Mei Mei is doing well. Really well. She is sweet and loving and happy. She is an “easy” child who goes-with-the-flow and fits into our large, crazy family perfectly. She delights in everything life has to offer. Mei Mei has been our easiest child to transition. She LOVES having a family, and she LOVES being loved. She is blossoming before our very eyes.
I find her easy transition ironic because coming to terms with the magnitude of her delays has been challenging.
In the beginning, I felt overwhelmed. I felt overcome with worry. I worried about how to best address her delays, where to take her for testing, how to access services, how to prepare her for school.
I worried about school in general, how she would fit in socially, how an appropriate classroom could be found. I worried about whether she would succeed, graduate, get a job, live independently.
Yes, I am sorry to say my worry was going out a decade and more, even when she had only been home a week!
But then something wonderful happened. God stopped by. At least, His hands and feet did.
My wonderful friend, Cheryl, listened to me as I poured my worries out. Across the phone lines, she was my nonjudgemental sounding board and praying partner. I cried. She cried with me.
Ten minutes after our conversation ended, Cheryl called back. She was bringing us dinner and wouldn’t listen to all my reasons why she shouldn’t.
It was the full meal deal with homemade soup, bread, salad, and brownies. Comfort food.
She spent the afternoon with us, delighting in watching our children interact together. And then she shared a recent sermon she had heard. When we worry, we aren’t trusting God. Instead of giving it all to Him, we try to figure it out all alone–all by ourselves. We feel overwhelmed, because we know we can’t solve our problems.
But God can.
And we have to turn our worry into worship, fully trusting that He is going to lead the way. We can do our part (like making appointments), but then we have to leave the rest to Him.
So true.
So now, when I worry, I turn my worry into worship. Often, I have to do it all over again 5 minutes later–I’m a slow learner! Each time, I feel the burden on my shoulders lift as I praise God, knowing that He has a plan. A great plan so much bigger than I can ever imagine.
A plan I am blessed to be part of.
A plan that brought this angel into our lives.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.”
Jeremiah 29:11
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Ann Henderson
Ann Henderson currently finds herself wife to one and mom of ten, including a son in heaven and a daughter waiting in China. Several of her children are adopted
When we were waiting to adopt, I remember sitting in adoption training and workshops as speakers attempted to paint a realistic picture of adoption. Although I’m convinced no one can fully prepare someone to adopt, we’re thankful we were not sold the lie that adoption is glamorous and easy. Beautiful, yes. Necessary, sometimes. Easy-breezy? Never. The adoption community around us helped our family understand that we were volunteering to walk into a life-long situation built on loss, hurt, pain, and the unknown. There would be varying degrees of loss, pain, and the unknown for every adoptive household, but we knew…those elements would exist in our story moving forward. Most painfully, they would exist in our child’s story.
No matter what labels or adjectives we assign to the conversation of adoption, here’s one thing I know with certainty; adoption is miraculously brave. When families have been well-educated about what real-life adoption looks like and sign up to take on an innocent child’s grief, loss, rage, and insecurities, I’m not sure if there is anything that requires more faith and courage. Not courage in the “Pass me the cape, I’m heroic, I’ll save you” sort of way. Courage in the “we’re already imperfect in this house, feel like fat parenting failures most days while raising kids without a lot of emotional scars, and yet we’re willing to rearrange our own dysfunction to make space for another life filled with hurt and fear.”
What I did not know at the time I was sitting in adoption training and conferences was what a mess I was as an individual. I think I ignorantly thought that we could offer a stable home, hold a hurting child, and make it a little better for them. When I imagined life as an adoptive, therapeutic parent, it was mostly the child needing the therapy…the support…the love. We would be there for them. We would do what it took to help them.
Simply stated, our child would need help. We would be the ones helping. The healthy, helping the unhealthy. The strong parenting the weak. The whole raising the broken.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
If there is one prevailing message we have been learning as a family over the past five years, it’s this one…
You can’t be near the broken without coming face to ugly face with your own brokenness.
Fear, shame, pain, anger, and insecurity cause my child to break down and lose it. My own fear, shame, pain, anger, and insecurity fuel my embarrassing responses to his behavior. To say this isn’t how I imagined these scenarios playing out pre-adoption would be laughable.
Before adopting I thought I’d be here for my child, the instrument of help and healing to my child. The real truth is, I’m simply here with my child. Walking through our hurt and dysfunction together. Holding my child after an episode that leaves us sweaty and breathless admitting that we’re both a wreck in need of healing. In need of a miracle.
Me, needing to be parented by God while I attempt to parent.
Me, a child of this fallen world and thus a child of trauma to some extent, attempting to parent a child of trauma.
On paper this seems like such a bad idea, and I guess it would be if we fail to admit that we need healing just as much as our kids do.
We’re neck deep right now in evaluations for our son, counseling, and adoption support groups. We’re learning tactics, modifying diets, getting much-needed support, education, love, and understanding. These resources are extremely valuable. Most valuable is finding ourselves in a safe community where we feel free and encouraged to fully acknowledge our own shortcomings that keep us from responding to brokenness and pain with love, empathy, and patience. Prior to adopting, I thought adoption meant inviting loss, insecurity, and hurt into our story. Instead, adoption has been just as much about realizing to what extent those elements were already a very real part of our story and what it looks like to parent a hurting child out of our own rich bank of emotional deficits.
As painful and exhausting as this part of our life is in the moment, it’s surprising how hopeful and thankful I feel.
Adoption is the gift that you never quit opening, isn’t it?
I remember sitting in adoption training and conferences while we waited to adopt. I was scared but eager to be a small part of redemption in our future child’s life. I foolishly thought our family would be used (even if it was only in a minuscule way) to bring healing and health to a child who was coming from a place of loss and pain. Instead, our son is forever the reason why God is bringing healing and health to us. Oh, the irony.
We are learning that we rarely walk before our kids through pain, loss, insecurity, and fear. We walk with them. It’s less about healing them, and more about healing together.
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Heather Hendrick
Heather Hendrick is wife to Aaron and mom to four crazy boys.
Several months ago, I took Evangeline, our adopted daughter from Ukraine, five years old, diagnosed with Down syndrome, to a developmental pediatrician.
“I heard this doctor is good at what he does, and I want his opinion about Evie’s lack of development since she’s been home from Ukraine,” I affirmed rather loudly to my husband Sergei in an effort to hide that really, I was taking Evangeline to this doctor for a second opinion.
A year ago, Evie was evaluated at the Erikson Institute here in Chicago for Autism. At the time, her main activities included rocking back and forth, sitting on her bed, and looking at a light-up toy. Her eye contact was sporadic at best, and she could not tolerate textured food nor touch (unless it was rough housing). I was certain we would come home with a dual diagnosis of ASD (autism spectrum disorder) and Down syndrome because almost every time I reached out to my beautiful blond little girl, my hand would get slapped.
After several appointments, Erikson concluded that Evangeline was not on the spectrum but probably suffered from the debilitating effects of orphanage life paired with cognitive and developmental delays that can accompany Down syndrome.
But I wanted an answer.
When the report came in the mail, I opened the letter while sitting on the toilet seat behind a locked bathroom door and cried. On some level, I wanted the dual diagnosis because I wanted answers. I wanted to know why Evie ground her teeth constantly, why she sought out dust and dirt to eat but refused real food. I wanted to know why she scratched her sisters when they tried to hug her, and cried at loud noises, and sat off to the side of our lives alone, most days, rocking.
But I did not get a concrete answer. I got a “keep doing what you are doing. Find more therapy opportunities, give her time to bond with your family.” And slowly over the next few weeks, I started to shut down. I found it too painful to try to connect with my daughter. For months, I went through the everyday motions of caring for my family as best I could, all the while holding back from climbing into bed. I no longer attempted to bond with Evie. If she was fine being a part of our family without really being close to me, than maybe, I could live like that too.
And, then I realized something.
I was seeking out the wrong diagnosis for the wrong family member. Sure, it was good to have Evie evaluated a year ago. She certainly had characteristics that could point to ASD. But really, I was the one who needed the most help. I was struggling from post-adoption depression, which could have only been aggravated by a little post-traumatic stress disorder thrown in after Polly’s stroke, diagnosis of Moyamoya, and two brain surgeries. After our time at the Erikson Institute, I quietly unravelled.
I have struggled with depression all my life, but alas, it is kind of like that pesky monthly period for women. Every month I am shocked that my foul mood results with menstruation. And I am 36 years old!
Depression is like that for me, too. It sneaks up on me: a few aches and pains, feeling a little down in the dumps, sleeping poorly. I fight, I do what I absolutely need to for the family and then when I can’t anymore, I get into bed and I don’t get out.
I started to see a doctor and a therapist, but I wasn’t feeling better. I cried out to God to help me, to show me how to trust him and get back on track, but to no avail. I struggled for months, but still, somehow managed to post perky facebook stati often enough so that people outside my direct family wouldn’t suspect a thing.
But I was drowning.
This past fall, God gave me the strength to try again to get help for my depression. I went back to my doctor and let her put me on a higher dosed anti-depressant. I started seeing a different therapist and we clicked right away. I started to wake up in the morning and notice that the sun was shining.
And I saw Evangeline, a little girl considerably changed from a year ago.
Since Evie has been with us (over two years) there have been little breakthroughs here and there in our bonding. I liken them to nicking the surface of a frozen lake with a BB gun.
Now that I am above water again in life, the ice is starting to thaw. I can sit a stare at Evie for a while, marvel at her button nose, appreciate her smell, want to pull her to me.
So, why did I take Evie for the second opinion last week?
Because I wanted to make sure that a dual diagnosis isn’t in the picture for our girl. A lot of her behaviors have fallen away but she has a lot left. And although we are doing much better, I am now struggling with the guilt of that missed time when a shadow of a mother was parenting my daughter.
At the appointment, Evie climbed up into a chair, uninterested in the train set the doctor attempted to entice her with. But she laughed when he tickled her, and followed his finger as he played with her, and looked both the doctor and me in the eye almost the whole time.
I loved the doctor. He was a bit brash and un-orthodox (took a text from his wife during our interview and laughed out loud at what she wrote :). But he cut to the chase with me and it was just what I needed.
“I don’t see any definite red flags regarding a dual diagnosis off the bat, of course, if you’d like, we can do a full evaluation of Evangeline to get more in-depth. But I have to ask, why are you here? You’ve already had your daughter evaluated at Erikson?”
“Because, well”, I took a deep breath. “Because I am afraid I am not doing enough. Our other daughter got sick and ended up needing two brain surgeries six weeks after Evangeline came home from Ukraine and I. . . well, I’ve struggled with depression.” I kind of left my answer there but in my heart I added, I am afraid that I have already failed her.
“Mrs. Marchenko, your family has been through a very difficult time these last few years. I want you to know, you are doing a good job with your kids.”
I had to look away as the tears pooled in my eyes.
“And now, Ms. Evangeline,” the doctor turned to Evie and let me attempt to compose myself.
After the visit to the doctor, I realized I had been looking for two things: 1) the wrong diagnosis, and 2) validation that I am the right mom for my child.
Adoption is beautiful, but it is also very hard.
With God’s help, we all can be the right parents for our children.
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Gillian Marchenko
Gillian Marchenko is a writer, speaker, and advocate for individuals with special needs. Her writing has appeared in Mom Sense Magazine, EFCA Today, The Four Cornered Universe, and Chicago Parent. Gillian lives in Chicago with her husband Sergei and their daughters Elaina, Zoya, Polly, and Evangeline. Connect with Gillian on Facebook or Twitter, check out her website at GillianMarchenko.com, or follow her family blog Pocket Lint.
We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
– C.S. Lewis
I came across this quote in a rather timely read of Mary Beth Chapman’s book Choosing to See. The book is about Mary Beth’s life, her marriage to musician Steven Curtis Chapman, the birth of her children, the adoptions of her three youngest daughters, and the tragic death of her 5-year-old in 2008. Reading through this painful story has helped me work through a lot of the pain and sadness I’ve run into this past week as John and I wait endlessly for our adoption to move forward. Sort of an “if-she-can-make-it-through-that-then-I-can-make-it-through-this” kind of a read.
While our adoption process had been moving along fairly well- albeit slower than we had hoped for- we’ve come to a standstill. The home study is long done. Fundraising complete. Agency fees paid and sent. Our preliminary dossier carried to Russia; it should even be translated by now. All our immigration paperwork has been sent in to the US government. And now? We wait, endlessly- waiting for Moscow to lift the adoption suspension and start registering dossiers again.
I wake up every morning, hit the snooze button, and begin to pray for our little guy. I walk around our neighborhood, whispering prayers to God- asking him to AWAKE and act on our behalf. Pointing out that if he can make spring happen, raise every blade of grass to life, and command the trees to burst with blossoms- if he can create new life where only weeks ago it looked like there was none- then surely he can move a government to lift this adoption suspension. I lie down at night wondering what our little guy is doing, if he’s just getting up for the day, and hoping he’s well cared for. I imagine what it’s going to be like to finally hold him in my arms and then I force myself to think about something else, otherwise I’d never sleep.
I cry a lot because even though I know God’s putting all things back together in Christ, the effects of the fall are still too powerful. I cry out because I hate that the world is still so broken and I lament that God seems so slow to move sometimes. I cry because I don’t know whether my faith is weak or whether I’m right to be so upset in the face of brokenness.
I’m not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us;
I’m wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.
I’ve received a lot of assurances through our adoption journey. “It will all work out.” “All in God’s timing.” “He has a plan!”
Yes. True.
But “a plan” that “works out” in “God’s timing” still leaves room for lament. Think of the martyrs whose testimony far surpasses my own; their deaths were part of a plan that worked out in God’s timing… but still, they died.
The only thing I know is that somehow it all works out for God’s glory. In that, my faith is unwavering.
But in the rest of it, I cry out with the Psalmist:
How long O Lord?
Will you forget me forever?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts?
And day after day have sorrow in my heart?
I trust that this endless waiting and wondering and worrying is God’s best. I trust it works out for his glory. I’m just wondering how much more painful it’s going to be.
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Jillian Burden
Jillian Burden is an expectant mama; she and her husband are expecting their
On vacation my girls, my mom and I wandered through the outlet mall for awhile. On various clearance racks I found t-shirts for the boys and for the little girls. So near the end of our wandering when we walked into Old Navy, I figured that might be a good place to find t-shirts for our teen daughters as well.
I should have known better; like most teenage girls, they are persnickety about their clothes and habitually get overwhelmed by choices in stores. But since I’d already found things for the other kids, I wanted to get them something. A quick cruise around the store didn’t spark their interest. To simplify things, I headed them toward a display containing basic T’s in 6 different colors. I’m always glad to have more simple t-shirts myself, and I figured they’d be useful neutral additions to their wardrobe.
“Pick something,” I said with a smile. “What color do you want?”
They looked uncertain. They hemmed and hawed. They picked up things and set them down looking disinterested. Five minutes went by. Meanwhile the other members of our party were done shopping and the grandbaby was showing signs of needing to nurse.
“Pick something,” I said. My smile was starting to feel tense, but I tried to make my voice coaxing. “I want to buy you something.”
But they couldn’t– wouldn’t — make a choice. I toyed with the idea of just grabbing two shirts and saying, “Here ya go.” But then they’d be sure to hate the choice I’d made, which would translate to clothes sitting in the closet, unworn. My mom suggested quietly that I just give them money, which I knew they’d happily take. But dangitall, I wanted to give them a gift, something to bring back as a memory from this trip, not hand them cash like this was some business transaction.
Finally we left, having purchased nothing. Yeah, I could (should?) have been happy they’d saved me a few bucks by refusing to let me get them something. But I was livid, and I knew exactly why. This was not just about a couple of t-shirts This was about all the times I’ve tried to show the girls I love them and they’ve turned me down flat.
Of the times I brought thrift store finds home, excited, hoping they’d like them, only to be met with wan smiles, and have the clothes languish in their closets until I insisted they wear them. Of the hugs I’ve given that were returned with noodle-arms. The times I’ve invited them to play games or go to the store with me and they’ve opted out.
Yes, I can force it. And sometimes I do. But it can be discouraging to feel such resistance to my overtures even now after they’ve been home nearly five years.
Sometimes things are good between us— like today when I broke the oven door and my 14 year old and I spent 30 greasy minutes trying to wrestle the thing into submission before calling the repair man in defeat. We shared some absolutely lovely laughing moments. But all too often I’m met with resistance.
I know that some of the ups and downs are normal teen stuff. Girls often have a hard time getting along with their moms– I know I did when I was 14. For awhile I fantasized about being adopted by a rich family where I could be the only child and wouldn’t have to do chores. I’ve told my daughters that, and I understand it’s a tough age.
But still–when a child home almost five years says you’ll never really be her mom, that signing papers doesn’t make it true, it is a knife to the heart. A failed shopping trip, though a small failure in the grand scheme of things, feels like twisting that knife. If we can’t even have a successful shopping trip together, what are our chances of a real relationship some day?
I comfort myself remembering how well they do when interacting with people other than me. Folks rave about how great the girls are, how sweet and fun– and I wholeheartedly agree. I’ve seen that sweetness from across the room. I just wish they’d show that loveliness to me more often. When I do sneak a real smile out of someone, almost always the shades go quickly down over that light, veiling their hearts, snuffing the connection that flared for just a second.
I’m the second momma, you see, the substitute for the one they really want. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe they love me way down deep, more than they dare show. (Oh, I hope so.) But it feels to me that their automatic default is to push me away than to connect.
The years have scarred me, and make it hard some days to keep my perspective. The truth is, eight of the kids think I’m just fine. But I want these others to love me too, so much that some days my self-worth as a momma feels hinged on their acceptance. I know how foolish that is; they’re hurt kids, wounded souls. It’s only a little about me. But I care passionately for them and want them to feel truly enveloped in the love of our family. No matter how wide the rift, they are part of my very soul, and I will continue to fight on behalf of our relationship.
I talked to the girls after the shopping incident, explained that gift-giving is one of the ways I show folks love– that I’d been trying that day in Old Navy to say ‘I love you’, and that I’d heard rejection in their refusal to accept my gifts. I think they understood then, at least a little, why I’d come unglued over t-shirts.
While unpacking from the trip, I came across a handful of gummy bears in a baggie. I stashed them back in a corner, thinking of a bedtime snack. A few minutes later my 14 year old came into the kitchen, spotted them, and asked for them. I said no, saying there weren’t enough to share with everyone. It was true, but really it was more that I wanted them myself.
Later that evening I nibbled a few, but my conscience wouldn’t let me forget she’d asked for them. I knotted the bag up and set them aside. The next day I came up behind her and tucked the baggie quietly into her sweatshirt pocket with a wink, then walked away quick before I could even see her reaction. Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I need to do more of: quick stealth ‘I love you’ actions, without looking for or expecting any immediate reaction.
Sometimes I get so set on loving kids how I want to love them that I forget about loving them the way they want to be loved. I’m not sure if that handful of gummy bears was received as the gift of love that I intended it to be. But I’ll keep my eyes open for other chances like that. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually get somewhere. Until then, I’ll just keep on loving my kids to the best of my ability, and hold onto the faith that God is watching over us all, and that He has a perfect plan for all our lives.
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Mary Ostyn has been married for 25 years to the guy she met in math class at age 17. I have kids in college, high school, junior high, grade school, and preschool, 10 altogether. Six of her children arrived via adoption, 2 from Korea and 4 from Ethiopia.She homeschools, gardens, cooks, budget-stretches and takes pictures obsessively. Also she writes. Her 200-recipe cookbook/ shopping guide Family Feasts for $75 a Week came out in September, 2009. She also wrote A Sane Woman’s Guide to Raising a Large Family which came out in March, 2009. If she had to describe her blog in one sentence, she”d say it is about making the most of your resources so that you can have the greatest impact possible on the world around you, beginning, of course, with family. Visit her site Owlhaven soon!
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.
I love dark chocolate covered raspberries. I love the slight bitterness of dark chocolate mixed with the sweetness of fruit. I love the magic of dark chocolate and raspberries melting in my mouth.
I love refridgerated homemade chocolate chip cookie dough. I love the chips and the smooth creaminess of the dough. I love the ridiculously large amounts of sugar and butter. I love the magic of spoonful after spoonful melting in my mouth.
If you gave me a choice between the two, I would pick both. If I really really had to, put a gun to my head, pick one, I would five times out of 10 pick cookie dough and five times out of 10 pick the dark chocolate covered raspberries.
If you told me I could never have cookie dough again, and my dessert for the rest of my life was solely going to be dark chocolate covered raspberries, I would love it. I certainly wouldn”t care much. However, there would be times I would think, boy cookie dough sounds good right now.
Or, while I love my dark chocolate covered raspberries, I would like just a taste of the cookie dough. And then if you said no, absolutely not, no cookie dough. Then I would be fine. And in fact, I would rejoice in the fact that I get to have my dark chocolate covered raspberries. Because I love them.
Can anyone see where this is going? Can you figure out the analogy? If you can, let me know because you are awesome and have figured out what”s in my head and that”s freaky.
I love adoption and I think we”ve esablished that I would like to adopt a million kids. I love my girls more than anything on this planet (other than my hubs). As I snuggled with Hannah tonight in her bed and stared at her sweet little hand resting on her tummy and her adorable skinny legs propped up on the duvet, I felt such an amazing and overwhelming feeling of love for this girl (let”s not leave Olivia out, I love her too:)). I love these girls so much, in fact, that sometimes I”m amazed that people love their biological children. I”m serious.
And I would still like to be pregnant. I don”t necessarily want to reproduce my DNA. In fact, I kind of don”t want to because (just thinking ahead), if s/he would look anything like me, I really would cringe every single time someone would say that “s/he looks just like you” in front of my girls. Who will never hear that. But I want to experience pregnancy. And I want to give birth. If I could could give birth to an adopted baby, that would be perfect (we”ve already discussed embryo adoption, that”s off the table for us for now (but never say never, right?)).
Anyway, adoption has not squelched the desire to do what my body was created to do. I still track things. I still know where I am in my cycle. I still care. I still get jealous. I still sin. But, if what I get for the rest of my life is dark chocolate covered raspberries and no chocolate chip cookie dough, I rejoice for the Lord”s plan for my life and I will fully, with all my being, embrace eating my dark chocolate covered raspberries. Because I love them
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Abby Brandenberger
Abby is a stay-at-home mom, married to her college sweetheart Matt. Matt is an elementary school teacher, a coach, driver”s ed instructor, tutor, and sports fanatic. Abby just tries to keep up with him and the two little ones they adopted domestically (15 months apart). They are right in the middle of their third adoption journey and are excited to see how God adds to their family. Abby welcomes you to follow along at Our Little Hope.
. The book is about Mary Beth’s life, her marriage to musician Steven Curtis Chapman, the birth of her children, the adoptions of her three youngest daughters, and the tragic death of her 5-year-old in 2008. Reading through this painful story has helped me work through a lot of the pain and sadness I’ve run into this past week as John and I wait endlessly for our adoption to move forward. Sort of an “if-she-can-make-it-through-that-then-I-can-make-it-through-this” kind of a read.
