Category: Adoption Page 7 of 9

Dear Birthmother

By

On May 9, 2015

In Adoption

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.

Behind the Smiling Photographs There is Adoption Trauma

By

On April 18, 2015

In Adoption

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.

When You Became Mine

By

On March 18, 2015

In Adoption

On the day you were born, your cord was not cut, nor were you washed with water to make you clean, nor were you wrapped in cloths.  No one looked on you with pity or had compassion enough to do any of these things for you.  Rather, you were thrown out into the open field, for on the day you were born you were despised.  (Ezekiel 16:4-5)

I find it interesting that so many people are shocked that some African women would dump their newborns into a pit latrine.

My last post quickly shot up into my #1 most-read post, with over 7000 hits.  (I realize that’s small potatoes in the blog world, but it’s a lot for my tiny corner of the internet.)

It certainly was not my most inspired piece of writing.  So all I can figure is that it was sensational enough to shock people into reading and sharing.

But why?

Why is it so shocking that women in Africa leave their newborns to die?

Is dumping a baby into a toilet more barbaric than jabbing a scalpel into a baby’s neck, suctioning out her brains, and crushing her skull?  Or simply vacuuming her life away, piece by piece, as she struggles to get away?

After all, that’s what happened to over a million babies in America last year.  Legally.

At least Tanzania has the sense to make child murder illegal.

In Tanzania, there’s not a lot of hope for unwanted babies, when adoption is so culturally unacceptable.  But in America, there’s tens of thousands of couples who wait months….years….for the phone call that there’s a baby waiting for them.  Yet still, we throw away a million babies a year.

Listen.  My heart breaks for these mamas.  I can’t imagine the despair, the hopelessness, the fear, that compels a mama to dump her newborn into a toilet pit.  Or to pay money for someone to suck out her baby’s brains.  I think of the 17-year-old who is terrified she’ll be kicked out of school.  Or the prostitute who doesn’t see a way out.  Or the desperate mama who just doesn’t know how she’ll feed one more child.

It goes against a woman’s deepest instinct to turn her back on her child.  The heartache that leads her to that point must be unfathomable.  Yes, Christians, let’s be known for advocating for the babies.  But let’s be known for advocating for the mamas too.

But don’t just weep for the African babies who are thrown away.  Weep for the American ones too–and those all over the world, for that matter.  (Ironically, one of the few (only?) similarities between the United States and North Korea is that they both permit abortions past 20 weeks–two of only seven countries in the entire world that allow them.)

Yet

There is redemption for a baby lifted out of a toilet pit and given life and love.

There is redemption for the adoptive mother when that child fills empty spaces in her heart.

There is redemption for the birth mother who sacrificially gives her child a chance at life.  And there’s even redemption available for the one who doesn’t.

Because in that picture, there is the reminder that we all are in the toilet pit, until the Day when we are lifted out and made Sons or Daughters.

Then I passed by and saw you kicking about in your blood, and as you lay there in your blood I said to you, “Live!”  I made you grow like a plant of the field….I gave you my solemn oath and entered into a covenant with you, declares the Sovereign Lord, and you became mine. (Ezekiel 16:6, 8)

The Craziest of Love

By

On August 29, 2013

In Adoption

His love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me.

His love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me.  


This story started two years and four months ago.

When I first visited Forever Angels orphanage to meet Lily, another story began.

I didn’t remember the names of all the kids I met that day, but I remembered Zawadi.  Almost everyone who meets her does.  Five years old at the time, fluent in both English and Swahili, bright, amusing, and affectionate, with an infectious joy despite her very difficult circumstances, Zawadi is a child who makes an impression.

Lily (age 2) and Zawadi  (age 5) at Forever Angels

And she was desperate for a family.  Zawadi saw child after child from Forever Angels picked up by relatives or brought home by adoptive parents.  And she wanted a Mommy and Daddy too.  In fact, she would tell this to Amy H. (the manager) quite often.  “When is my family coming for me?  When do I get a Mommy and Daddy?  Why does Lily get a family and
not me?  She is only two, and I am five.”

The truth is, Zawadi would have been selected for adoption years ago, but she had an unusual family background that made social welfare
reluctant to release her for adoption. But finally, right around the time we picked up Lily, social welfare agreed:  Zawadi could be adopted.  She could finally get her family.  But would it be too late?

We even considered Zawadi for our family, but eventually knew that it was Lily that God had chosen for us.

However, I talked about Zawadi whenever I talked about Forever Angels.  And I remember clearly when I told Lauren, one of my very best friends.

It was on a Friday night, at Youth Group, and I had just returned from my trip to meet Lily that afternoon. Lauren and I sat with our backs against the living room wall, a swirl of teenagers laughing around us.  I told her
about Lily, about the orphanage, and about the other children, including
Zawadi.  About how she always asked Amy for a family.

I had no idea that would be the seed.

Lauren went home and looked up Zawadi on the Forever Angels website.  She couldn’t get her out of her mind.  She told her husband, Ben, about
her, and soon he also couldn’t stop thinking about her.  On Monday I got a text message from Lauren, “Can we come talk to you sometime about the adoption process in Tanzania?”

Two years and four months ago, they started the adoption process in Tanzania.

When you are in love with a child, and that child is desperate for a family, two years and four months is a very, very long time.

In October of last year, they finally got to meet her.  They spent a glorious two days together. They all fell in love. Zawadi, being quite perceptive, figured out that Ben and Lauren were her prospective parents. And being the precocious child that she is, and knowing how this process works, took it upon herself to sit down at the computer and write her own letter to social welfare, print it, sign it, and seal it in an envelope. It reads, “Ples
can loren and ben be my mom and dad.”

It was at that point that I first posted about this story.  Back in October, we thought that it would be “any day now.”  But instead weeks and weeks went by which turned into months and months.

Instead of getting easier, Zawadi’s story got more and more complicated. Harder. Unprecedented among adoptions in  Tanzania. Yet her need for a family never went away.

Many, many times, it seemed totally impossible. I wept and wept with Lauren and prayed and begged God to help. Even writing this now, the tears flow as I remember those times of utter despair.

Finally, a few months ago, circumstances arose that meant that Zawadi would probably never be adopted, by anyone.

That’s when Ben and Lauren took the craziest step of love ever, and declared that they would be willing to be long-term foster parents. Long term, as in, Zawadi’s entire childhood.

People do that in America all the time, but this is Tanzania. And they are American.  They knew the future would be uncertain and risky and there would be no guarantees.

But they loved Zawadi with a crazy kind of love. A never-stopping, never giving-up, always and forever love.

Back in February, at our amazing spiritual retreat, Ben taught the students that song:

His love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me.

During the past few days, those words keep running through my head.

Because two days ago, the day before school started, Ben and Lauren brought home this little girl.

To love unconditionally, now and forever.

I can’t stop smiling and I can’t stop crying.

How they love her.

How He loves us.

Chocolate and Milk

By

On June 7, 2012

In Adoption, Book Recommendations, Race and Diversity

 “We were not made to make much of blackness. We were not made to make much of whiteness. We were not made to make much of self or humanity in general. We were made to make much of God.”

I grew up pretty much oblivious to race.

My childhood neighborhood in California was multi-ethnic.  My best friend was Indian.  Then I spent six years in three African countries. 

Back in California in high school and college, I spent 8 years doing ministry in multi-ethnic neighborhoods.  Camp counselor for two summers for kids who were mostly black and hispanic.  Worked four years for a black employer. 

As an adult I spent seven years teaching kids from all kinds of ethnicities.  Spent nine of the last eleven years in Tanzania.

As I was growing up, white people were kinda boring to me.  Travel and cultures, that’s what fascinated me.  The fact that Gil is half-hispanic?  Dream come true. 

So adopting African children was just sort of obvious.  I mean, we wanted to adopt, we were living in Tanzania, and there are two million orphans here.  So should we adopt from Africa?  Duh.  The fact that my kids have dark skin was just….beautiful.  And though I always loved the idea of raising a family that mirrored what heaven will look like, I never set out to be a billboard for race reconciliation. 

But I’ve been thinking. 

Grace and I have been making our way through the American Girl books.  And Addy is a little girl living during the time of the Civil War.  She’s a slave; she escapes to Philadelphia, but continues to live with segregation even in freedom. 

I want Grace to know these things.  She is African but has an American passport.  One day it is likely she will live in the States.  She needs to know.

But did I ever realize how difficult it would be to read her stories about white oppression of black people?  Sitting there on the couch, my arm around her, her Mommy in every way, with nothing but the color of our skin separating us. Teaching her how people who looked like me made people who looked like her into slaves.  And then even when that was over, wouldn’t even let them use the same bathroom.

I never knew how hard it would be. 

And then I read this book (not to Grace!).  And I know it’s controversial and not everyone likes it, but I personally was deeply moved.  Because I am white, and my daughter is black.  Because I have “help.”  Because even though I knew the history, there’s nothing like seeing it through the eyes of someone else through a story.

Since I’ve always thought multi-ethnicities were so cool, I think I unintentionally ignored the pain that so many have experienced (are experiencing) because of their race.  Even, often, at the hands of those who call themselves followers of Christ.  And since we live in Africa, I never fully, truly contemplated the discrimination my own kids could face in America. 

John Piper, one of my favorite-ever authors, and who also has an African-American daughter, recently published this book:  Bloodlines:  Race, Cross, and the Christian. 

It’s not my favorite Piper book.  But as a theological treatise on why Christians should intentionally pursue racial reconciliation?  It’s excellent. 

“That I am chosen for salvation in spite of my ugly and deadening sinfulness…that my rebellious and resistant heart was conquered by sovereign grace….if these truths do not make me a humble servant of racial diversity and harmony, then I have not seen them or loved them as I ought.”

“When we feel or think or act with disdain or disrespect or avoidance or exclusion or malice toward a person simply because he or she is of another race or another ethnic group, we are, in effect, saying that Jesus acted in a foolish way toward us.  You don’t want to say that.”

My favorite section was on inter-racial marriage.  Really, really good stuff.  Especially because inter-racial adoption is so similar. 

“As long as we disapprove of [inter-racial marriage], we will be pushing our children, and therefore ourselves, away from each other.  The effect of that is not harmony, not respect and not equality of opportunity.  Separation has never produced mutual understanding and respect.  It has produced ignorance, suspicion, impersonal stereotyping, demeaning innuendo, and corporate self-exaltation.” 

I humbly recognize that, growing up in my privileged, white life, I will never understand the oppression that minority groups have experienced in America.  But yet, God has entrusted me with these beautiful children.  So it is therefore my job to do everything I can to try to understand. 

Somehow, our family must become a picture of racial reconciliation.  Somehow, I must teach my kids how to love, forgive, and reach out beyond racial lines.  Somehow, I must teach them how to understand the challenges and history and sorrows of their race, even though I haven’t experienced it myself. 

I am inadequate for this task.  The weight of the burden is heavy.  But yet, it is important and necessary.  And worth it. 

My kids are sitting on the kitchen floor drinking chocolate milk as I write this.  I think chocolate and milk make an excellent combination, don’t you?

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