equal value is by believing that we are created in the image of God.

2)  Every person, whether oppressor or oppressed, has a sinful heart.  All of us stand in judgment before God.  White America is not the only population to struggle with racial prejudice.  We see it in India in the caste system; we saw it in Rwanda when men and women slaughtered 1 million of their friends and neighbors of a different tribe.  We saw in it Liberia, when freed American slaves set up a colony in Africa and proceeded to oppress the local Africans.  And we see it in the New Testament, when over and over again, Paul and the other writers seek to break down the barrier between Jews and Gentiles.

This is our nature.  We must accept this.  Instead of pointing fingers, instead of looking for excuses, we must look inside our own hearts and see that the seeds of hate and prejudice and superiority reside in all of us.  We can’t just assume, That’s their problem, not mine, because it’s all of our problem.

3)  The answer is found at the Cross.  I just don’t see any other solution.  The Cross brings us all down to the same level–we all have blown it; we all need to be rescued from our own wretched hearts.  Not one of us has the right to think we are better than someone else.   We all need Jesus; we all need him to change our hearts and our thinking.  We need the love that only he can give to overflow to those around us.

4)  Our primary identity is found there–at the foot of the cross.  God gives us the eyes to see the value of every person.  The cross gives us the perspective that no one has the right to feel superior.  Yes, we can celebrate our cultures and our colors and the things that make us different, because God created culture and he loves it.  But that culture does not define us.  It is only secondary to who we are before God, and who we can become in Christ.

This is what I plead in prayer for my children.  Yes, I know they will be confused about where they belong in this world.  I know they will struggle with their identity.  But I pray they can begin to see that African-ness or American-ness or brownness or whiteness really does not matter when we are all at the foot of the cross.

I would want my kids to know that, no matter what color they were.   I hope you do too.

For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility. (Ephesians 2:14)

Not Home Yet

A friend and I were discussing a new law in Tanzania that could impact how long foreigners are allowed to live here.  It’s not even in effect yet, and we don’t even know if it would impact us.  But it was a stark reminder that we are visitors here.

I thought for a while about where we would go if for any reason we were forced to return to the States.  It was depressing.  I can’t think of anywhere in America that actually feels like home anymore.  My parents’ house probably comes closest–but only the house, not the neighborhood or the city.  I love many, many people in America–especially California–but that doesn’t make it feel like home.

Dar es Salaam is home now.  We’ve lived here 11 years.  For Gil and I, that’s 11 out of 14 years of marriage.  All of our kids were born here.  Dar es Salaam is certainly not the most pleasant city in the world, or even in Tanzania.  I love a lot about it, but there are aspects to this city that I downright hate…yet it is a familiar hate.  My car goes into auto-pilot, even when dodging goats.  I know the secret to finding ravioli.  I’ve planted memories in a thousand corners.  Not much about this place surprises me anymore.  It is familiar.

It’s strange, though, that I’ve made my home in a country where I have to renew my resident’s visa every two years.  I could, technically, be deported at any immigration officer’s whim.  I will never be allowed to own a house here.  I will never be able to vote.  I stick out on the street and am treated differently from everyone else.  A million events could force us to leave:  a serious illness, a closed ministry opportunity, political unrest.

It’s disconcerting to come to that realization–that this is the place where I feel at home, and yet I will never totally belong here.  It’s been the story of my life, starting in Liberia, then Ethiopia and Kenya, and now Tanzania.  My passport says United States of America, and it’s still part of my identity, but I have no idea what I will do when one day I have to live there.

Sometimes it feels like I am floating five inches above the earth, my roots dangling aimlessly.  Then I remember, Fix your eyes on things above, not on earthly things.  My roots shouldn’t go down into this earth anyway.  I am a foreigner in this country, but more importantly, I am a foreigner on this earth.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands….While we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened….so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.  (2 Corinthians 5)

This life is a only a vapor, and when it is extinguished, that is when I will really go Home.

Behind the Smiling Photographs There is Adoption Trauma

My kids were relating to me the adoption story of one of their friends.  Well, adoption always starts with something sad, I reminded them.

Sometimes I have to remind myself too, because I tend to forget.  We are a happy family.  Josiah loves hiding behind doors and scaring people.  Grace is enthusiastic about everything.  Lily loves to be chased and has an infectious giggle.  We eat dinner together every night.  We love playing games.  We dance a lot.  There’s a lot of tickling.

Of course, we have grumpiness and meanness and sometimes they drive me batty.  He’s not helping!  She hit me!  I’m telling!  But it’s all normal.  I forget, often, that my kids are adopted.  I forget that they have pasts that didn’t involve me.

This school year, one of our children has been having some “incidents” of bad behavior in class.  It started out somewhat mild, but continued to escalate until January, when we knew we needed to really take action.  This child would be set off by certain triggers, which would turn into loud, long, and uncontrollable outbursts.

I was a teacher for 7 years before I became a mom.  All I could think was, Oh no, my kid is that kid.

So Gil and I did what we had always done with our children’s sinful behavior, and what has always worked.  We set out very clear and significant rewards and consequences, and we followed through on them.  We made a behavior chart.  We had long, solemn talks with this child.  As a family, we role played school-day scenarios, which always ended with everyone laughing in heaps on the floor.

Unfortunately, at school there was no laughing.  Our plan did not work.  In fact, it got worse.  A lot worse.  During one terrible week, I broke down and cried.  I wasn’t just concerned for my child.  I was scared.  We had been trying everything we could think of.  What else could we do?

In desperation, I wrote to Elaine, a friend of mine who is an adoption specialist.  I described my child’s behavior.  Could this be an adoption issue?  I asked.

She wrote back almost immediately.  Absolutely, she said.  No doubt.  She answered my questions and sent me all sorts of articles and links to read.

Suddenly it all became very clear.  Of course!  I thought about my child’s past.  I thought about how the school environment could trigger things from the past.  It made sense!  My child wasn’t acting out of defiance; my child was acting out of fear.

My friend reminded me that all adopted children have experienced trauma.  Even if they were adopted as infants, there is still trauma.  A baby bonds with his or her mother while in the womb.  God’s original plan is for children to stay with their birth mothers.  When that doesn’t happen, there’s trauma.  All of my children came from incredibly competent and loving orphanages, but they were still orphanages.  Children are not meant to be in orphanages.  Period.

Gil and I, along with our child’s wonderful teacher, started looking at our child’s behavior from an entirely different angle.  We made a different plan.  We are doing less fighting against the behavior and more addressing the underlying issue.  For parents like us, who tend to be no-nonsense and generally expect obedience from our children, this feels permissive.  It goes against some of our instincts.  But it’s working!

It’s been almost a month now, and we’ve had a lot less incidents.  I’ve noticed a confidence in my child that wasn’t there before.  My child is happier and friendlier.  Most importantly, I feel so much closer to my child’s heart.  I feel like I understand some of the behavior of the last few years…and I have a lot more compassion.

I realize that so far, our kids’ struggles have been pretty mild compared to what some adoptive families go through.  But I’m sharing this story because I want to give other adoptive families hope, and because I want to encourage school teachers, Sunday School teachers, and coaches of adopted kids to also be willing to consider other angles as well.  Elaine told me to start at this website, and now I’m passing it onto you.

Adoption always starts with something sad.  But by the grace of God, that never has to be the end of the story.

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