When I said we wanted to visit her orphanage in 2010 when we were there to adopt her, we met resistance. It was too far. The train was too fast for a child. We would be too tired. We would bring germs from America. We wouldn’t want to go. But, that’s where they were wrong. I was determined to go, determined to physically enter into her history even if only for a moment. And so, we went. We drove about 3 hours there to stand at the gate, walk across the grounds, allow the ayis who knew our child infinitely more than we did to dote on our baby, and take lots of pictures.
I had never been more aware of my foreignity as I was at that moment. We were out of place, standing among ayis speed talking in a language only unrecognizable to the two of us. They pointed at us and spoke freely, knowing we would stand still in front of them and smile regardless of what they said. We watched as our new baby responded in a way we could not. She wasn’t a stranger there; they knew her and she knew them. We were the strangers surrounded by grey cement walls and dusty ground. The only thing I felt connected to there were the very walls themselves. I tried desperately to grab hold of something to take home with us, not even knowing really what, while the walls seemed to desperately present themselves as cheerful with some colorful cardboard cut outs stuck to them for now until the next rainfall would turn them into more dust on the ground. I cried. It sorta felt like the grey, tiled walls were crying too.
When I said I wanted to visit the location of the old orphanage a few weeks ago, I met resistance. It was too far. We would be too tired. It wasn’t safe. We wouldn’t want to go. And, while I had been determined to get there, I was willing to let it go. I had already been given so much, and it wasn’t the reason why I came.
When the driver pulled our van over and pointed to the right, my heart stopped for a moment.
There I was again, standing at a new gate that looked 50 years old already, looking at what used to be.
Most of the walls that had cried along with me four years ago were no more. I stood looking at what was in front of me and cried alone.
It’s China. Buildings are built and torn down and built again to be torn down again. It’s a seemingly never-ending cycle of building and destruction. Standing witness to it before me, I didn’t feel like the foreigner I had four years ago. Everything was different now. At the very moment I stood crying on Bao Ping Road, my daughter who had been there, who had lived behind those gates and inside those broken walls, was sleeping soundly beside her sister in a warm bed in the place she knows and I know as home.
I saw a picture of adoption that day in the form of broken walls and a quiet construction site.
They gave us a bag of dirt the day we received our daughter in March 2010. The director handed us a little bag of stones and dust from the grounds of the orphanage. I thought it was nice, thoughtful, a memento for her to have as she got older. We put it in a special box for her along with the clothes she came to us in and other special things. Now that gift means something entirely different. It is not a memento; it’s a monument. It gently says:
Those walls that were the only home you knew need to come down now. Let God turn them to dust, as hard as that may be, so that He can build new walls, strong walls, walls that will not crumble, walls where you will never be alone. It’s never an easy journey to get there; but, stone by stone, brick by brick, while it may be a painstaking journey, you can get there. Accept this gift so that you always remember your story and so that you can trace the work of the Repairer of Broken Walls, the Restorer of Crumbling Dwellings, the One who makes beautiful things out of stones, dirt, and dust.
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Kelly Raudenbush
Kelly has a passion for supporting adoptive families, specifically to encourage parents to be intentional and understand their own hearts more clearly as they seek to care for their hearts of their children. Kelly has a Master’s degree in counseling and has been working with adoptive families since she and her husband Mark founded the nonprofit The Sparrow Fund (www.sparrow-fund.org). Married to Mark since 1998, they have 3 biological children and 1 daughter who was adopted as a toddler from China in 2010. You can learn more about their adoption story, how they’ve been changed by the experience of adoption, and what life for them looks like on Kelly’s personal blog, My Overthinking.
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Wanna learn more about going to China with The Sparrow Fund in October to serve at this orphanage? Click on Upcoming Events to read more, and email us for more information.
Her lungs took their first swallow of earth’s air in the poor African’s version of a waiting room, while her mama held her place in line for a “free-clinic” bed — one that she never saw. Hope was welcomed by this world into the dirt, and it would indoctrinate her first five years of life.
And from what I can tell, she did street life well.
The skill set required to scavenge for food and beg (simply to get by) is quite different, even, than the one needed to slide into the masses of an orphanage food line. To move from streets to shanty-like slums and back again, over and over, makes one resourceful. Vigilant. Prudent.
And … nervous. Afraid.
Nearly six years there, in that life, and now just over six months home, Hope shows the wear-and-tear a child her age is much too young to have received. No government aid could touch the heart-wounds which come from a child fending and fearing during the years she was meant to be furrowing.
My sweet little girl has a heart that longs to live childlike-free, but which is trapped behind years of inertia. At times, she moves like a freight-train — unstopping, always racing, never able to rest. She didn’t stop then, so why now? Rest was danger; how could it, overnight, turn into safety? She barrels through life and, at times, people.
It’s what she has always done. It was her survival.
But tucked away behind 10 of her missteps is one move in the right direction, one sprig of beauty.
And I’m the mama He’s called to search it out.
One of the greatest dangers of adoption is believing for your child what your child already believes about themselves. It’s subtle. And easy, when the sum total of all their behaviors in a given day seems to point in one direction.
But we weren’t called to be the thermometer in the life of a child who has years of seeing themselves in only one light. We are here to tell them who they really are and, in light of who He is, that they are royalty.
They just don’t know it yet. They haven’t been told.
She scooted over on the couch: “Eden can sit here!”
She seemed to be offering her sister an olive branch, by way of the hotly-coveted seat next to Lily for read-aloud time. But, as Eden began to move, Hope’s intentions became clear to me (but not to the others). Instead of forfeiting her own seat next to Lily, she was finagling a way to squeeze, now, two bottoms in one spot. She stepped forward for a moment to re-adjust, so I took the initiative for her.
“Hope! Look at that,” I said, as I surreptitiously scooted her body to the other side of the couch. “You gave your sister the seat you wanted most. Sweetheart, that was beautiful.”
Her face flashed remorse, for a second, before she tried on the new mantle I’d foisted on her. All of a sudden, her countenance changed. She adjusted her shoulders and her eyes sparkled. “Yes, Mommy, Eden can have it. I want her to have it.”
My little girl danced and pranced her way through the rest of that night, light-footed, light-hearted. It was as if she started to believe she might be something other than the tempestuous little girl she’s painted herself to be.
The next morning, I woke to find a different child in my home. She scampered downstairs to get waters for her siblings, without them knowing. She shared her colored pencils without being asked and snuggled closer and longer to all of us. “Mommy, I want to bless you,” she said, as I caught her carrying my running clothes from the floor where I’d left them to my hamper.
And this is how it goes. This is how He is winning her back. The age-old strategy of delight is the Father’s best-kept secret. He kneels, toes pressed against the ground, staring into dirt, and His fingers so tenderly search for that one shoot that says life is here. He wades through years of lies calcified against my heart to find His own Truths buried within, and He calls them forth. I call myself “messy” and He says beauty in the making.
And when I learn from Him, I can do it with her.
Perspective is everything.
No child born of God is forever lost. No doctor’s diagnosis or psychologist’s analysis is the final verdict.
The Father looks on my daughter not with eyes of hopelessness and fear. He stares into her deep and calls forth Himself, planted in her from before the day she met the streets. What the enemy calls misfit, He reclaims as heiress.
And as her now-mother, my role is to carry this torch over her life. I live advocacy in my flesh and in my spirit. My prayers and my words form the bridge of partnership between His promises and her reality. I partner. She is being made new and it’s my job to speak it loud and to believe it in my quiet.
It’s His job to impart it.
And mine to receive.
With all that I am and all that I have, to receive. And this is motherhood.
The streets — or the diagnoses, the fears, the setbacks and mistakes — these do not have to stand. We get to stand in their place.
Sara is a wife to Nate and a mother of four (and one on the way) whose birth canal bridged the expanse between the United States and Africa. After almost a decade of Christian life she was introduced to pain and perplexity and, ultimately, intimacy with Jesus. God met her and moved her when life stopped working. And out of the overflow of this perplexity, came her writing.You can read more of her writing at Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet.
As a by-product of my job, I get the opportunity to talk to lots and lots of people about adoption. I get all kinds of questions and lots of chances to tell our story to families, almost on a daily basis. Most families that are calling our agency today are moms and dads who have heard God’s call to care for orphans, and are already parenting biological children. So as you can imagine, one of the most frequent things people ask, is:
“How is adoption going to effect my children I’m already parenting?”
Buckle your seat belt.
Adoption teaches your children that the world does not revolve around them.
(Romans 15:1-3)
*Because the world does not revolve around them, by the way*
It teaches them to think outside of themselves, when your family is working and saving to bring a child home, and they can’t have that toy, or that Disney vacation. And they may have to share a bedroom, and their toys, and even clothing. Maybe the van is really crowded (amen) or they don’t have Christmas presents stacked 6 feet deep like their friends. But that’s OK. We adopted both of our children within weeks of Christmas. They never asked why it was lean. They knew it wasn’t about gifts anyway, and we had babies to go get. And although they didn’t always have perfect attitudes about it, and they didn’t really understand, one day they will.
Adoption teaches your children to love and respect cultures that are not their own.
(1 Thess. 1:9, 1 Peter 1:22)
It teaches them that there is a world outside of the city and state they live in, with different people and different languages, and different cultures. If you adopt a child of a different culture or race, congratulations, you are now a multi-cultural, multi-racial family. You now get to celebrate double the holidays (kids really love this:) and your kids learn by default to respect and celebrate different skin tones. My girls especially love to point out every Chinese person they see….most recently in the van, Annalyse went crazy screaming at Ashley, “LOOK!!! LOOK!! THERE’S A CHINESE BOY DRIVING THAT CAR!!! HE’S CHINESE! FROM CHINA!!!” I’m sure Ashley will not think this is particularly cool when they are 17.
Adoption teaches your children to be compassionate, forgiving, accepting and giving. (Luke 6:36, Ephesians 4:32)
Aren’t these the things we want our kids to know and live out anyway? This isn’t something they learn because you tell them to act this way. It’s a pattern they imitate by having parents who are living out the commands of Christ to be the salt and light to a hurting world. When you adopt, and care for orphans, they get it by default. You don’t just tell them to be compassionate, they learn this when they see you holding a screaming child who is grieving for things they have no words for. They hear it when you explain to strangers your motivation behind building your family the way you are. They understand about giving because maybe your family has been the recipients of some pretty amazing financial gifts, and they watch you give your gifts to others coming behind you.
One day in car pool, my 7 year old said, “mama if I had a million dollars, I’d go straight to China to get some more brothers and sisters to bring home. Then I’d go to the mall.” Hey people, she has her priorities straight 🙂
Adoption is the perfect picture of salvation. God meant it that way.
(John 14:18)
Here’s the deal. Jay and I have two living breathing examples of the very GOSPEL that live and reside in our home. See that kid? He was far far away. He had a different name, and his life was hopeless. There was no way he could change his life on his own. Through the miracle of adoption, he was brought home. Regardless of his baggage, regardless of his ability, and regardless of his life before, he was adopted. His name changed. His future changed. It was sealed with a decree that can never be broken or changed. He can never go back to being an orphan. No matter what he does. You can read more about adoption and the Gospel here, but folks we’ve got an open opportunity to share the very GOSPEL with everyone who says to us, “what made you want to adopt?” AND YOUR KIDS WILL SEE THAT!
Can they learn all this without adoption?
Absolutely.
But for those of is whom the Lord has called to walk this road…..He has given our families an amazing opportunity to show the world about Him. To not only preach the Gospel, but live it out with our very lives. Which is what we are called to do anyway…..we just get the incredible privilege of being mama’s and daddy’s to some pretty amazing kids while we do it.
And special needs? Apparently, kids overlook those as well.
Last week in the tub, Annalyse was helping bathe Asher when she exclaimed, “MAMA!! Asher only has THREE toes on this foot, SEE????!!!!!!!!” #we’vebeenhome10months
ummmm, yes. Yes, he does…..<3
Matthew 5:14
“You are the light of the world—like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden.”
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Emily Flynt
Emily and Jay have been married for 11 years and have 5 childen–Avery 8, Ally 6, Annalyse 4, Ashley 3, and (finally) our BOY, Asher 2. Ashley and Asher were adopted from China and were both special needs adoptions. Emily spends her days chasing toddlers and waiting in line at carpool. Her favorite place in the world is in her van, all alone with the worship music blaring! She would count it an honor to have you be encouraged at www.ourhimpossiblejourney.blogspot.com.
When I came out of the airport concourse and saw the sea of dark heads and Chinese faces calling out for the person they were waiting for, it all came flooding back to me. I remember turning to look at your Daddy with wide eyes and the frantically searching for an unfamiliar someone with a sign who was waiting for us. This time, it was a friend who yelled my name and ran to meet me. Last time I was in China, I came for my daughter—you. This time, I came for a different purpose as we start a new season of our lives.
As I walked around Beijing today, I was surrounded by people taking pictures of the landmarks—the old city wall, Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City. They are breathtaking. But, I found myself taking pictures of something else entirely—families. In a city full of one of the richest histories in the world, I am looking at a mother walking along the sidewalk with her son, letting him dictate the speed of their stroll based on his curiosity alone. I am studying the father comforting his crying baby, seemingly unaware of the fanfare going on around him. I am zooming in on the mother and father laughing as their little one begs to play with his phone.
I think of you constantly here. In every child’s face, I think of yours. And, like a bride-to-be longs for people to see the ring on her finger and know she will soon be walking down the aisle, I find myself longing to show the people around me some sort of sign that I have a daughter who is Chinese too. When the mother smiles back at me, I want her to know. In place of a ring, I wear the charm around my neck with your name.
“Ah, Mei yue? That is your name?”
“No, it’s my daughter’s name. I have a daughter from Baoji.”
“Baoji? Shaanxi? Ah….”
It doesn’t change a thing—I’m still an American; they are still Chinese. The differences between us are obvious, enough to often cause them to stop and stare. But, they see my eyes light up when I speak of you and can begin to understand why I’m here. You are a bridge between us, my dear daughter who is both fully Chinese and fully American. Because of you, my sweet one, a living, breathing, walking expression of love, the people can start to understand why I’m here, why I love this place, why I feel as if it is an extension of our home on the other side of the world.
Last time I was in China, I came for a daughter. This time, I came with a daughter.
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Forever changed by our experience of being adopted and adopting, Kelly is a stay-at-home mom/manager to 4 children and a professional juggler, juggling her calling as wife and mother with her secondary callings (editing and serving adoptive families through The Sparrow Fund). You can learn more about their adoption story, how they’ve been changed, and what life for them looks like on their personal blog.
As adoptive parents, we all know this day is coming.
That day where your child starts asking questions that you can’t answer. The thought of it breaks your heart, and so you try to prepare yourself, but you can never really be prepared.
Somehow these conversations always happen when I am putting on my makeup in the morning. Captive audience, I guess!
Grace: “Mommy, when are you going to have a baby in your tummy?”
Me: “Well, baby, I don’t know. Only God knows if that will ever happen.”
Grace: “I was a baby in your tummy.” (she said this directly and without question)
And there it is; the question I knew would come, heading straight for me like a freight train.
Me: “Sweetheart, you may not have grown in my tummy, but you grew in my heart.
Grace: “Well, whose tummy was I in, Mommy?”
Silence. Deep breaths.
Will it be enough for now, Lord?
“Peace, Child, be still and know that I am God.”
Me: “Sweetheart, we don’t know, but you were always in my heart.”
Grace: “Ok, Mommy!” (she hugged me and ran off her usual happy self)
For now, as an almost four year old, that is all she needs to hear, but I know a day is coming when she will not be satisfied with that statement of truth. That is OK and natural, but won’t make it any less hard. I hate that I won’t have more information for her. I hate that it will hurt her and could possibly rock her to the very core. But I must have faith because I know that God will be with her on this journey, guiding her, loving her and protecting her. My job is to teach her about Christ and His Sacrifice and how her worth and significance comes only from Him!
As I look at our recently adopted older Chinese son, Anthony, who has told us that his first mommy as he calls her (he is referring to his birth mother) was bad because she threw him in the trash, all I can do is pray to the One who heals all hurts, knowing that only He can give Anthony the strength and ability to forgive.
Naturally, as their mother, it breaks my heart to see my children suffer, just as it broke God’s heart to watch His only Son die on the cross, taking our sin upon Himself. And yet, God allowed it, because it was the only way we could spend eternity forever with Him. Praise God for His amazing mercy and grace.
Thank you, Father, for your steadfast love. You are our rock and our salvation. Whom shall I fear?!
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Suzanne Meledeo
After struggling with infertility for 5 years, God led Suzanne and her husband Adam to His Plan A for their lives—adoption! Their daughter, Grace Lihua, came into their lives on May 8, 2011 (Mother’s Day) from Fuzhou City, Fujian Province, China. And, their son, Anthony Jianyou, joined their family on January 14, 2013 from Shanghai. After a career in politics, Suzanne is thankful for God’s provision in their lives that now allows her to work part time as a Pilates instructor while home schooling their children and working as a part of the WAGI leadership team. You can follow their adoption journey and life on their blog, Surpassing Greatness.
I have no idea if you’ll ever read these words, but I have to write them.
I have to hope that, even if you never stumble across this blog or
open the card that we sent on your court day, you somehow know the way that
we feel about you.
I remember getting the call that you were at the hospital, Amanda. It
was June 28th- the day that we would meet our girl. I had
simultaneously anticipated and dreaded this day since May 16th, when I
first heard your voice on the phone. Although I was grateful to be
allowed in the delivery room when Piper was born, I was also unsure of
myself. Would I say something stupid? Would I pass out since
I’d never seen a live birth before? Would I be able to convey my
excitement about bringing home Baby Girl without rubbing salt in your
wounds? At least our case worker would be there to help us know
how to navigate this situation that most people never face…
Except that when Andrew and I arrived at the hospital, you only wanted the
two of us back there with you. Panic. I was honored that
you and Conner trusted and loved us enough to let us experience something
so special, but up to this point, we had depended on Bonni to help us know
what to say to you and how to act. Andrew put his arm around my
shoulders, and I quickly prayed for the kind of strength and wisdom that
could never come from me. Please don’t act like an idiot, please
don’t act like an idiot.
When we walked in the room, my fears were gone, and I immediately felt at
home. “Hey guys!” you grinned. Even in labor, you looked
beautiful and seemed calm.
In a few minutes, the nurse came in to see how far you were dilated.
She looked at Andrew and me, hinting with her eyes that we should
step out. We took the clue and started to leave the room when you,
Conner, looked at her and said, “No, it’s okay. They’re
family.” I wonder if you know how much those words meant.
Time seemed to stand still as we spent the next hour or so talking with
both of you and trying to wrap our minds around this huge thing that was
about to take place. Though we had met you before, those moments in
the delivery room were especially precious to me as we actually got to know
the parents of our little girl. In the moments away from the agency,
the paperwork, and the caseworkers, you became my friends and not just the
couple who had chosen our profile book. Conner, I learned that you,
like my husband, hate making decisions about restaurants. Amanda, I
learned that you and I are both somewhat obsessive about using the Weather
Channel app on our phones. It was the little things in that
hour-long conversation that made you both seem more real and made me love
you more.
When the nurse came back later, it was “go time.” Andrew and I stood
awkwardly at your head and stroked your hair as we tried to think of
something to offer other than, “You’re doing great!” Conner, you were
a natural. You knew exactly what to say and do to help your girl.
And Amanda, wow. You made labor and delivery look like a walk
in the park. I honestly expected so much anger and frustration, but
all I saw in that situation was love. I wish there was
a way for you to have stood back and watched the scene like we did.
Your relationship with each other is inspiring, and your affection
for a baby who you bore for someone else is, frankly, earth-shattering.
Those words that Conner whispered as you pushed, “Come on, Amanda,
this is the last thing we can do for her,” melted my heart in more ways
than you’ll ever realize.
Just 30 minutes after you started pushing, Piper was here. I cried
the happiest tears of my life as I took in her thick hair, her chubby
cheeks, and her perfect little body. Then I watched as the two of you
held her, and my heart broke. This was the reason why I had
been so afraid of our time together in the hospital. You clearly
loved her as much as I did, yet you knew that she wasn’t yours to keep. You said that we deserved her, and I knew that wasn’t true.
The nurses came in and out to check on Piper as the four of us bounced back
and forth in our conversation between the trivial and the significant.
Andrew and I left for about an hour to pick up some food and to give
you two time alone with Piper. We got back to the room and ate dinner
together, and I found myself wishing (though I knew the impossibility of my
idea) that there was a way for the five of us to be the little family who
lived happily ever after.
The hospital prepared a room around the corner for Andrew, Piper, and me,
and we slowly collected our belongings to spend our first night as a family
of three. Before I went to bed, I walked down the hall to refill my
water bottle. Your door was open, and I stopped. Conner, you
were headed out briefly to get some fresh air, so I sat down in a chair
next to the bed for some “girl time.” Amanda, as I listened to you
share your hopes and dreams, as you talked about your friends, and as you
revealed your plans for college in the fall, I felt connected to you in a
way that few people will probably ever be able to grasp. Though we
didn’t always talk over the past nine months, we were in each other’s
hearts as we shared this journey. We have a unique bond: I wanted so
badly to be in your place (to be pregnant), and you wanted to be in mine
(“established” enough to raise a baby). There is no way to explain
those feelings to anyone else, but I think you know.
The night passed uneventfully, and I began to think about how the two of
you would be going home to a new “normal” in just a few hours. I
started dreading those last moments in the hospital. Finally, around
2:30, both of you came down the hall. This was it. Andrew and I
stepped out of the room to give you the space that you needed with Piper.
We held each other tightly and prayed for the words to say as we waited for
you to come out. About five minutes later, the two of you entered the
hall with Piper, and all the tears that I had been holding back came
flooding out as I looked at your faces. I never guessed
that goodbye would be so hard. Amanda, I’ve thought that you
are unbelievably strong throughout this entire journey, so seeing you
dissolved by emotion was almost unbearable. It would have been wildly
inappropriate to take pictures in the moments that followed, but the scene
will forever be captured in my mind as you handed Piper to me for the last
time and as you, Conner, hugged my husband like there was no tomorrow.
In those moments, every word I had rehearsed was gone. Each of
us knew that there was nothing to be said which could possibly convey the
feelings we had. In shaky voices and through blinding tears, we all
said how much we love each other. Amanda, you asked me to “take good
care of her,” and I promised that I would. Then the two of you walked
around the corner and back to your lives. I still cannot fathom
how a day can be so joyful and so gut-wrenching at the same time.
Andrew and I walked downstairs to the hospital’s chapel, where I buried my
head in his lap, and we both sobbed. I have never seen my husband cry
like that before. I had thought that I would be filled with guilt
when you two went home without a baby, but really I was just overcome with
sadness like I haven’t ever known. I was sad for you because of the
difficulty of your decision, and I was sad for us because I felt like we
had just lost two people who, in a matter of days, had come to mean
everything to our family. “Be still and know that I am God,”
the walls of the chapel read, and this is ironically the verse tattooed on
the wall of our bedroom at home. Both of us found it difficult to “be
still,” because our hearts were so heavy for you. We prayed over and
over for God to give you peace, and I still pray every day that you’ve
found it.
As I got ready the next morning, I burst into tears all over again, and I
wondered how many days would pass before I woke up without crying for you.
In the weeks since we have been home with Piper, time has slowly
eased the hurt, but I don’t think of you any less. I have never once
doubted that you would change your minds about the decision you made, but I
have felt an unexplainable stillness in knowing that if you did, I would be
okay because as much as I care about Piper, I care about the two of you
equally.
Every night before bed, we tell Piper how many people love her, and the two
of you are always at the top of the list because you will always be her
parents, too. I can’t wait until she is old enough to ask
questions about the picture of the four of us on the wall in her room,
until she wonders how she got her beautiful black hair, and until she makes
the connection that her middle name is the same as her birth mother’s.
I can’t wait for that day because then I get to tell her, once again,
the story of two people named Amanda and Conner who loved her so much that
they made the greatest sacrifice two people could ever make.
People say that you can’t understand true love until you have a baby.
Although I don’t fully agree with that statement, I do believe that I’ve experienced a fuller and deeper kind of love because I met you.
In your words, Conner, this situation was just “meant to
be.”Through our whole adoption journey, I have been the
most worried about our relationship with our child’s birth parents, and
that has actually come to be the most beautiful part of it all.
You named our sweet girl Grace when she was with you for nine months, and
grace has absolutely been the theme of our song. “Thank you” seems so
inadequate for expressing the gratitude we daily feel for your selfless
gift- Piper. Somehow I hope you know just how much you mean to us,
not just for giving us a daughter who we could never have on our own, but
because of the truly strong and special people that you are. I love
you and respect you both, and because of you, my heart is full for the
first time in years.
Mary Rachel Fenrick recently became a mom when she and her husband adopted their daughter from an agency in Oklahoma City. God used infertility to not only teach them more about himself, but to bring them a perfect baby and two wonderful birth parents. You can read more about her journey on her blog, the Fenricks.
Last month, before leaving for the DRC, I wrote about what was weighing heavy on my heart – the day I would take my son from the arms of his foster mother.
Every time I talked about it with someone, I was in tears. Every time I thought about it, I was tears.
As a foster mom of a son that I have loved since the minute he was placed in my hands at two weeks old, my heart was filled with gratitude for this woman whom I would soon meet.
The days leading up to our meeting were filled with nervous trepidation, as I knew that I would never be able to voice to her just how much I understood her role in our son’s life.
Because of our baby J, I know what it means to love a little one who is not promised to you.
I know what it is to be up at all hours of the night, rocking, cradling, and snuggling a child that I did not birth and whose sweet little toes I may never get to see fill the shoes of a grown man.
I know what it means to pour everything you have into a child that may never thank you, and in fact, never remember you.
There was so much I wanted to say to her, my Tyson’s Mama Isabelle.
As I walked out to meet her and my baby boy, the tears were flowing.
She greeted me with a huge smile and I hugged her as tight as I could.
She spoke no English and I spoke no French.
Through our lawyer, who spoke minimal English, I shared with her everything I could muster in the shortest and most succinct amount of words.
“You have loved him so very well. Thank you.”
It wasn’t enough. But nothing I said would have been. Nothing could have conveyed how full my heart was at that moment.
As I held our smiling, cuddly son, with chunky thighs and full cheeks, it was quite evident that Tyson had been well-fed, held tightly, and cuddled often.
And believe me, I fully realize that this is not always the case in international adoption.
Because of Mama Isabelle, our Tyson bonded quickly to us. He craves snuggles, makes great eye contact, and smiles and smiles and smiles and smiles.
It’s been three weeks since I met my son. Three weeks since I took him out of the arms of his Mama Isabelle.
When I talk about it or think about it, it still brings me to tears.
But it isn’t out of sadness.
It’s out of a heart that overflows with emotion for the gift of a son who now carries my last name.
It’s from a heart filled with thankfulness for the selfless love of a foster mom caring for our baby 4,000 miles away.
It’s because of a heart bursting with love for my own foster son who is a miracle and gift that I one day may have to return.
I can’t guarantee the tears will stop anytime soon, because they are filled with gratitude and awe at this life we’ve been given.
Thank you, Mama Isabelle. You were an answer to five months of prayer for our son and a tender reminder to me of my call as a foster mom.
________________________________________
Leslie Word
Leslie has been married to her husband Brian for almost three years. They live in Montgomery, Alabama where Leslie works for a nonprofit agency and Brian is a student pastor. They are passionate about caring for the orphan and have helped start ONEfamily, an adoption, foster care, and orphan care ministry in their church. Their free time is made up of watching football, eating Mexican food, and spending time with their rambunctious puppy, Knox. They have chosen to adopt first and are currently fostering a little guy and just returned from the Democratic Republic of Congo with their son. You can read more about their adventures here.
I received a lot of emails and phone calls over my “Mom” post a few weeks ago. I was a little surprised to hear that so many people were surprised that I was okay with Ty calling Rebekah, Mom. One reader wrote an extremely honest email and admitted that she would be crushed if her adopted son called his birth mom, Mom. She was writing for pointers on how to be more secure in that relationship.
We were at church, last week, and someone was admiring the boys and said, “Now, Ty is your real son, right?” I smiled and launched into our story on how both of our boys came to be. I love telling it.
I know that many adoptive parents equate adoption ignorance to cruel and intentional insults…I just don’t see it that way. I take ignorance for what it is and understand that it is usually bred by curiosity.
Overall, I would say our adoption community is hyper-sensitive when it comes to talking about adoption. Parents spend more time than is necessary trying to prove their place and position…while the child never questions it.
Before Ty was born, God gave me a revelation that has never left my mind. It was like a bright light turned on the day I realized Tyrus belongs to him. Not Rebekah. Not me.
God privileged us with the opportunity to mother him, but possession belongs to God alone. That really helped me in the early days of getting to know Rebekah. It removed the pressure of having to define our roles in ways that seemed unnatural.
Love is not finite. There is no limit to the amount you can give – or get. We always approached Ty’s adoption with this attitude because we knew he could never get his “fill” of love. Rebekah’s presence in Ty’s life doesn’t diminish mine. The same goes for her sister and mother and grandmother. Those relationships don’t take away from the ones he has on our side of the family…they just add to it.
I look at Ty calling Rebekah, “Mom”, the same way. He wants to call her mom because he understands the breadth of what she did for him. He understands her love and affection and wants to return it in a way that makes sense to him. It’s kind of like me calling Ben’s mom, mom. She’s not the mother that stressed and sacrificed and poured into me for the 20 years I had before marrying Ben, but she has enriched my life in countless ways over the last 11. I call her mom because I want to show her respect, love, and admiration. My mom doesn’t feel jealous, insecure, or out of place because of my acknowledgement of Ben’s mom. She knows her place. She will always be my mom.
I know that not everyone has that type of relationship with their mother-in-law, but I hope it helps explain why Ty’s recent choice of words doesn’t bother me.
Ultimately, it comes down to my security in the Lord. I know who I am in Christ, so it’s pretty easy to let insecurities roll down my back. When people use the word “real” when referring to my boys or their moms, it doesn’t offend me because I know who they are to me and who I am to them. Most of the people we run into have no adoption experience. They just ask the first thing that pops into their head. I don’t feel the need to make it a teaching opportunity because most of them will never run into adoption, again. Instead, I use their curiosity as a platform to tell our story and praise God for his goodness!
In just a few short days, Ty will have the opportunity to be with both of his moms and the rest of his extended Colorado family. What a wonderful reunion it will be. I can’t wait to get home and tell you all about it!
_________________________________
Rebekah Pinchback
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.
Last month, before leaving for the DRC, I wrote about what was weighing heavy on my heart – the day I would take my son from the arms of his foster mother.
Every time I talked about it with someone, I was in tears. Every time I thought about it, I was tears.
As a foster mom of a son that I have loved since the minute he was placed in my hands at two weeks old, my heart was filled with gratitude for this woman whom I would soon meet.
The days leading up to our meeting were filled with nervous trepidation, as I knew that I would never be able to voice to her just how much I understood her role in our son’s life.
Because of our baby J, I know what it means to love a little one who is not promised to you.
I know what it is to be up at all hours of the night, rocking, cradling, and snuggling a child that I did not birth and whose sweet little toes I may never get to see fill the shoes of a grown man.
I know what it means to pour everything you have into a child that may never thank you, and in fact, never remember you.
There was so much I wanted to say to her, my Tyson’s Mama Isabelle.
As I walked out to meet her and my baby boy, the tears were flowing.
She greeted me with a huge smile and I hugged her as tight as I could.
She spoke no English and I spoke no French.
Through our lawyer, who spoke minimal English, I shared with her everything I could muster in the shortest and most succinct amount of words.
“You have loved him so very well. Thank you.”
It wasn’t enough. But nothing I said would have been. Nothing could have conveyed how full my heart was at that moment.
As I held our smiling, cuddly son, with chunky thighs and full cheeks, it was quite evident that Tyson had been well-fed, held tightly, and cuddled often.
And believe me, I fully realize that this is not always the case in international adoption.
Because of Mama Isabelle, our Tyson bonded quickly to us. He craves snuggles, makes great eye contact, and smiles and smiles and smiles and smiles.
It’s been three weeks since I met my son. Three weeks since I took him out of the arms of his Mama Isabelle.
When I talk about it or think about it, it still brings me to tears.
But it isn’t out of sadness.
It’s out of a heart that overflows with emotion for the gift of a son who now carries my last name.
It’s from a heart filled with thankfulness for the selfless love of a foster mom caring for our baby 4,000 miles away.
It’s because of a heart bursting with love for my own foster son who is a miracle and gift that I one day may have to return.
I can’t guarantee the tears will stop anytime soon, because they are filled with gratitude and awe at this life we’ve been given.
Thank you, Mama Isabelle. You were an answer to five months of prayer for our son and a tender reminder to me of my call as a foster mom.
________________________________________
Leslie Word
Leslie has been married to her husband Brian for almost three years. They live in Montgomery, Alabama where Leslie works for a nonprofit agency and Brian is a student pastor. They are passionate about caring for the orphan and have helped start ONEfamily, an adoption, foster care, and orphan care ministry in their church. Their free time is made up of watching football, eating Mexican food, and spending time with their rambunctious puppy, Knox. They have chosen to adopt first and are currently fostering a little guy and just returned from the Democratic Republic of Congo with their son. You can read more about their adventures here.
Hyatt and Holden (both 4 yrs old) were in the hallway cleaning fingerprints off the walls with anti-bacterial wipes (this is a chore that I have the littles do often, mainly because they are the fingerprint culprits). As they cleaned, they were talking about the pictures that hung above their heads. Their conversation caught my attention, so I quietly listened where they couldn’t see me…
