2015 - Page 3 of 11 - The Sparrow Fund

September 24, 2015September 24, 2015

True.

Six months ago I poured my heart out to a friend via email:

Because you are also an adoptive Mama, I think you’ll understand that I find myself very much at a loss to remember why God called us to do this in the first place. I know the “right” answers: that He loves children. That we are adopted and so we do the same. That justice for the least of these is so crucial to the Kingdom. But truthfully, I can’t quite remember my own heart answers.

Why did I want to partner with God in adoption?

Did I really know what I was getting into?

Why doesn’t God heal all of JM’s body, instead of just in part?

I want very much to keep the idealistic mentality that God really does redeem the stories of kiddos like mine, but sometimes even down to my very core I am wrestling with the question, “Is God actually good toward my son? Toward our family?”

Of course, even having these questions at all feels like a terrible betrayal of the faith I’ve held all my life. That’s where much of the depression comes from. I have not yet found God’s continued delight in me even as I question whether or not He’s the God I thought He was. I don’t think He’s afraid of our rants and raves and questions and accusations. As I’ve been living and breathing the words of many of the Psalms I keep thinking, “God let David rail against him too and didn’t strike him dead for blasphemy…” But this is a life-altering journey for me just as much as it is for my little boy. I chuckle at my naivety all the time. I really didn’t know that God would use my son’s adoption to unravel me.

I just read a verse in Hosea this morning that I find is my question and prayer: “For He has torn, but He will heal us.”

Does He still heal our kids, dear friend? Does He still heal us too? Or is it possible to be failing so miserable at being an adoptive Mom that I’ve ruined the possibility of healing for my son and for me?

There is a playlist of songs on my iPod that I listened to frequently as we prepared to make JM a member of our family. I’d listen to it in the car as I drove, looking into the backseat and picturing my boy finally there, swinging his legs and singing along to the radio with me. I’d listen to it through headphones, facedown on the couch sobbing because every minute felt like an eternity before I could tell him, “Hi, I’m Mami.” I listened to it when I couldn’t sleep, as I prayed a mother’s prayer of protection over my boy as he woke up thousands of miles away from me in a different time zone.

These songs have weathered many storms in my journey toward motherhood.

I haven’t gone back to that playlist recently, although some of the songs filter through every now and again when we’re just listening to our music on shuffle. But this morning as I worked, I intentionally chose that list. Knowing the order of the songs, knowing what songs would come up. I picked it and prayed that God would show me something new in the familiar refrains.

He didn’t disappoint.

There is a song by Sara Groves called “It’s True.”

I listened to it, as I have hundreds of times, and felt a comforting thrill in my soul as I listened to the words,

“It’s true, a God who came down to find you.”
“It’s true, angels sing through the night ‘Hallelujah!’”

In one of my recent counseling sessions I explored how the word “grafted” – used often in the adoption world – has taken on new meaning for me through the journey of adopting our son. At first, it felt lovely and beautiful. “Grafting” a family meant creating something new like a flowering tree or a hybrid fruit, juicy and sweet. The idea of being grafted together made my heart leap with excitement.

Ahem.

“Grafted” means beautiful, yes. But it is a beauty forged in the fires of battle. It is a healed beauty. It is a beauty that first knew deep pain. I told my counselor that now I know we are “grafted,” but as burn patients understand grafting. To be grafted is to have a wound that requires deep cuts and stitches before it heals. A wound that will continue to burn and ooze agonizingly long after you want it to be healed. We lived in the proverbial “ICU” during our first year and a half at home. All three of us have the scars on our hearts to prove it. (We will likely find that our wound reopens at various stages of our life as an adoptive family.)

But we are healing into a grafted family. And it is beautiful. My heart does leap with excitement as we become.

I wrote this in my journal just last week:

This season feels like one of rest and fulfillment after a really hard climb, complete with falls, scrapes, and painful bruises. It feels as though we’ve reached a huge meadow after a tortuous hike and can rest here for a while in the beauty of flowers, sweet breezes, butterflies, a bubbling brook, a shade tree, and a picnic lunch. I am feeling full and alive and rested in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. A “before we started our adoption” kind of long time. Back in 2013 kind of long time.

As I listened to the words of these special songs, my heart breathed out a sigh I didn’t know I’d be holding. Oh, how we prayed for Him to find us in our hard days! Oh, how we prayed for songs of comfort in the night! Oh, how how we ached to believe that what we were fighting for was true!

He was answering all along.

And then I heard another song. A rejoicing song. A song we’ve played over and over and over. One of the first songs JM “sang” for us in the car one day last year.

“I am not who I once was,
defined by all the things I’ve done.
Afraid my shame would be exposed,
afraid of really being known.
But then you gave my heart a home!

So, I walked out of the darkness and into the light
from fear of shame into the hope of life.
Mercy called my name and made a way to fly
out of the darkness into the light.”

– Ellie Holcomb, Marvelous Light

Two notes into the song, JM came into the kitchen dancing, laughing. He was singing the words of the song to me, not knowing that his very life is the words of this song.

It was one of those moments when the world stands still, everything but him turning blurry in my vision. Watching my son, home, singing the words to a freedom song in my kitchen. Believing with me that the truth of what we fought together has brought us into the marvelous light of God’s healing in a way I used to only dream about.

So Mary trusted God more than what her eyes could see.

– The Jesus Storybook Bible

Now my eyes are seeing.

He does heal our kids. He does heal us.

For He has torn, but He will heal us. (Hosea 6:1)

It’s true.
Hallelujah.

_____________________________________________

Karli Smeiles is a wife, mother, and birth doula. She finds inspiration for her writing in the faces of her boys, and in the abundant love of a redemptive God who recycles everything for good.

Karli and her husband welcomed their first son through adoption in February 2014, discovering along the way just how beautiful and painful adoption can be. The Smeiles family grew by one more as they welcomed a biological son to their family in May 2015!

Find more of Karli’s writing at www.lovesongforHim.wordpress.com.

September 21, 2015September 21, 2015

Get the Word Out

You know the feeling. God had just opened your eyes to adoption, you were brimming with excitement, and couldn’t wait to shout it from the mountain tops. Your excitement was contagious. You couldn’t wait to get started, couldn’t wait to find your child, couldn’t wait to dive right in. You wanted to share your news with everyone. You were eager to get the word out.

You know the feeling. Days or weeks into your wait for a match or your search for your child you become overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with the sheer number of precious children in need of a family or foster family. Children of all ages and races all over the world or right in your state stare back at you from photo listings. Your eyes have been opened to the huge need for families and the need to get the word out.

You know the feeling. Somewhere in the adoption process, you hear of or see or even meet a child who captures your heart. And while you know this child is not meant for your family, you can sense God nudging you to get involved, to share his picture, to share her profile, You know you need to advocate, to get the word out.

You know the feeling. You feel dazed and in a fog. You are missing what used to be and feel overwhelmed by what is. Whether the attachment process going well or is in need of serious intervention, adjusting to a new family member is as taxing as it is wonderful. Keeping it all in just isn’t working anymore. You recognize the need for understanding and encouragement. It’s time to share what’s on your heart. It’s time to let some trusted people know how it’s really going, and so you get the word out.

You know the feeling. You have found a resource, a book, a blog, a retreat, a seminar, a workshop, a community that has helped you and your family so much. Your struggle has eased, or maybe it still lingers but you don’t feel so alone. You have some answers, some strategies, some hope. You know there are others who could benefit from this same encouragement, and so you get the word out.

If you’ve been a reader of We Are Grafted In for any amount of time, you know that it is our goal to provide a sense of community so you don’t feel alone in what you are going through. Joys and struggles – and encouragement – are meant to be shared. We strive to feature posts from other bloggers about adoption, foster care, and orphan care that will encourage, inspire and challenge you. We are passionate about getting the word out so you, our readers, can not only learn and grow, but can also connect with each other.

As we gear up for a new season of new content we hope that you will join us in getting the word out:

Do you know friends who could benefit from reading We Are Grafted In? Please share our blog with them. Invite them to like our Facebook page.
Have you come across a blog post that has spoken to your heart? That has challenged your thinking? That has put words to what you couldn’t articulate about adoption, foster care, or orphan care? Get the word out about it by submitting it to WAGI for consideration. We’d love to hear from you. (Send them via PM through our Facebook page or email the link to stephanie@sparrow-fund.org.)

Thank you for being a faithful reader of WAGI and for helping us get the word out. You are a valued part of this community!

September 20, 2015September 21, 2015

Together Called 2016 {Promo video}

Watch.

Share.

To learn more about Together Called 2016, click on UPCOMING EVENTS. We’d love to tell you more about it.

September 2, 2015September 2, 2015

TC2016 Speakers

We shared the location of Together Called 2016 months ago. But, many of you have been emailing us since then…

Who is speaking this year?

Dying to know who is going to speak this year!

Our team put a lot of blood, sweat, and prayers into finding the couple called to be our keynote speakers at this next Together Called. And, we found them.

Allow us to introduce you to our new friends and Together Called’s next speakers…

Matt and Becca Whitson.

Matt and Becca Whitson were married in 1998 and have three kids via both birth and adoption. Matt is the Executive Pastor at a multisite church in Arkansas, and Becca is a licensed therapist in private practice. They believe in the power of stories—in their ability to heal, to expose our hearts, to build community, and, most importantly, to reveal God’s work in our lives. They are passionate about sharing the hope of Jesus through their work and family—the failures, the successes, and the brokenness and beauty of everyday. They enjoy traveling and speaking together (which we’re thankful for!), and they write (when they find the time!) about marriage, parenting, and life as a transracial family at WhitsonLife.com.

Mark April 8th-10th on your calendars now!

And, set an alarm for Sunday, October 4th at 8:50pm so that you have your fast fingers ready to sign up right as registration opens at 9:00pm.

September 1, 2015September 1, 2015

Ayi For a Day {50 for 50 in 5 weeks}

They are oft overlooked much like the children they care for. They live in a place where what you do and how much you make is everything which means they have very little. Watching over and meeting the needs of children with no known roots is hardly considered a career; it’s a job. Some of the ayis do their best to do that job well despite the meager pay they’re given. They braid little girls’ hair, make funny faces to make babies giggle, pursue the child who looks different. Others simply do their duty. All of them are in the hard and obviously broken corners of our world, and they cannot help but be impacted by it.

They go by the name Ayi or, in some places, are all called Mama in painful irony of the purpose of what they do. Their purpose is to ready children for new mamas, to care for children well enough so that they can leave to be cared for by another, living in a seemingly endless cycle of nurture and departure. Surely, most ayis are glad to see a child leave as it means he has a future and will become something he could never become where he is now. We’ve seen ayis clap their hands and laugh aloud at the news that one of their children has a family coming for her. But, we can only imagine that their hearts bear scars as well from all the goodbyes. Those scars run deeper still for those who were once little girls there themselves but never got to say goodbye.

We intercede for vulnerable children, but we often overlook these vulnerable women. His hearts breaks for them as well, as should ours. It is impossible for us to truly know what their days are like, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try to enter in. This effort launched today is to move us towards that and give us an opportunity to crack that door open and enter into the experience of a woman whose heart is not unlike our own.

Ayi For a Day.

We’ve thoughtfully and carefully assembled 50 kits, each one slightly different in shades and tastes, to engage and unite 50 women in interceding for the ayis in China we serve at an orphanage in Shaanxi as well the innumerable ayis all over China. The kits include various items to use over the course of one dedicated day—shoe covers, sleeve covers, tea, chopsticks, Chinese snacks, Chinese money, and more—with specific prayer prompts to lead you in prayer as you do. But, the experience isn’t over at the end of one day. Enclosed in each kit will be a postage-paid envelope you will use to return the sleeve covers to us in time to be hand carried to China on October 7th. The sleeve covers you will wear and pray over on your Ayi Day will become an ayi gift and placed on the hands of an another woman on the other side of the globe.

We need 50 women who desire to join their hearts and prayers for the sake of 50 other women in China.

50 kits for 50 women for a donation of $50 in 5 weeks. That’s our goal. The money raised will be put into The Sparrow Fund’s orphan care and ayi care fund. And, the prayers raised will change the world.

Click on the “Donate” button below to become one of the 50. Please note #ayiday or “Ayi For A Day” in the notes field when you donate. Your kit will be sent to you next week with clear instructions on how to use your kit to engage your family and your own heart.

Only 50 kits are available, so don’t wait to join us. And, just to encourage you a little more, the first 10 women who join the effort will find a little extra gift in their kit.

August 27, 2015August 27, 2015

This is Adoption {Summer Flashback}

I remember the yellow hue of the hospital lights in Moscow. Not the warm, buttery kind of yellow that warms you up inside, but the dingy kind. The kind too dark to usher the relief that light usually brings into the dark.

I was there with my husband John, a translator, and our newly adopted son Arie. He wasn’t sick. We were there for his visa exam: the one that would grant us permission to go home.

For me and for John this was a momentous step forward: one of the last details to check off our long but dwindling list that would make our adoption complete.

For Arie this trip to the hospital was terrifying. He whimpered in my lap, fighting back the urge to cry with as much courage as his two-year-old body could muster. I held him tight, reassuring him as best I could as a relative stranger with a foreign tongue.

“It’s the smell,” said our translator, trying to explain the fear on our usually happy boy’s face. “It reminds him of getting his shots.”

Indeed, it did smell like alcohol swaps in that waiting area. Our translator whispered some encouraging words to Arie in Russian. He started sucking his thumb feverishly.

When at last it was our turn to see the doctor our boy’s demeanor turned around. The crinkle of the paper on the exam table and the happy tickles from the jolly Russian doctor distracted him from his fear. He laughed! Soon the exam was over and we were on our way back to our temporary apartment. Ever closer to home.

Two years have passed since that day, but I remain forever changed. Forever changed for having witnessed the inner turmoil of a child scared and alone. My husband and I were there with him of course, but oh how little Arie knew of us. He called us Mama and Papa, yet had no way to know what those names truly meant. He didn’t know we were going to be with him forever; to him we might have been two more faces in his ever changing sea of caregivers.

Today Arie knows exactly what Mama and Papa mean. He knows we are forever. He knows he is safe and secure. Just this morning I took him to the dentist and rather than wail in terror as he did at first, he climbed into the dental chair and laid back without hesitation. He giggled as the hygienist “tickled” his teeth with raspberry flavored toothpaste, glancing occasionally in my direction with a goofy grin.
These days when he is scared, Arie searches out my comfort. A normal action for most kids; a milestone for those who have had a lonely start like his. In the night, if he wakes up in the dark he cries out for me and my husband. Those suppressed whimpers we heard at the Moscow hospital have been replaced with loud cries for help. Where my foreign words formerly provided him with little relief, my simple presence is now his favorite comfort. He falls against my chest; the sound of my heart and the whisper of my voice quiet his wailing. He sighs deeply and snuggles in.

This is adoption. This is a picture of redemption. This is something that was lost, found. Broken, put back together. Injured, healed.

Adoption is not easy. Not for the child, not for the parents. When I say that I have been forever changed, I mean it. My eyes have been opened to a world I would rather have not seen. I know that today there are thousands of children just like my son who wait. Hundreds, at least, who have been brought to hospitals not by new parents and not for a simple visa exam, but by a nanny or caregiver- maybe known, maybe not- sick or for surgery or an extended stay.

The caregiver will leave when her shift is over and a new one take her place. Or maybe not. Maybe the child will be left alone, under the care of nurses and doctors who have to check his chart to remember his name. They do their best, I know it- those caregivers and medical staff- but they are not Mom. They are not the one he really needs to walk him through his fear. Not the ones to hold him in his time of need.

We do not adopt out of obligation or sympathy. We adopt because we long to hold the hand of the one who needs us. Because every child deserves to know the love of a family. We adopt because we were made to live for more than ourselves. Because we know what it means to be redeemed. We adopt because in Christ we know what it is to have been chosen.

We love because he first loved us.

Do you have more love to give?

_______________________________

Jillian Burden is still adjusting to this beautiful thing called motherhood; she and her husband are parents to a son by way of a Russian adoption. While her belly might not have expanded, her heart and her faith sure grew as her family did! You can read about this soul stretching journey to parenthood on her blog.

August 20, 2015

This Day {Summer Flashback}

How do you do it?

This is what everyone asks.

How do you hold Little One close knowing that his days in your arms are

so fleeting, so uncertain?

How do you scramble to make it work at a moment’s notice?

How do you shuttle him to doctor’s appointments, nursing him back to health so that he can leave again?

Friends, this is how I do it.

I go out each day and gather enough for that day (Exodus 16:4).

I make plans for this day.

I figure out childcare, transportation, food for this day.

I hold and rock and snuggle and sing on this day.

And by the provision of a gracious Father, I do it again tomorrow.

My eyes have only two focuses.

Eternity. My promised land where I believe that all will be set right.

All will be well.

And this day.

I cannot think about the in-between.

It wrecks me. Just the thought of going there makes it a little hard to breathe.

And so, again, I hand the in-between back to the One who isn’t wrecked by it.

And I mix up formula in this day.

I make salt dough ornaments in this day.

I pray and love and hold and bless in this day.

Sometimes it feels like a little, and sometimes it feels like a lot, but it always works out to be just as much as I need (Exodus 16:18).

In this day, I gather enough.

And by the provision of a gracious Father, I will do it again tomorrow.

_________________________________________

Shannon is mom to an amazing seven year old. She is a Christian, a licensed foster parent, a kindergarten teacher and a huge advocate of connecting church people and little people in need of forever families. She blogs at A Little Bit of Everything.

August 17, 2015August 17, 2015

The Big Brother {Advocating}

We were getting into the van to leave the orphanage for the day when the director gently touched my arm and said something to our translator.

He wants to know if he can show you one more child to find a family for.

He brought me to a tall boy who was waiting for me on the front steps, fiddling with his fingers obviously nervous but also impressively willing to look me right in the eye. He continued to stand before me, nodding his head occasionally as the director spoke about him to me with the translator next to us relaying every word.

He goes to a school nearby and is very smart. He’s very social. He likes computers and running.

I saw an opportunity and jumped in.

Running? Wow. Are you fast?

Bigger smile and a head nod as he answers.

He says he’s good and wins races.

I offered him a high 5, and he accepted. The director went on.

The only thing wrong with him is that he looks weird. His brain is all normal.

I was stunned.

His eyes looked away from me as I blinked more than I should have in nervousness.

I wrote down notes in the green binder I carried with me everywhere.

school. smart. very social. computer. running….only his eyes.

That’s his reality. He’s known as the boy who looks weird. But, by some supernatural gift of grace, he’s still able to smile with his crooked teeth and unusual features and look me right in the eye.

On the last day our team was at the orphanage, the staff allowed us to take all the children who were able outside for free play. We blew bubbles and used sidewalk chalk and bounced balls and raced plasma cars. We were nearly finished when I saw L. C.G. in his school uniform running to join us. He looked right at me as he had done before with a big smile but then walked right past me. I saw his head turning, clearly looking for someone. I thought he might be looking for an ayi, maybe looking for the other boys his age whose disabilities keep them from going out to school as he gets to do. Suddenly, he stopped turning as he found what he was looking for.

L. C.G. scooped up a child, a little one who clearly knew him as evidenced by how tightly he wrapped his poofy little arms around his neck. There in the courtyard of a place known for broken relationships, I witnessed brokenness being redeemed.

Before all else, the boy who “looks weird” was searching for this little boy. He hugged him and spoke to him as I stood marveling at how he knew he could offer this child something no one else in that place could.

After a few minutes, he put him down and brought him to an ayi and then ran off to join his buddies racing around the yard on bikes way too small for their growing bodies but not unlike my own sons would do at home.

I added more notes to my binder that night.

Gentle. Compassionate. Would make a great big brother. Look for his file. This boy needs a family.

_____________________________________

His file has been found. He’s on the shared list right now which means any agency can show families his file. And, any family—no matter where they are in their adoption process—can hold and lock his file to move forward to make him their son. Feel free to email me at kraudenbush@sparrow-fund.org if you have questions about him or the adoption process or about an agency to help you. And, click HERE to read the letter he wrote only days ago for me to share with all of you.

August 14, 2015

#TC2016 Save the date!

We’re not going to try to put into words why you need to be a part of Together Called 2016. We’ll let these quotes from couples who attended last year make the point for us.

There simply are no words. We haven’t brought our daughter home yet, so we didn’t even know if we belonged at this retreat. We could not have been more blessed….God reaffirmed our calling and reassured us in so many ways this weekend….We also received great insight into our marriage and our bio kids just by having this time away that was centered upon family. God has mightily worked through you by you following his calling to put on this retreat. You blessed our socks off, and we could never thank you enough.

We gained a perspective from others, hearing what they have walked through, that gave us great encouragement as we look at our pending adoption. The stories of hope we heard as we connected with other couples were the biggest takeaway.

The retreat was so wonderful start to finish. As simple as it might sound, the care package with the note as soon as we entered our room put many of our concerns to rest immediately. We truly felt welcomed.”

It was the first time in a long time that we got to really talk and have direction in our discussion!

We came into this weekend so dry and distant and really struggling. After about 14 months or so of what we’ve deemed “crisis living,” we really needed this time away. It did not disappoint. We feel infused with support, truth, and a renewed sense of purpose for our marriage and our family.

Put TWO events on your calendar right now:

October 4th. Registration for Together Called 2016 will open on Sunday, October 4th at 9pm EST. If this year is anything like previous years, it will fill up fast (and by fast, we mean potentially minutes). Be ready to register right at 9pm to make sure you get one of those spots. If you are on our mailing list [hint: add yourself to our mailing list now], we will send out a reminder to you.
April 8th-10th. Those are the dates for the marriage retreat itself. We’re at a new location this year that promises to impress you. Liberty Mountain Resort is close to Gettysburg, PA and accessible from Dulles Airport, Baltimore Washington International Airport, or Philadelphia Airport. Consider coming out on Thursday and staying through Monday, perhaps, to take advantage of all that Gettysburg has to offer!

August 13, 2015August 20, 2015

Things No One Told Me About Adopting a Child with Special Needs {Summer Flashback}

Before Afua joined our family, I read many books, I researched the best doctors and hospitals and I spoke (or facebook messaged, texted, skyped…) with moms who had adopted children with similar special needs. But no matter how much I prepared, some things still took me by surprise. Maybe they never came up in conversations or maybe this is the stuff we don’t usually talk about. Adoption is a beautiful way to grow a family (we had adopted before and knew this). Adopting a child with known special needs is a beautiful journey with its unique challenges that stem from loss, trauma and often unmet medical needs.

Learning the child’s diagnosis

I remember sitting at our Neurologist’s office and he patiently reviewed Afua’s MRI results with me. He described the areas of her brain that were affected by the lack of oxygen, that it likely happened during a certain part of the pregnancy and that in the end, the diagnosis given to her in Ghana, cerebral palsy, was correct. Hearing those words took my breath away, made me speechless as if I had no clue and this was a newborn baby with a devastating, unexpected diagnosis. I knew it was coming. This wasn’t a surprise. But in that instant I grieved the diagnosis as if I had not known. Adoptive moms are not superheroes, we grieve our children’s diagnoses as all mothers do. We may know what’s coming when a doctor confirms the test result. But it’s just as real and sad.

Then came a diagnosis I did not expect. The audiologist came to me as Afua was still in surgery.

“Profound hearing loss”
“it is unlikely she hears speech at all”
“deaf”

Tears were streaming down my face as I listened to her explain waves and decibels and hearing levels. It was like a foreign language and all I wanted was to hug my girl. But she was still in surgery so I sat in disbelief.

We are not extra tough as we process new diagnoses that sometimes come unexpectedly. When we say “yes” to adopting a child with special needs, it is not because we are expecting an easy road or we somehow are up for anything. We say yes to a child and we join their journey of medical diagnoses, different abilities and navigating a world that isn’t always as accepting as we want it to be. Because we firmly believe that every child regardless of their differences is deserving of a loving home and a family. And in the midst of our “yes”, we realize how much we needed them too.

When others notice your child is different

I remember the first time we went to a high school football game. Afua was in a stroller and I took her to the concession stand. Two little girls stood in front of us and one kept looking back. Then came the dreaded words: “What’s wrong with HER?” Don’t worry, I handled the situation with adult maturity, kindness and compassion (with a little bit of education thrown in for good measure). But it bothered me. It made me sad that there were children who were not around children with special needs. Children who didn’t know a nice way to ask why a child was in a stroller when they should be walking.

The truth is, as I have parented Afua, the less I think of her disabilities. I see my daughter. I know her smiles and her expressions. We have a language and I know how her body moves. None of it is strange or unusual to me. But other people (strangers usually) will remind me that she is not typically abled. They do it by their looks, their stares and their comments.

Friends may or may not stick around

This journey is hard to understand, right? I’ve had people ask me why we would choose to parent a child with special needs. When you adopt, you get to pick, they say. Some have hinted that we are trying to prove ourselves to be special, faith filled or we just may not have thought this through. They know our time alone as a couple is non existent. They see the way our life is stretched thin. Some choose to continue our friendships (even thought we aren’t always the most consistent company). Others have stopped asking, and that’s ok too.

What I have found is that the friendships that have remained have become so special and authentic. There is no pretending that this is all easy and smooth. They also see the absolute beauty that exists, the way Afua is changing all of us and how she is an equal member among the siblings. Those who take the time to know Afua get why she is in our family. She belongs with us and we belong with her.

You will doubt your abilities and it’s ok

I am not an organized person by nature and it is a vital skill when parenting a medically complex kiddo. I also work part-time which makes things challenging. Afua is one of 5 children and they also have appointments and needs to be met. Honestly, there are days that I wonder how to juggle it all. In the process of figuring it out, I have learned to let go control (so hard!!!) I’ve reached out for help (so humbling!!!) and I have had to find organizational tools that work for me.I am still struggling with this area of parenting but modern technology is helping me keep most of my appointments :)I know I can’t do this by myself and I don’t have to. I have a great husband, wonderful family and friends and also a caregiver that fills in as needed. Our life is richer because we aren’t doing it all alone.

You will find allies in the most unlikely places

Parenting a child with special needs means you spend a lot of time in local children’s hospitals, therapy clinics, surgery waiting rooms and doctor’s offices. There you will meet
other families who are exhausted yet so proud of their children just as you are. We give each other “the nod” and in silence we know that there are others who are walking this path too. And whether we chose this journey or we discovered a diagnosis along the way, there is a mutual acknowledgment of the hard.
You will meet therapists who are innovative, energetic and supportive. They tell you to take a break and get a cup of coffee while they help your child achieve a new skill or make them more comfortable. You meet doctors who devote their lives to children and their families and you are not just a number. They explain things in a way that makes sense and guide you through tough decisions as if they were making them for their own children. Allies are everywhere and it makes things a bit better.

I share these thoughts in hopes that I am not alone. That others may feel the same grief, the same joy and the same purpose in parenting a child with special needs. That maybe your friendships were tested also and the invitations are fewer. That maybe your child wasn’t adopted but you recognize these feelings as universal. And maybe this opens a conversation about special needs, adoption or even prompts someone to reach out to a family raising a child with special needs.

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Jenni is a mother of 5, married for 19 years to her high school sweetheart Eric. Her children range in age from preschool to high school by birth and adoption. Jenni works part-time in a charter school system providing therapy services for children with special needs. Jenni is a advocate for orphaned children with special needs and is passionate about family preservation. When she is not driving her minivan to various activities and appointments, she can be found blogging at Joyful Journey.

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Year: 2015