I love to take one of the littles after bath time, even when Mama insists on asking me several times, “Do you want to take him? Or do you feel like you have to take him? Are you sure?”
My answer is always the same.
I want to take him because I love them! And it also helps procrastinate my chore of cleaning the kitchen.
Today, Jude got out of the bath first so I got him in his pjs, read him a story, said prayers, and told him Mom or Dad will be in soon to give him a kiss goodnight.
That’s when Jude asked me a question.
Jude: looking at his arm next to my arm. “Why is my skin browner than yours, Sissy?”
me: “Because you’re from Vietnam, Jude”
Jude: “Why are people from Vietnam browner?”
me: explaining it the only way I knew how, “Because that’s the way God made them.”
I dimmed the lights and shut the door a bit, thinking that was the end of the conversation, but as I was cracking the door he decided to sum up his thoughts on the subject.
Jude: “Sissy, what if we turned off all the lights? Everyone would be browner… right?”
me: “Yes, Jude. Everyone would be the same color. Goodnight, I love you.”
That last comment that really caught me off guard. How is it that my 4-year-old brother had captured the
essence and understood the subject of differences in ethnicity?
(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.
(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
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.
While watching you play with a group of children, another mother commented that she “could never love someone else’s child.” Her eyes can only see a child born from an unknown womb and of a different ethnicity, not sharing my blue eyes or light skin. How unfortunate that her eyes cannot see what I see.
When I look at you, I see an ornery sense of humor like your daddy. I see your Lego engineering skills that rival your brother’s. I listen to your contagious belly laugh and am reminded of your grandma. I admire your imagination that you share with your sister as you play together for hours. That short-sighted woman couldn’t see the deep mother/son bond we share as we snuggle early in the morning or know of the fierce protectiveness for you that overwhelms me sometimes. Your tawny skin and your almond-shaped eyes that disappear when you grin do not make me feel less connected to you but rather closer to the woman who loved you enough to give you life.
Your sweet spirit and tender heart are just like your Father’s. I am reminded that you, as well as your siblings born from my womb, are not really mine at all. All of my children belong to our Father, and you are a gift for me to nurture. I do love Someone Else’s child. And it’s easy because He tucked that love here in my heart even before I met you.
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.
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I’m sitting in the play area at Chick-fil-a and the kids are climbing, running and playing. A girl of about eight walks up to me and points to Emma.
“Was she adopted?”
I was a little surprised. Most people just assume my African-American daughter is adopted. But of course, eight year olds don’t assume. They ask.
It also struck me that she used the past tense. The few adults who ask usually say “is she adopted” as if the act of adoption is a status (like “I’m American” or “I’m married”) instead of an event that happened (like “I was born”).
“She was adopted,” I replied.
The little girl beamed.
“I was adopted, too,” she said.
I blinked back surprise again. A moment I had thought was about my unusual looking Korean-Ethiopian-American family was actually not about us at all.
Instead, it was a moment of affirmation for this precious eight-year-old girl, who knows that a piece of her history is different from many of her friends, but caught a glimpse that told her it was normal. Good. Positive. Accepted.
I smiled back at her. “That’s very special. I’m sure your mom and dad are so happy you are their daughter, just like me with my Emma.”
“They are,” she said. “They are.”
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Aaron Klein and his wife, Cacey, are the adoptive parents of two beautiful kids: Spencer, who was born in South Korea, and Emma, who was born in Ethiopia. The Kleins serve on the board for Lifesong Ethiopia and advocate for adopting, fostering and caring for orphans in their community. In his spare time, Aaron is CEO at Riskalyze, a technology startup changing how we make investing decisions.
Perhaps when all is said and done, beneath the anger of many adoptees is the bone-deep fear of being forgotten. Forgotten by the biological father whose name they may never know. Forgotten by the birth family who went on without them (many times, unknowingly). But most of all, forgotten by God.
As I became aware of this issue personally and shared it with fellow adoptees in our support group, eyes welled with tears. Searching for truth, I learned that far from being forgotten, the orphan is the object of God’s special care and protection. Here’s what God promises orphans, whether we are domestic or international orphans and no matter what our age.
He does what is necessary to preserve our life (Jeremiah 49:11)
He gladdens our hearts with the bounty of Providence (Dt. 24:19)
He feeds us from “the sacred portion” (Dt. 24: 19-21)
He defends the cause of the fatherless, giving food and clothing (Dt. 10:18; Is 1:17)
He hears the faintest cry of the orphan (Ex. 22:22-24)
He rescues orphans when they cry for help (Job 29:11)
He considers caring for orphans an unblemished act of worship (Jas. 1:27)
He provides what the orphan is searching for–love, pity, & mercy (Hosea 14:3)
He blesses those who provide for the orphan (Dt. 14:29)
He has a unique life plan for the orphan in history (Esther 2:15)
He strongly warns judges who issue unrighteous decress & magistrates who cause oppressive decisions against the orphan (Is 10:2; Mal. 3:5)
He is pleased when nations and people treat the orphan justly (Jer 5:28)
He will draw nigh and be a swift witness against oppressors of the fatherless (Is. 10:2)
He commands others not to remove “the ancient boundary stone” or encroach on the fields of the fatherless (Prov. 23:10)
While considering the subject of feeling forgotten, I saw a poster-sized reproduction of a U.S. commemorative stamp for those who have served our country. Two words grabbed my attention–NEVER FORGOTTEN.
That’s what I and possibly many other adoptees, foster care children, waiting children, and anyone who is fatherless need to hear.
I was washing Li’l Empress’ face the other day after a particularly messy bout with a “peeder budder and jelly sammich.” I took an extra breath of a moment to study her face, lingering over her deep, bottomless black-brown eyes and her sweet little rosebud lips. And the scar just under her lower lip. The scar that halts my admiration of her beauty and her sweetness every time I notice it anew. The scar that reminds me just how different parenting this child of mine really is.
You see, this particular scar doesn’t fit with all the other little tiny scars that dot her face and torso. Those scars tell me the tale of a nasty case of chicken pox while she still lived in China. They remind me of my own experiences with pitiful little patches of drying and crusting skin. I have quite a few similar scars of my own. I can empathize with her misery. Those scars make me sad for her itchy, feverish days in someone else’s care but they don’t really evoke any other response. They feel common. Normal.
But this scar? This scar is very different to me.
In pure physical appearance, it looks different. Not much larger than the chicken pox marks, it is noticeable for the way it interrupts her lower lip just ever so slightly. It’s whiter. Longer. Jagged. I can easily assign it to a nasty fall. Or maybe a tumble down the stairs. After all, I do have five kids. We’ve had our fair share of bumps, bruises, and split lips. And my girl is really physical. It’s not a hard conclusion to reach, with very little “connecting the dots” necessary. On the surface.
But underneath that simple conclusion? There is nothing simple about it. Its physical appearance lends itself to contemplation of its origins. And that, my friend, is where it feels so very important. So markedly different for me.
What happened to split that pretty little lip?
Who held you when you cried?
Did you feel reassured and comforted?
Is that the first big boo-boo you ever experienced?
Did the blood from that cut make you freak out as you do now?
Is THAT where that comes from?
And so many more… so. many. more. questions. Questions on top of questions. Questions that lead me to more questions.
I stop that train of thought in its tracks. Screeching halt, throwing the brake till smoke billows. I can almost taste the acrid smoke as I swallow and change the course of that train that wants to barrel on ahead, down the tracks.
Because that train is going nowhere good. Nowhere because these are the questions to which I will never have any real answers. I will likely never know definitive conclusions to my mother’s-heart questions. That’s the hard part, isn’t it? The part that is so incredibly different about parenting this girl of mine. That’s one of the risks, the unknowns, that we take on when we sign up for this thing called adoption.
You see, each of my older kids have scars. I know that the little orzo-shaped scar under Shaggy’s eye is from the headboard that fell on his head. I remember praising the Lord for His protection that night, that the rails of the headboard missed his nose, grazing his cheekbone instead.
I can see the scars on Baby BlueEyes’ lower lip and instantly remember the pain and fear we all struggled through that awful summer day. I know the heart-scars that that experience left behind.
Because no matter how old they are or how tall they tower over me, I was there from.the.very.beginning. There for each of those little life experiences that scarred my precious ones. I remember it all, in my momma’s heart, in many ways as if it were yesterday. A momma doesn’t forget, does she?
So I stop that train. And change the tracks. Change my thoughts. I go down a different railroad all together. I turn my train of thought to gratitude.
Thanking the Lord for the care she did receive.
Praising Him for protecting her, from the worst outcomes
of things like chicken pox and falls.
Honoring the Maker who created those pretty little rosebud lips.
Glorifying The Father that knew her and held her
before I even knew her, preparing her heart for mine.
And I take that extra breath of a moment to go back to her deep and bottomless black-brown eyes. I kiss those lips, taking care to plant my kiss on the scar. And I tell her again that I love her. In my heart, I whisper that I love the scar, too.
