Adoption and Faith
It’s Mothers’ Week: Remember her. Honor her.
art by erin leigh, click image to see more
It’s that time of year again…my favorite time of year.
The purest and brightest greens add their voices to the outside world, sweet little flower buds say they’re ready to be seen, and the air…the cold brisk air begins to fade as spring gently pushes its way in. I love this time of year. I’m ready for this time of year. Something in it breathes new life. And each year, just like the last, I’m so in need of it.
As I find myself stepping into May and the newness of the world around me, two people fall back into my mind who always do so poignantly each year as April draws to a close…my mom and my daughter. Two people, two lives, that ground me to this world.
This world…both in its brokenness and beauty. This world…both with its pain and joy.
This world…where both death and life reside.
For me, each spring, each May, marks significant moments.
May 15, 1943 – my mom’s birthday
May 17, 2003 – the day my mom met Jesus
May 8, 2008 – the day I gave life to our first child
My mom….She was not the woman who gave me physical life, but she was the woman who taught me how to live life. A woman of strength, wise, intuitive, humorous, thoughtful, courageous, etiquette queen. I received intentional lessons about the kitchen to my clothes, to people and churches and makeup and nails, how to entertain guests to strategic ways to obtain used couches on “trash day.” But mostly, she taught me what it meant to be “a lady.” That’s what she was good at. That’s what she offered me. And now, as I wear the skin of an adult, I see parts of these things in me, reflecting her. I love that. I want that. I’m grateful for that.
Yet, in the midst of the good and lessons and character development, our relationship didn’t come without pain.
She was strong, and I needed tender love.
She was precise, and I needed space to make mistakes.
She was fearless, and I needed someone to run to when I was scared.
She was strong, and I needed to learn how to ask for help.
She was consistent with correction, and I needed connection.
Brokenness and beauty.
My daughter…she’s a girl who grabs onto life with both cautiousness and boldness. She’s a helper and initiator, filled with ideas and intent. She’s simple and straightforward, yet diligently charms your heart with her words and smile and eyes. Her spirit is tender, and her mind is sharp. Her love for me melts me. The love I have for her moves me. Nurturing this life has changed me…is changing me. The parts of me that have been called out in this season are mysteriously beautiful, yet the ways I feel drained I’m confident you could see with your very eyes. You give, you serve, you pour yourself out. You find yourself weary and vulnerable, unsure and expectant. This parenting season I’m in, right now, is hard…really hard. At least the way that I’ve chosen to step into it.
Brokenness and beauty.
This season, this month, this week…it evokes my heart in a myriad of ways. I sit in the tension of both the good and the hard. And that’s OK. I believe there’s something really honoring in doing that. It honors the past, it honors the present. It allows for the future…to unfold authentically. There’s this way that our humanness can deny the hard parts. Exhausting. There’s also this way that our humanness can linger in the hard parts. Despairing. Either may make a person feel numb, justified, prideful, battered. But, that’s no way to live.
Could it be that part of “honoring” our mothers means naming both the beauty and the brokenness, embracing both rather than eliminating one? When I imagine my little girl all grown up, I wonder what she’ll remember about me, about who I was…to her, to her daddy and brother, to our friends, to the world. Secretly, of course, I totally want her to think I was the most perfect and fun and balanced mom, extravagantly loving everything and everyone around me. And then I wake up from that dream and find myself hoping to be remembered not for how I escaped the broken moments, but what I did with those moments – acknowledging them, stepping into them…with dignity and honesty and grace – asking God to form something beautiful and purposeful out of my mistakes and all the ways I unraveled. That’s how I want my children to remember me.
This Mother’s Day, I urge you to take some time to think about your mom – her beauty and her brokenness, your beauty and brokenness, and the story you both share.
Remember her. Honor her.
And if you need it, whether because the relationship with your mom is fake or distant or gone, may the tender, loving, nurturing, relational parts of you connect with the feminine parts of who God is.
Mothering…it’s profound and powerful, sacred, and life giving. Because we, in this mysterious way, get to take care of our little ones in the same way that God takes care of his little ones. It’s because of His love that we are able to love the ones who gave us life and the ones who we give life to.
Happy Mother’s Day.
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Carrissa Woodwyk
Carissa Woodwyk is a wife, mother, and marriage and family therapist. She is also coauthor of Before You Were Mine: Discovering Your Adopted Child’s Lifestory
It’s Mothers’ Week: To Mothers of Unattached Children
We are heart healers, which is so hard to be when we ourselves are broken. Our hearts are broken, too…often by the same children we are trying to heal.
We’ve been the recipients of abuse, emotional and verbal and physical. We’ve had to turn the other cheek, put up a brave front, treat others the way they would want to be treated even though they refuse to do the same for us. We have had to show love–real love, yes, but mostly fake love and somewhere-in-between love–to some of the most unlovable people imaginable, all in the name of healing.
We have the same secrets, sister. We’ve lost our tempers. We’ve parented in anger. We’ve said and done things we regret. We’ve tried, at our most broken, to make our children understand just how unlovable they are. We’ve hated a child.
We have the same fears and the same questions, too. Will I ever love my child for real? Will I ever look at her without seeing a monster? What kind of a person will he grow up to be? Am I making a difference at all?
We are tired. We are weary. Some days, we want to give up altogether, beat ourselves into the ground. And yet we persevere, sometimes because we want to, sometimes because we’ve been asked to, sometimes because there is simply no other choice.
We have good days and bad days. Days that we feel like we can change the world, make a difference, and days when we wish the world would swallow us up. End the turmoil of our lives. We are filled with guilt for the damage we’ve sometimes allowed to fester by not being perfect moms. By being selfish. By being human.
Once upon a time, my sister, you were a girl with a beautiful dream, and so was I. We were going to be mommies. We were going to share a lifetime of love and laughter with bright-eyed, dimpled children that would thrive under our care. We were going to foster or adopt and give a future to a child who had no future. Our hearts were loving, our motives were pure, we just didn’t know then what we know now. We didn’t know that damaged children take more than love and security and structure to heal. More than food on the table and a roof over their heads and clean clothes and new toys and a good education and piano lessons and band aids on skinned knees.
Our damaged children need to be loved perfectly, unconditionally, and completely. No matter what.
And herein lies the problem. We can’t do it, can we? We’ve tried and we’ve failed time and again. Our kids need the love that only Jesus can give, and we must wake up each day and surrender our mothering to Him. Or fail.
I used to feel entirely alone as a mom. Mothers of normal children simply cannot understand the depths of pain and shame and heartache and anger I have felt. The utter hopelessness. I still feel alone sometimes, but I’ve begun to hear whispers from other places…other mommies that are destitute in their despair, too. I know you are out there, sisters, somewhere under the veil of secrecy and guilt. And I need you to know something.
You are not alone. I understand exactly how you feel. You don’t even have to tell me, but I will listen if you need me to. I won’t judge you. I won’t hate you for how you feel. I won’t even be surprised. You are not a horrible mother for how a damaged child has changed you. Good days and bad days aside, you are and always have been one of the special, the few. The mommies that haven’t given up on beautiful even though it’s covered in ugliness, even though you sometimes wish you could run the other way. You have allowed yourself to be put into a place where God can use you to do miracles. And He will, if you let Him.
Your dreams are still beautiful. You are beautiful, my sister.
Once upon a time, I had a beautiful dream. I wanted to rescue children who had no hope and no dreams of their own. Be their mommy. It hasn’t worked out exactly as I’d planned or expected, but it has brought me here, to the point of surrender. And I’m discovering that this, in and of itself, is far more beautiful than anything I ever dreamed up on my own.
(courtesy of Red Letter Ink, click image to see more)
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Lisa Barry
I’m married to a man that makes me laugh so hard that I usually end up in tears. He was saved four years into our marriage, and then we turned our union over to God and His plans. God took our offer and blessed it with four children in two years (two through the foster care system and two through good old-fashioned baby-making), and then (surprise!) gave us another little biological squirt three years later. If you did the math, that’s five children in five years. Did I mention I’m insane? No seriously, God is good. He’s gently leading me down the paths of mothering, partnering with my incredible, Godly husband, dealing personally with impulsive ADHD, homeschooling, and helping our adopted kids overcome Attachment Disorders. I’ve got a long way to go, and most days I wonder how God could possibly love me with the absolute abandon that He does. I’m so thankful. I’m so blessed. I write about my life and my journey to overcome the worst of myself. Feel free to visit, but don’t expect perfection…the only good in me comes from Him.
It’s Mothers’ Week: A Prayer for the Birthmom
(art courtesy of The Canvas Heart, click image to see more)
Precious Heavenly Father…..
There’s a mom out there right now who is carrying life inside of her that will someday be my little child. I don’t know who she is, but I lift her up to you. I ask you to watch over her, care for her, and show her your love.
Maybe she’s young and experiencing shame over her pregnancy and battling with the knowledge that she has no choice but to give up this child that is growing inside of her. Her heart aches with confusion, pain and sorrow as she carries this burden everyday. Lord, be her Comforter. Comfort her heart, be her strength, guide her in your paths.
Maybe she’s sick and fighting for her own life, let alone the life of this young one inside of her. Maybe she has no access to medical care and she lies alone in a poor, mud house with no one to care for her or heal her hurts and show her love. Lord, be her Great Physician. Care for her physical body, ease her pain, bring her help. Let her know she is loved.
Maybe she is poor, so poor she can’t even feed the little mouths that are already in her house. She rummages for scraps everyday and comes home to crying, hungry bellies but she has nothing to give them and so she sings away their pangs of hunger as she rocks them to sleep and lays them down on a dirt floor, to rest their heads without a pillow and their bellies without food for yet another night. Lord, be her Provider. Honor her sacrifice, bring her help, wrap her momma-heart in your arms, and comfort her aching heart.
Maybe she doesn’t know you, Lord, and she’s living a life of sin and fear. Please make yourself known to her. Draw her near to you. Show her your salvation. Show her there is a God who is in control and who cares about her life. Show her that you are knitting together that tiny baby in her womb and that you know all of the intimate details of her life. I pray she would find redemption, healing and love in your arms.
Lord, I don’t know any of the specifics of her life. But I know that over this next year she is going to go through pain, pain I will never understand. Pain of giving up a child she gave birth to or pain of dying, helplessly, knowing she will never care for this life that she has produced. My heart can’t even begin to understand how her heart aches and how it will hurt and what she will experience. But I know that you understand. You’re there. You’re sovereign even over this.
Thank you for her life. Thank you for her decision to choose life. Thank you that through the pain and the suffering you will make something beautiful because your Word says you make all things beautiful. Thank you that you can make broken things whole. Thank you that even though things don’t always make sense to us and they hurt so deeply, you are in control, and you know what is best.
Please watch over her and protect that precious life inside of her. I pray that somehow, some way, she will know how grateful I am to her and for the child our hearts will share.
In Your Son’s Precious Name,
Amen
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Callie Walker
Graciously redeemed by her Lord and Savior and Jesus lover first and foremost, Callie has been married to her husband, Luke, for 8 years and is a stay-at-home mom. They have 1 toddler son, a true miracle. They are currently in the process of adopting a kiddo from Ethiopia. God has turned their lives upside down over the last several years and completely changed the direction they thought they were headed in. They are loving every second of the “gloriously wrecked” lives they are now living and are excited about where God is leading them to live passionately and radically for Him. Come visit Callie as she writes about their journey, faith, real life, and adoption.
It’s Mothers’ Week: His Miracles and Our Rescue
When things get crazy around here (which happens alot lately!), I am praying and asking that God would help me to stop for a few minutes and just live in this miracle. Between laundry and doctor’s appointments and cleaning up messes of all sorts and smells…well, sometimes it is just too easy to let my focus stay there. To buy into the idea that I have to keep doing…cleaning, fixing, working…and I cannot stop and just be here and sit in wonder at this little miracle unfolding right here in my house.
Because it is a miracle. All this. This child who is coming alive and blossoming so beautifully right here in my messy home. Scott and I wondered about all this as we sat all weary on the couch the other night: How does this happen? How does a child who has been alive for two and a half years and really has no idea that two people on the other side of the world have been preparing their hearts and homes to become her parents…how does she become so very ours in such a short time? We are her parents! Just think of that. In her little mind, two months ago, she had no framework even for that. What is a parent anyway? For really she had only known nannies and orphanage life.
How does she come to embrace us, to know us as parents in such a short time, in just the way our other children do? How can that not be a miracle?
And then there’s the other miracle. The one that Scott and I know in our hearts but may just not be able to explain. Just that we get to be a part of all this.
Adoption has etched in our hearts such a deeper, more living understanding of what it means that God has adopted us…rescued us…redeemed us.
She has been redeemed and rescued. Outside of simply not having a family, Mei’s future without intervention was not looking good. Because of her medical condition and simply because she was an orphan – this is simply the reality.
Please do not hear me saying that we are heroes or rescuers or redeemers. Because with all my heart I know that I am the one being rescued. We know deep in our hearts that all of this was about God’s love for Mei and His amazing plan to care for this child. And Scott and I? We are just so grateful that He would let us be a part as His plan unfolds each day.
And, in being a part of all this, we are being rescued. No, our need for rescue was not as obvious as Mei’s…but we knew. And we have prayed for this very thing. Because here, with our lives and our blessings being so abundant, we know how easy it is for us to fall into lives that are mediocre, self-sufficient, complacent, unaware, and, frankly, selfish. We know the pull the American Dream has on us when, with all our hearts, what we really want is to know and serve God with radical abandon every day of our lives.
Today I am more desperate for God’s presence than ever before. I am more aware of the suffering that goes on all around me in the world, and by His grace, I am more willing to be used by Him for His kingdom’s purposes. Everyday, every hour, I see glimpses of Jesus’ work all around me and in me. Everyday, I am less and less satisfied with anything but knowing Him more and being a part of His purposes both here in my city and around the world.
So, yes, God, in His grace had a plan to rescue Mei. But this plan is my rescue too.
(courtesy of Red Letter Ink, click image for more)
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Haley Long
I am a recipient of amazing grace. I’ve been married 11 years to my husband, Scott. We had 2 children, Isaac and Zoe. Then one day God met us both in the same moment and broke our hearts and filled them with love for orphan children. In 2008, we brought our son Beniam, now 3, home from Ethiopia. And, we recently added to our family again, welcoming home Mei from China. I am a Florida girl who loves sunshine, water, and sand. I enjoy almost anything you can do outdoors, especially in the mountains. When forced to stay inside, I love to read and write.
It’s Mothers’ Week: Dear Birth Mom,
(art courtesy of amylee weeks, click on image to see more)
Dear Birth Mom,
As I wake this morning and spend a few minutes alone, I know we are thinking about each other today. The day our son turns five years old. I don’t know your name, and you don’t know mine. We have never seen a photo of each other, never exchanged a word, do not even know how to find each other. And, before anyone else wakes up and the celebrating begins, I sit here in my living room crying in wonder for what I have received and grieving for what you have lost.
The orphanage did not have any information about you to share with us. But, I tell our son what I do know about you. How you chose to carry him in your womb for nine months. How you felt him kick and squirm and stretch your belly. How you nurtured him for a month before taking him to the orphanage, where you knew he would be cared for. And though you could not leave a name or identifying information, you cared enough to leave a note with his birth date. How you loved him enough to let him go.
Oh, how I wish you could see him now. Kiss his chubby cheeks, run your hand over his spiky hair that sticks straight up. Watch him wrestle with his daddy and big brother on the floor. Snuggle up with his sister on the couch to hear a story. Watch him dress up in his black cowboy boots, red cape, yellow belt, and beat-up cowboy hat to transform into “Gooey Man,” the bravest little superhero on the block. Listen to him belt out songs learned in Sunday school, making up words as he goes. See how much he is loved. When his older sister was five, she explained to our neighbor that our son did not grow in my belly—he grew in my heart.
The only way you can possibly understand how much I love this boy is to know the Father who adopted me. He also lovingly takes care of those who are alone, hurt & needy. He calls me daughter, clothes and feeds me, gives me an inheritance, and loves me unconditionally. Please, oh please, allow Him to adopt you, too! For if we share that inheritance then we will finally be able to meet. One day, we can curl up on a heavenly couch with our son and catch up . You can tell me about the emotions you felt when you found out you were expecting him. I will know where he gets his wicked sense of humor, that little dimple, and his arresting smile. You will be able to hear his corny made-up jokes and laugh along with his infectious giggle. I will share about our journey to bring him home. We will have eternity to romp and play together with this miracle we both call “son.”
I hear our little man yawning and stretching, and so I must go. But, as I think of you today, I am sending up a prayer that we will some day celebrate our son’s birthday together.
With love,
His Mama
Originally posted on MomLife.com
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Julia DesCarpentrie, aka: Mama, hey Honey, Jewel, MOMEEEE, yo Sis, oh Mother, Julie … depends on who needs me. I answer to the love of my life (who also just happens to be my husband), a drama tween, and three very rambunctious superheroes, and toddler diva. Several years ago we handed our safe little family over to God and told Him to take control. He buckled us in on an adventurous roller coaster that rocketed us to China to adopt our youngest child, spun us closer to His heart, and plunged us into the south where foster care once again changed our hearts and family. I can usually be found behind the wheel of ‘Mama’s Monster Truck’ (aka the family minivan) on the way to dance, tae kwon do, scouts or school. The laptop travels with me and most of my writing is done waiting in the school pick-up lane. Read more of her ramblings here.
It’s Mothers’ Week: Waiting for Isaac
It has taken me a while to sit down and write this post, but I believe the hesitation is linked to a very important lesson God wanted to teach me today.
I have been wrestling with my feelings and wrestling with God. There are so many unknowns to this story and I have struggled to trust God with the answers. I’ve asked Him repeatedly why He allowed J-bug to fit so perfectly into our family and then have her taken away from us? Why something ‘felt’ different about this precious child and yet that ‘feeling’ led to empty arms? Why He gave me a mother’s heart and yet I feel unable to use it? I cannot adequately describe the pain I felt watching my social worker drive away with Little J. The heaviness of my heart clashed against the emptiness of my arms. The quiet that night was deafening. The little world I had created dissolved before my eyes.
We never set out to adopt this baby. I know that. She was supposed to stay with us for a short time only. We allowed ourselves to dream and fall in love and I allowed myself to play ‘mommy’ in my mind. We foolishly ‘created’ a family of three when that was never the plan. How I wish that was the plan, but evidently, despite trying everything, our princess had to move on, as she was always meant to do.
Even though I know all of this to be true, I have struggled to find any peace about the situation. When my other three babies left, I felt incredibly sad and yet I knew they were meant for other families and so my heart was at rest. This time, my heart was at war with logic and it did a real number on my emotions.
Do I believe Terence and I would have been fantastic parents to little J?
Yes.
Have I been allowing myself to dream that maybe my social worker would phone us and bring J back, or J’s birth mother would somehow find out about us and want her daughter to come and live with us?
Yes.
Do I realise that by holding on to these futile dreams, I am harming myself, upsetting my husband and trying to manipulate God?
Ashamedly, yes!
On Sunday night, Terence and I had a heart-to-heart. It was good and it was hard. I needed to hear my husband’s wise words. I realise that by fighting the process I am robbing myself of the time to properly heal and feel sad about missing J. I am allowed to be sad. I am allowed to miss her. I am allowed to cry. I am not allowed to torture myself and undermine God’s plan in this situation by refusing to acknowledge His sovereignty. I refuse to undo the wonderful thing that happened in our home, where a little girl was loved and cherished and given a good start to life, and where we were blessed abundantly by having her with us. I refuse to allow the hurt to mar this process and prevent us from caring for other children in need. I will not let what we did be in vain.
This brings me to today’s lesson. God is showing me His grace in many ways, dear friends. The Monday after J left I started another part-time job. My boss is a Christian who has a passion for the vulnerable and the lost. God has used him to help me understand His nature better over these past few weeks and I have been very blessed by our conversations. Today I admitted to my boss that I just didn’t understand why I couldn’t be J’s mother and why, despite my gifts in this area, I am not a mother at all.
And then he said something very profound.
“Julie, you need to ask God to give you an Isaac and you need to be willing to wait for him. You cannot create a family your way. It has to be God’s way.”
boom, light bulb on.
Sarah and Abraham were desperate for a child. They doubted they would ever have a son and yet God gave them Isaac in His perfect time, despite their doubts and yet acknowledging their desire to be parents.
I realised that I tried to create a family with J in it, based on what I want and not what God wants. I have refused to trust God and have allowed myself to forget that He is good to His people. I diminish the blessings God gives me by comparing myself to others. I have been wearing clothes of entitlement, believing that I deserve a child because I’d be such a good mother (I’m embarrassed to have to type that last sentence). And I have been unfairly angry at God for not giving me the desire of my heart on my schedule.
pfft…lesson learnt, God. You are clearly a better organiser and life-planner than I am
And so I am going to pray for my ‘Isaac’.
That the Lord will bless us with a child/ children through adoption or the old fashioned way when He desires. His timeline, not mine.
That I will trust in His goodness.
That I will be patient (Julie weakness alert!)
And in the mean time, that He will draw our hearts nearer to His.
That He will allow me to expand my definition of ‘mother’ to include a role so much bigger than our nuclear family.
And expand my capacity to love people.
To be used for His glory.
And to be content.
(art by erin leigh, click image to see store)
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Julie Mentor
Julie and her husband, Terence, live In Cape Town, South Africa and they have been married for 2 and a half years. Julie studied print journalism but works in both the non-profit and corporate sector, while Terence is a radio ‘guy’ who constantly gets asked if his afro is real… It is. Julie got drawn into working with the foster care system, when she was asked by a social worker friend to look after a 4-week old baby boy for ‘one month’ during her varsity vacation. 5 years later, that little boy is her parent’s pride and joy and her mischievous baby brother. As of last year, Julie and Terence are registered temporary safety parents for children awaiting adoption. Julie blogs over at caramellaclan.wordpress.com where she chronicles her daily life as well as the joys and struggles of being a ‘temporary parent’.
I Heart Open Adoption
Rebekah (our birth mother, if you’re just tuning in) and I (also Rebekah) are both back to work and have full schedules right now. Gone are the days of talking weekly, blogging regularly, and sharing pictures and videos back and forth, often. We do the best we can, but it seems that weeks go by before we have a block of time to call and catch up.
I headed to bed early last night, in hopes to gear up for this coming week of work, but I was missing Rebekah and decided to call her instead. The time difference makes it difficult and although I set out to only talk an hour, we chatted well past two.
Friends come in a variety. Some are needy, some are high-maintenance, some walk in and out over time, some are there everyday/through every mundane detail, and some are glued to your heart, unfettered by time or distance. Rebekah is the latter. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, we always pick up right where we left off, sharing about work and kids and life.
It will never get old.
She is my son’s mother. I’ve said it before; there is something so unique that happens when two mothers love one son. We’re able to laugh and cry and enjoy Ty together as he experiences all his firsts. It’s as natural as life. It’s not weird or awkward or strained. I don’t have to hold back my true feelings in fear of hers and there’s a mutual respect in what we’ve done for each other. I know everyone doesn’t get this. I know it looks too good to be true. I’ve had haters write subsequent posts about me and our relationship and they question the authenticity. It doesn’t bother me. I know what we have – what we are experiencing – and it’s only made possible through God’s grace.
Last night, we laughed over Ty’s tendency to throw premature temper tantrums and agreed on the importance of reading to him. We gushed over his cuteness and were thankful for the closeness he shares with his daddy. We talked about his early rising pattern, which Rebekah admitted was a trend in her other kids. To that I jokingly exclaimed, “So, you’re responsible for this!?”
Like all moms, we think he’s the smartest, cutest, most advanced baby of his time and think he has the perfect blend of biology and family.
The three of us are flying out to reunite with Rebekah and her family, this April. I was so excited last night, I had a hard time falling asleep. The Bible talks about talents and the importance of using and sharing them versus burying them away to be hidden forever. That’s sort of how we (Ben and I) view Tyrus. Apart from Christ, he is the greatest treasure we’ve been given. We don’t want to keep him close to home in fear of what may happen. We want to share him and expose him to the world. We want him to be bonded with his first family and are joy-filled that he has the opportunity to know them. We can’t wait for our trip and to show everyone how much he’s grown!
Because there are so many instances in which God seems absent or his presence hard to find, it’s important to make a raucous when we can undeniably see his hand of goodness. When I look at the revolution that has taken place in my heart, the connections that God made to bring us our son, the relationship we have with Rebekah and her kids and extended family, and the ever present smiles on that crazy-haired little boy of mine, I say – GOD, YOU ARE GOOD.
And I say it rather loud.
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Rebekah
Next to my faith walk, I am a wife and mother first. My husband and I have been married ten years and have two incredibly, tender sons, Tyrus and LJ.
Our boys are essentially twins, yet neither boy was born from my belly. We adopted sweet Ty (domestically) in 2009 and have a wide-open relationship with his birth family. LJ was also born in the summer of 2009, but came to our family, this year, as a ward of the state (via foster care). Our hearts and abilities have been stretched to capacity, but God is moving, filling, and redefining family for all of us. Follow along on our journey.
Love is Enough in Adoption…But Can You Love This Way?
Love is enough in adoption.
Which is a statement that should have 50% of my friends making a double take and starting to panic that I have learned NOTHING so far in our adoption journey and gone around some sort of serious mental health corner. Hear me out on this one (and stop smiling Twisted Sisters…I said STOP!)
Love is enough in adoption.
If you are ready to say you love them a thousand times
and never hear it back.
It’s enough
if you are willing to lay down your comfort zone, your friends, your family,
and go with a child into dark places.
Places other people run from.
Places that scare the pants off you.
Love is enough when you can stand beside a child
who has done wrong.
Maybe horrible wrong -
Maybe minor.
And not take the place of punitive judge.
But that of intercessory supporter,
Because you know that no one else ever will.
Can you separate the behavior
from the child -
enough to continue loving them
even when they can’t stay in your home?
Even if they hurt you?
Even when they hate you?
Even if they ruin your dreams?
Love is enough in adoption.
But it isn’t the surface sort of love we think about.
Where we heal their wounds with Bible stories and home cooked meals.
Where children of trauma (inflicted both before and after birth)
Emerge as young adults who lead their peers in righteousness.
It can be a suffering, bleeding, crippling -
God filled and God ordained love.
Where we talk not of summer jobs and drivers licences
but of crisis care and safety plans.
Love is enough
but it might look
and taste
and feel
more like
the love that Christ taught us on the cross.
A different sort of love -
LOVE.
All capitals
On a separate line.
Because it’s the answer to the question
“Would you lay down your life for this child?’
Every
Single
Tiny
Piece
until it is gone?
Love is enough.
But it might take all of us
and it might not ever look or feel like progress in this life.
But it is LOVE.
And I believe that that is enough.
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Dorothy has the fun of being the homeschooling mom to 11 wonderful kids. Learning the ups and downs of adoption, city life, hidden disabilities as well as learning to embrace the reality that we are all broken vessels being used for God’s glory. Read more of their journey on her blog Urban Servant.
My Favorite Desserts
I love dark chocolate covered raspberries. I love the slight bitterness of dark chocolate mixed with the sweetness of fruit. I love the magic of dark chocolate and raspberries melting in my mouth.
I love refridgerated homemade chocolate chip cookie dough. I love the chips and the smooth creaminess of the dough. I love the ridiculously large amounts of sugar and butter. I love the magic of spoonful after spoonful melting in my mouth.
If you gave me a choice between the two, I would pick both. If I really really had to, put a gun to my head, pick one, I would five times out of 10 pick cookie dough and five times out of 10 pick the dark chocolate covered raspberries.
If you told me I could never have cookie dough again, and my dessert for the rest of my life was solely going to be dark chocolate covered raspberries, I would love it. I certainly wouldn’t care much. However, there would be times I would think, boy cookie dough sounds good right now.
Or, while I love my dark chocolate covered raspberries, I would like just a taste of the cookie dough. And then if you said no, absolutely not, no cookie dough. Then I would be fine. And in fact, I would rejoice in the fact that I get to have my dark chocolate covered raspberries. Because I love them.
Can anyone see where this is going?
Can you figure out the analogy?
If you can, let me know because you are awesome and have figured out what’s in my head and that’s freaky.
I love adoption and I think we’ve esablished that I would like to adopt a million kids. I love my girls more than anything on this planet (other than my hubs). As I snuggled with Hannah tonight in her bed and stared at her sweet little hand resting on her tummy and her adorable skinny legs propped up on the duvet, I felt such an amazing and overwhelming feeling of love for this girl (let’s not leave Olivia out, I love her too:)). I love these girls so much, in fact, that sometimes I’m amazed that people love their biological children. I’m serious.
And I would still like to be pregnant. I don’t necessarily want to reproduce my DNA. In fact, I kind of don’t want to because (just thinking ahead), if s/he would look anything like me, I really would cringe every single time someone would say that “s/he looks just like you” in front of my girls. Who will never hear that. But I want to experience pregnancy. And I want to give birth. If I could could give birth to an adopted baby, that would be perfect (we’ve already discussed embryo adoption, that’s off the table for us for now (but never say never, right?)).
Anyway, adoption has not squelched the desire to do what my body was created to do. I still track things. I still know where I am in my cycle. I still care. I still get jealous. I still sin.
But, if what I get for the rest of my life is dark chocolate covered raspberries and no chocolate chip cookie dough, I rejoice for the Lord’s plan for my life and I will fully, with all my being, embrace eating my dark chocolate covered raspberries. Because I love them
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Abby Brandenberger
- Abby is a stay-at-home mom, married to her college sweetheart Matt. Matt is an elementary school teacher, a coach, driver’s ed instructor, tutor, and sports fanatic. Abby just tries to keep up with him and the two little ones they adopted domestically (15 months apart). They are right in the middle of their third adoption journey and are excited to see how God adds to their family. Abby welcomes you to follow along at Our Little Hope.
Letting Go of Expectations
No one ever promised us that adopting our children would be a simple thing. I didn’t expect to whisk Silas into the mix and then just go about my happy business.
I knew it would be really, really hard.
For like six months.
And then it would be sort of hard for another six.
Then we might have a few bad days over the next six months.
Then we’d be home free.
We’d be in “regular parenting” territory then, which is never a slice of pie. It always requires effort and attention. It can be frustrating sometimes, exhausting often. But the dark, bruisey days would be over.
We’ve had Silas with us for 19 months. My extremely generous timeline for unfavorable behavior has expired, and we’re still registering a solid Month Ten. At least this week.
It’s been one of those weeks that used to find me feeling bullied and defeated, but now, after much practice, I simply feel bone-tired. It has worried me, the way I’ve learned to compartmentalize. It has concerned me at times, the way my patience grips the very edge with its fingernails.
This adoption thing? It can be lonely business. It’s hard to find the kind of everyday support that I crave, not because people in my life are unwilling to offer, but simply because it’s different.
When these hard weeks come, I sometimes feel judged. She should be doing things differently. I feel inadequate. I’m tired of screwing up. I feel defensive. He’s had a difficult life. I feel exasperated. What will it take for him to start to understand how this stuff works? I feel rejected. My kid doesn’t love me.
I feel all of those things, at times. They are my knee socks, my jeans, my gray T. I wear them well. They fit just right, at this point and they’re surprisingly comfortable.
But then I pull on my love for my child. I zip certainty up to my chin. I ball up my hands and shove them into Promise.
I walk in the sunny-day truth that I often know the right thing and choose the wrong anyway. I do not always obey the very first time. I shove and kick when I’m scared, or when I think my idea was better.
And still, just as I love my angel-lashed boy, I am loved.
I could never have known for sure what this journey would look like or how it would feel. I might have run screaming for the hills had I understood that it would be this hard this long. That is the thought that threatens to break me. I might have turned my back on one of the blessings of my life. I might have missed the moment where he turns to me and says, “I lu yew Mommy”. I would have missed stifling a laugh when he looks up at me and says all mean and sassy, “I tickle yew”. (He finally understands that “I spanka yo bottom” wasn’t working for him, so he improvises now.)
So, I’m learning to let go a little. I’ll not take personal the days where he wakes up spitting mad at me and the world, because these days come in waves. I’ll ride it out knowing that maybe tomorrow, or next Monday, he’ll smile straight into my heart and giggle me through my day.
Every day is a step in the right direction, even when it’s hard.
Every day is a chance to remember that God honors this work. He honors it full. He cheers us on, reminds us that the dark days move faster if you dance a little.
Every day is one more opportunity for grace – for all of us.
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Shannan Martin
Shannan Martin is an ordinary girl who searches for and finds beauty in the everyday. She’s the wife of a man who thinks all of her jokes are funny and who regularly indulges her late-night, thinking-out-loud ponderings. They have three funny shorties, Calvin, Ruby, and Silas, who came to them across rivers and oceans. Together, they are embarking on a fresh adventure and are confident that God will meet them there. And though they no longer live on the farm, life remains a heaped-up pile of blessings, and Shannan will forever remain a Farmgirl at heart. She has blogged for three years; come take a look.
