We got the call on a Friday. Three weeks and three days ago, we first heard about you. You had been born the Sunday before, and you needed a home. I spoke at length to the social worker, and it seemed so perfect. Everything you needed, we were. Everything your birth mom wanted, we were. Even down to your name, which your birth mom wanted you to keep. It was perfect. We were so happy. We so wanted to be your parents, and we thought we would be. We would leave the next day to come and get you. To bring you home.
We went to dinner that night at our friends’ home. Everyone who was there either has adopted or is adopting, and they were so excited. While we were there, I texted with your birth mom a few times. Then she sent me your picture. I was so happy to see you for the first time. You’re beautiful, S. I showed your picture to our friends, and they agreed. The dinner was a joyful, wonderful, happy time. They would have loved to meet you, to hold you.
Late that night we got a call from those same friends. They showed up at our door with diapers, gift cards, sweet baby girl clothes, a blanket, a soft toy. They are such sweet friends to share in our joy that way.
Saturday, we drove the next day to Florida. As we drove, we talked about your name: would we make your birth mom’s choice you first or middle name? What would we call you? We thought about how we’d have to get a luggage rack in order to fit your carseat in the van. We talked about your birth mom, and I she and I texted back and forth all day. We were so happy as we made phone calls, talked to the social worker, told our families what was going on.
Sunday morning, my mom, Laina and I went shopping for a dress for you, to match the shoes in the puzzle picture. We found a sweet one.
Sunday night, we met you…what can I even say about that? Your birth mom is amazing, and you are precious, valuable, priceless.
Tuesday we learned that you weren’t ours.
Wednesday, we returned the dress.
Thursday we came home without you.
I pray for you still, sweet S. I pray that your mommy and daddy know Jesus and teach you about Him. That you are happy and loved. I’m sure you are.
You weren’t our daughter, but we wish you were. I grieve not being your mama; I wanted to be. And I also grieve the loss of relationship with your birth mom. She loves you so much, and she”s so special. I wanted to be in her life.
Someday, we will bring our baby home, and we will understand what I hope you are already experiencing: that this was how it was meant to be. But we won’t forget you or your birth mom. We know already at least one good thing that came out of this: so many people were praying for your birth mom and you, during a time that was probably the hardest in your lives. Our church was praying. Our families were praying. If we had to go through this in order for you and your birth mom to have so many people lifting you up to the Father during this time, it was worth it. She is worth it. You are worth it.
Adoption is such a mix of joy and grief. Right now, ours is the grief. Yours is the joy–and I hope for you that it is always true, that you grow up strong, joy-filled, loving, and loved.
Prayers and blessings, sweet baby.
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Allie Brannon
Allie and her husband Jeremy live near Atlanta with their three kids–two terrific bio boys and a sweet daughter adopted a year and a half ago from Rwanda. They are currently in the process of adopting a baby boy domestically due not long from now! They love their family, their church, and their life. Allie writes about adoption, home schooling, family adventures, and funny things her kids say on her blog Notes in the Margins.
My afternoon yesterday was most likely your night…since I live on a rock in the middle of the Pacific ocean. I read through Facebook posts and tweets about the Cardinals losing, Monday night football, Dancing With the Stars and some pretty nasty comments about the presidential debate. My mind was on other things. I was googling “mental retardation.” I engrossed myself in stigmas and causes. Medicinenet.com defines it this way, “Mental retardation: The condition of having an IQ measured as below 70 to 75 and significant delays or lacks in at least two areas of adaptive skills. Mental retardation is present from childhood.”
I read about studies done in orphanages in Budapest. Some said that for each month a child spends in an orphanage up to age three, their IQ score goes down 1/2 point. I read about stigmas of each name. How retard has become a dirty word. I know, I used it on just about everything growing up in the ’80s. Now, the politically correct phrase is developmentally delayed. Huh? That’s Jack’s special need according to all his paperwork.
Why am I bringing all this up now? I just left Jack’s cognitive assessment. I won’t have the results for several weeks, but I know the test the psychiatrist was using needed to be changed to fit his level more than once over the three hours we spent in that little room. Jack was awesome. I think in the same situation I would have been irritated with someone asking me the same question in a sing song voice repeatedly. I didn’t do so awesome. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t lost my composure. Here’s the thing. It’s a standardized test and Jack, well, Jack’s not standard. We call those little wax things colors. Dolls are babies. I’m Mama, not Mommy. Grandpa is a bear. Things like that tend to skew a test. I can’t think of a time I’ve said, “Jack give me the _____.” I say, “Can I have ____?” or “Hand me the _____.” “Get your shoes.” “Find your cup.” I wanted to yell, “You aren’t asking the right way!” I did finally say, “In our house those are (and then I spelled out) B-A-B-I-E-S.” That’s when I got the standard rules for standardized test speech.
Jack can count higher than half the kids on Bria’s class but he won’t answer if you say, “Jack, how old are you?” He just learned to say “Mama and Daddy” not that long ago. Jack parrots our behavior. Matching something is an abstract concept for him. He shares. He tries to do what we ask. Today I was overwhelmed leaving the test when he patted my shoulder and said, “Woook! Is a train!” He is getting it, ever so slowly. The fact is for whatever reason he is delayed.
I heard all about the orphanage delay. I had delusions of grander. Apparently what I heard loudest was, “he will catch up.” Instead of that, can’t speak, low muscle tone, missing fine motor skills points. I heard he’ll be like everyone else. He’s not. Neither is Arleigh, or Hanan or Bria. We all come with our own set of kinks and quirks. Low IQ was off my radar. I thought this would be, show him a car, say car, he’ll learn car sort of deal. It’s not. I’m mad right now because I hear some people saying, “I told her so.” I hear the naysayers in my head saying, “Do you know what’s going to happen to your family?” or “Did you really count the cost.” When I am overwhelmed with Jack’s delay I’m reminded that there were people along the way of our paper chase who wanted to tell me it would be too hard. When I’m struggling, sometimes I wonder what they are thinking now.
This is what I would say to myself of almost two years ago when we were just getting Jack’s file…
Dear Self,
If you think the paperwork is scary now, you don’t know what scary is. Wait until they take him back for an MRI to look for brain damage. It is going to get a whole lot worse. It’s not blue skies and rainbows and sisters loving on brother the second you get off the plane. It’s hard. He’s going to get mad because he can’t tell you how he feels. You are going to get mad because all you want is a day at the beach and the beach is going to be the most terrifying place on earth the first few times he goes.
During this paper chase there is something about it. You are broken and want your boy home but you also feel like you are part of something bigger. You somehow really see your place in God’s plan. It’s easy now to shirk off naysayers. It’s a bit harder when Jack is in your arms and you want him to act like a normal little boy and he’s not. When you are holding him and he is tremoring like a seizure is coming on just because something is new and people are giving both you and Jack funny looks, try to remember that Wonder Woman feeling you have right now. It’s a bit harder to hold on to these days but it’s still there. Remind yourself that you are still part of God’s plan. You are helping the world see God’s love in a little boy.
Don’t quit. Jack will teach you so much about yourself. Some good, some bad. Jack is going to show you and those little girls a bigger world. He is going to win EVERYONE over even though he doesn’t talk much. The random guy at the school will come to love him. He will make people laugh out loud on a regular basis and you get to watch as he touches their hearts. Jack is going to open up compassion in Arleigh, Hanan and Bria like you’ve never seen. Bria will walk away from her little sister role to become a champion to her brother. You’re going to cry over all the tests. It’s going to be hard to watch him fail. Hard isn’t impossible. In his failing, he just gives himself more room to grow.
Jack isn’t going to be what you thought. He won’t be perfect. He’s going to be better. He may be with you until he’s 18 or forever. Either way it’s okay because you’re going to learn that when he’s around, you’re better. Delays are hard to swallow. It’s just one more mountain to climb. God wouldn’t have sent Jack to you if He thought you couldn’t do it. Somedays you may think you can’t. Remember that with God, you can.
Don’t quit! Sincerely,
B
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Brandi Stiff
Brandi is a Christian, military wife and mama to four true blessings. After living in Iceland and Maryland she started blogging so their extended family could keep up with their life on the east coast. Two moves and two kids later, one brought home from China, it’s about faith and family, dealing with developmental delays and their misadventures in Hawaii. You can read more here.
We will drive to the baby home for the last time,
sign in at the front door for the last time,
shake the director’s hand for the last time,
take off those communal clothes our little man’s been wearing for the last time.
We’ll dress him up in the outfit we so carefully picked out just for that day.
We’ll roll up his pant legs which I’m sure will still be too long.
We’ll zip up his brand new winter coat and slip warm mittens onto his little hands.
We’ll walk out those heavy metal doors,
down the cement steps,
and outside the black gate.
We’ll climb all three of into the backseat of the car.
And we’ll drive away, forever.
The words on the chapter in our little man’s life-without-a-family, all written. Finished.
The proverbial page, turned.
A thousand empty pages waiting to be filled with a hope and a future.
A year ago I found this one couple who had chronicled their Russian adoption journey via youtube videos. The video of this couple leaving the orphanage with their little boy for the last time contains one incredible, poignant moment: as they head down the staircase to leave the baby home, their translator tells them to open the door and bright, white light from outside floods into the dark hallway.
“The door to the world. To a new life.” she says.
And in the background of the video, a song with these lyrics:
Sin has lost it’s power,
Death has lost it’s sting.
From the grave you’ve risen
Victoriously!
Into marvelous light I’m running…
This moment- this moment of leaving the old and starting the new- this is the picture of salvation. In my son’s story, I see my own. I see my rescue. I see my ransom. I see the life I’ve been given, the gift of the Father. For I was once fatherless, but now I am a child of God.
When John and I walk through those orphanage doors with our son in our arms, we will be living in a moment we’ll remember forever. A moment that will forever cause us to worship. A moment made of new clothes, and footsteps on tile floors, and the weight of a child in arms, and cold winter air, and three in the back seat….
but mostly it will be a moment made of grace.
Through the door. To a new life. Into marvelous light.
This is all of our story, who know the Lord. Once we were not a people, but now we are God’s people.
One month to begin a story that has been written for all eternity. Praise the Lord.
_______________________________
Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their first child by way of a Russian adoption. While her belly might not be expanding, her heart and her faith sure are growing! You can read about this soul stretching journey to parenthood on her blog.
But here’s the thing about waiting for three plus years – sometimes your pride tricks you into thinking you’ve actually gotten good at it. Like you’ve conquered it and are so content and experienced at it you’ve got it under control.
Then you get smacked upside the head with what seems like an impossible weight of waiting you can’t possibly live through. For us, that smack came last week when we learned we are still 12 or so months away from bringing “J” home.
And here’s the thing about that weight – we can’t carry it. We must wait on the Lord. Not in a cheesy just stand on the sidelines and pick daisies all day while something in the Heavens magically comes together.
We have to wait on Him. Lean on Him. Ugly cry out to Him.Get on our knees before Him.Give it all over to Him.
Only when I am crushed by God, do I truly wait on Him. It’s sad but true. My humanness can’t do it otherwise.
So here we are: crushed and waiting. Thankful that He’s got this. He’s not finished writing this story, it’s just going to take a little longer than we thought it would. Like three years longer. But who’s counting?
p.s. For those of you who are reading because you’re in the DRC process and care about the logistics – there were more errors found on our Consent to Adopt and our attorney was robbed at gunpoint. He lost his cell phone, computer and passport. (he was out of country) Therefore, we don’t know if the Consent to Adopt has been signed by the mayor yet or not.
The reason for the additional wait is because we have an amazing agency who cares about the children of the DRC – ALL of them, not just the ones who can be adopted, and is working hard to build a relationship with the government officials instead of working around them. Building relationships takes time but they are committed long term to the care of the vulnerable children of the DRC.
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Lindsy Wallace
Lindsy and her husband William lead the Orphan Care Ministry at Antioch Church in Louisville, Kentucky and are passionate about sharing God
Janie has been showing us a different side of her during these past few weeks. Tantrums…long ones…die hard not giving up and refusing to say “sorry” or “please.”
This morning was a perfect example. As soon as she got up and crawled up on the couch with me, she asked for a drink and before I could even answer she fell back and started kicking those feet together like I was going to tell her “no.”
The morning continued with many little battles with me praying my way through them. Battles of not wanting any socks to wanting socks to going through 4 pairs of socks to finally wearing socks…changing her pull up and not wanting the one I had and having to dump out the entire box of pull ups to find the exact one she wanted…falling on the floor because, I don’t even remember why…think I was praying to keep it together at the time!!!
Then…she is ready to go with her “duckys” for show and tell and a big ole smile on her face. I had to take a picture since it was hard to believe this little angel was so not a little angel all morning. Oh, the life of a 4 year old.
I took her happy little self to school and went to my happy place, the pool. I love to swim. It is my “nothing” time, free from any noise but the water. I do all my praying, problem solving, and deep thinking in that pool. I push myself hard and generally just feel better about life when I am finished. Many a day, Hank can just take one look at me and say, “I’m thinking you may want to go swim or run.” I know he is motivated by the fact that I’m nicer when finished.
As I swam today, I just could not get a rhythm, fighting the water instead of going with it. Thoughts were running through my mind about how some days swimming or running feel so great and other days it is plain hard, and you can’t get a good rhythm going. I had been praying for Janie and it hit me–that is what she is doing. She has lost her rhythm with our family. She has gone from her world in China to her world with her new family and sometimes it is just plain hard on her. This precious child is struggling in her own way: fits, bossiness, refusing to say please, etc. Madeline struggles many days with her place in this world and now Janie is showing me this side as well. I know through my experiences with Madeline that once she works it out in her little mind, she is oh so precious and sweet. My job is to help Janie work through this with understanding and love. I am learning to pray my way through these battles and try not to get caught up in them! I am thankful that this is a season and she will heal and grow over time. Oh how we love this child, brat and all.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens”
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Paige Wright
Mine is a story of heartbreak and happiness with God’s enormous mercy upon me. I lost my first husband to brain cancer when we had been married 15 years. Our children were 8, 10, and 11. Shortly after his death, God blessed me with my husband Hank. We have been blessed with 3 more children, one the easy way and the other 2 through adoption. I did not start our blog until we were in the process of adopting our 2nd little girl from China. We live in Tennessee with our 3 youngest, 10, 5 and 4. Our older 2 are married and live in town and the original baby of the family is a senior in college. Our family is one crazy machine, lots of laughter and lots of whining!
Our youngest son William has been home from Ethiopia for six months now, and he continues to make great strides in his attachment process. A while back I posted Sweet Little Breakthrough about how he had started doing little things that seem like no big deal with our bio kids, but mean the world with kiddos who have been adopted at an older age (holding my hand without protest, for instance). In that same vein, the picture above represents so much more than than cute little piggy toes (and chipped nail polish).
When William came home, one of the first things we noticed was that he was obsessed with being fully dressed. First thing in the morning he would go into his closet, pick out his clothes, and get dressed all the way down to his socks and shoes. It was adorable.
Three years ago, my husband and I stood in front of the orphanage in Beijing, China, and promised we”d be back. We knew it was full of children who were dying, who went to bed hungry every night, and cried for someone, anyone to love them.
We”d always wanted four. It seemed logical: two boys and two girls. Everyone would have a best-friend for life. And Evie would know the bond of a sister from her birth country.
It sounded beautiful. And we honestly thought that was where God was leading us. He had given us Evie. He had shown us over and over that Evie was our daughter. We had prayed for months, “Bring her home. Bring her home. Bring her home.”
And then we landed in Chicago. And discovered Evie”s undisclosed special need– developmental delays. Not only did she have tetrology of fallot and cleft lip and palate, but she could hardly sit, stand, walk, talk, chew, turn the pages of a book. She was completely and utterly shutdown.
We saw hints of this in China. But we assumed she would wake up and start acting like a two year old. But she never did.
So my new life–the one with only 3 three kids–consisted of juggling them so we could go to PT, OT, developmental therapy, and speech multiple times a week. Plus, all her other doctor visits.
I was exhausted. And that fourth child seemed further and further away. And the guilt of ignoring my two homegrown kids weighed heavily on me.
As time passed, I got into the rhythm of my new normal. And now three years later, things seem almost under control.
But, still, we won”t be adopting again.
Evie needs too much. She is too traumatized, too emotionally fragile, too needy. The honest, bitter truth is another special needs adoption would take too much of my time away from her. There is only so much of me to go around.
We”ve prayed about this. We”ve agonized about this. Because we know there are kids who need parents who love them. We know there are kids going to bed tonight with empty bellies, who are cold, alone, and afraid. We know, because that was Evie three short years ago. She was starving–not only for nourishment, but for human touch.
We aren”t done with adoption. We just aren”t adopting.
So now we are praying, “Use us. Use us. Use us.”
And I wonder, how God will use us to care for the orphaned.
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Amy Adair-Bode
I am a Christ-follower, wife, mother, and writer. I have two wonderful boys and a princess from China. We became a family of five on August 28, 2009. My new book, One Thousand and One Tears, is now available on Amazon.
I’ve left all of you lovely people out of the adoption loop for the past month.
Partly because some of the information that allows the story to make sense isn’t my story to tell.
But also because the reality of our adoption journey thus far is sometimes a little difficult to put into words.
I first told you about K, the birth mom we had been matched with, back in June.
Then, the birth father came into the picture.
Then, K began to say things to us that made us think she was probably going to keep her baby.
We found out that this was her final decision 3 weeks ago.
K and I have built a friendship over the past couple of months and I told her to keep me posted with any baby news.
I got a text Tuesday morning that she was in labor and that night she had her baby…not our baby.
Tuesday was a hard day for me.
But God took care of me as he always does.
He brought this verse to my mind.
This is the day the Lord has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24
Every time sadness, worry or fear crept in to my mind, Max and I would sing this song.
We sang it a lot on Tuesday.
I kept thinking…
If we were at the hospital meeting our new son that day, I would be rejoicing.
I would be glad.
That’s easy.
God reminded me that even in my sadness, I can be glad.
I can be glad because of all of the blessings He has given me. I have an amazing husband, a precious boy, great family and friends, a house, clothes, freedom and on and on and on.
But more than anything else, I can be glad because I have a relationship with Jesus.
I get to have a relationship with Jesus.
I felt His presence all day and Him saying to me, “I know this is hard, Abby, but this is so, so good for you. Trust me.”
So, in the midst of my sadness, I’m choosing gladness.
May all who seek you rejoice and be glad in you.
Psalm 70:4
But let all who take refuge in you be glad;
let them ever sing for joy.
Psalm 5:11
Surely this is our God;
we trusted in him, and he saved us.
This is the Lord, we trusted in him;
let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.
Isaiah 25:9
May you be glad in whatever circumstance God has you in today.
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Abby Akers
Abby has been married to her college sweetheart, Wes, for 8 years. After 5 years of infertility, they began the journey of domestic adoption. Blessed with a (more than they had planned) open adoption experience, they were able to witness the birth of their first child, Max, in the summer of 2010. Wes and Abby are trusting God as he leads them in their relationship with Max’s birth family and as they journey through adoption number two. You can follow their story at Akers of Love.
, is now available on Amazon.