Adopting is tough. I don’t think anyone will disagree with that statement. But for me, the most difficult part of this journey has been the loneliness. It
Bonding Over A Bucket
What Just Happened?
Where do I start? What do I say?
We are at home, without Maggie, trying to figure out what happened, how it happened and why it happened. But mostly, WHAT happened.
The last couple of days have been confusing. Confusing because we are not sure whether to cry or laugh. So we do both. Lots of both. Lots of crying. Lots of laughing. And lots of questioning.
I wasn’t sure if I would continue to write our adoption story down….not sure if anyone was really ready to hear the truth. Or rather, I wondered if anyone was interested in hearing the truth.
We Americans like everything to be neatly packaged and tied with a bow. We like to believe in a prosperity doctrine that says if we claim it or if we believe it…everything works out for the best. We don’t like to believe that there is really evil and suffering in this world outside of punishment.
The comments made by well-meaning friends, neighbors or perfect strangers during a crisis can be quite comical. My favorite so far is this: “well, you just have to trust that the baby is better off with her mother.”
Woa, Nellie…don’t get me started on what is wrong with that statement. What theology do you believe in? What rock have you been living under? What God do you believe in?
This adoption failed not because that is what is best for the baby. It failed because we live in a broken world. Because life is not fair. You see…God can make good come from anything he chooses, but I don’t believe everything happens in this world as it should. That’s ridiculous. God did not desire there to be dishonesty, betrayal, selfishness, nor pain…to name a few.
I wish I could sweep the last 6 months under a rug and forget that it ever happened. Sometimes it seems easier to live in na-na land…to blindly accept the outcome and not look back.
But God reminded me that that is not how I roll…nor is it what HE wants. So after much arguing and wrestling (I don’t tend to win against God but it’s not for lack of trying), I decided to work through all the emotions, questions and facts of the past week.
I will fan into the flame the only real gift HE has given me…and that is my ability to write honestly about my own personal experience.
So hang on tight…the next week could be quite ugly. But I trust in the end, when my fingers are exhauseted from furious typing…that I will see HIM revealed.
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Sharee Morris is a wife, mother, follower of the Most High King, dessert junkie, dog loving, adventure seeking normal gal. She lives in Texas with her husband Chip and daughter Sydney. In her former life (pre-kid), Sharee was a broadcast journalism drop-out turned event planner and fundraiser. She even taught elementary school for a few years in hopes of building a perfect career to maintain while having kids. Sharee had everything planned out
The Gift
I came across this picture today. I’m so thankful that Wes captured one of the sweetest and hardest moments I have ever experienced.
I am forever grateful to Max’s birthmom for giving us the priceless gift of a 7 lb. 11 oz. baby boy.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of her.
We love her dearly.
We pray for her daily.
Will you do me a favor? Please make it a point this week {or as long as you feel led to} to pray for birthmoms and their families. There are moms at this very moment who have chosen adoption as the best option for their baby.
Here are a few ideas to pray for.
* peace about their decision
* healing – physically and emotionally
* a loving support system surrounding them
* a tangible feeling of God’s love for them
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Abby has been married to her college sweetheart, Wes, for 7 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 move forward to adopt again. You can follow their story at Akers of Love.
When Wisdom Ends
The Bible has a lot to say about wisdom. A keyword search for “wisdom” produces 219 results. I’m a planner, and also a bit of a perfectionist, so the admonition in Luke 14:28-30 about estimating the cost BEFORE building has always struck a warning chord in me.
But, as Trent and I delve deeper into this adoption journey, I’m also confronted with the question: Where does wisdom end and faith versus fear begin? Because from a pragmatic viewpoint, international adoption doesn’t seem especially wise.
Sam is 13, a great kid, and, to be honest, parenting an only child has a lot of perks. Adding another child through international adoption will create some stress:
- Financially — adoption fees plus the cost of raising and schooling another child
- emotionally — attachment issues and parenting in general can wreak havok in families
- physically — twenty plus hours of travel time just to GET to Lesotho, plus the threat of illness and injury along the way
It’s no wonder well-meaning friends have asked, “Um, are you sure?”
So where’s the line between wisdom and faith versus fear? We confront this same question about our mission trip to Tijuana. This year, we promoted the mission trip to the Christian school where I work. Not a lot of takers, to be honest. What I got instead where a lot of rebukes. “Haven’t you heard that Mexico is NOT SAFE?” “It is irresponsible of you to promote a service trip to MEXICO! Are you foolish?” No matter that we’ve been to Tijuana five years running, are in regular contact with those who live every day in Tijuana, and our critics’ only knowledge of Mexico is what they’ve heard on the news (which happens to be focused on another part of the country completely).
Sometimes, we must step forward with action that seems to defy wisdom. Adoption. Mission trips. Service. Charitable giving. Heck, even venturing out in a thunderstorm to go to church. When wisdom ends, our only decision is whether we will venture forth in faith…or stay home in fear.
For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.
1 Cor. 1:25
The Battle is the Lord’s
There is one day in the year that we have named “Consecutive Day” in our family. It is the day when our children’s ages run in order, seven in a row. When we first became a family of seven children we had a 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13 year old child for a day. Then, we start doubling up again.
The Muddle in the Middle
I have a confession to make. And, I apologize in advance to all my reading and writing friends who thought you knew me and will now be forced to rethink whether to admit that you’ve ever once asked me for editing advice.
When I read, I sometimes jump ahead to the end.
I know. I said I was sorry. I can’t help it. It’s a sickness.
I don’t read much. A page or two at most. Just enough to make sure that the characters I’ve grown to know and love survive to the end. If they all get killed off, why waste the emotional energy to keep reading through all the turmoil? I just want to know that the good guy wins and the bad guy gets his. Once I’ve got that sorted out, then I can settle in and enjoy the ride.
So, that may explain why just now, stuck as we are in the no-there-is-still-no-news-yes-I-know-it-has-been-a-long-time MIDDLE of this adoption process I have been contemplating taking something just a wee bit stronger than Tylenol PM to get me through the night. Can a sister get a hook up? Seriously.
I so desperately want to skip ahead to the end of the story. I want to know that we will survive this journey. I want to know that Pacman* will survive this journey. My heart is literally breaking for this little boy. Abandoned. Vulnerable. Desperately needing to belong, to be loved. How long must he wait? He needs a family. We need a little boy. Seems a relatively easy plot line, right?
In novel writing, middles are notoriously difficult. They must link the call to adventure in the beginning to the resolution at the end. Middles contain all those tests and trials that are meant to build character. I love reading a good middle – the more suspense the better. (So long as I know it all turns out okay at the end.) I’m always encouraging my writing students to add more difficulties, more problems, more tension. In story, conflict equals excitement. In real life, not so much fun.
Not only are we stuck in the middle, we are stuck in a SLOW middle. I’d be getting bored if it weren’t so desperately heartbreaking. Just when I think I can’t slog through another day of waiting, guess what? Another day of waiting. “Pace of story too slow.” “Needs some action.” I was hoping for a hi-lo adventure. Instead I fear we’ve landed in a Victorian epic. A long, drawn out treatise with lots of sighs and a fair amount of whining (mine).
The middle is hard. Hard, hard, tear-my-hair-out hard.
But I will believe – even when I’m crying and whining and asking “are we there YET?” and “how much longer?” – that God has this story well in hand. He’s the author. He knows this struggle through the middle, and he’s right here with us. He knows about the bureaucratic red tape and the unanswered emails and the months-long delays. And what’s more, He’s right there in the middle with Pacman. In the quiet loneliness of nighttime at the orphanage, He is there. When Pacman watches others meet their forever families while he is left behind, God is there. When Pacman wonders if he will ever again be loved or belong, God is there. “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
Yes, God knows our middle, but even better, God knows how it resolves. He’s even given us a sneak peek at the end – “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4); “I will not leave you as orphans, I will come to you” (John 14:18); “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Rev. 21:4).
The middle is hard. The end is joy-filled. The middle is slow. The end is perfectly timed. The middle is filled with turmoil. The end is redeemed.
* Not his real name. Although it is catchy.
Back to His Arms
Last week kicked my rear end was crazy hard. I admit it…I was drowning/sinking/floundering/stumbling/staggering; call it whatever you wish, but, basically, I was wallowing in self-pity. I wanted our referral and I wanted it NOW {or yesterday or the day before}.
I wanted to believe all my sadness was justified. I mean, really? 11 weeks with no referrals? (Not to mention multiple families in the final stage of bringing their children home reporting delay after delay.) Think of all those orphans who need homes and here I am, waiting so patiently for a call that just doesn’t seem to ever come!
So, there I was…whine, cry, frump…when, BAM…I got slapped in the face with the gospel! OK, maybe that’s a bit of an exagerration, but truly, I got me some CON.VIC.TION!
Because, the truth is, my lip service was NOT matching the state of my heart. Don’t get me wrong, I want desperately to believe that this journey is not in vain…that I am enduring this wait because this is exactly where God wants me, and I DO believe that, but my heart was just not feeling it and I was sinking into a dark place. And, the bottom line is I wasn’t as close to my Jesus as I need/want to be. Instead of drizzling my sorrow in Christ’s redemptive love and promise to stay by my side {even when days are dark}, I was relying on myself to get me through. Not. Pretty.
This seed of longing for more began early in the weekend, so when I went to church on Sunday morning, I just knew I was meeting Christ there and that I was ready to lay it at His feet, to start this wait over {in a sense}, to get back to the arms of My Savior. And, guess what?! He did it! He met me there and He held my hand and he spoke to me through the sermon. We began a study of Hebrews and dug into verses 1-4 of the first chapter, which our pastor summed up like this:
“It is impossible for you to have too high a view of Jesus.”
So true. My Jesus will carry me through this difficult wait. Wasn’t he faithful to Noah, Moses, Job, David, Abraham, and countless others? He shows me over and over again where a child-like faith leads and yet, I somehow lost sight of that. And so, I am done. I can’t do this wait alone or even based on the strength of my family and friends. I need HIM and He promises to carry me, hold my hands, and walk beside me. And so I’m reaching for Him…
I’m determined to hold tight to the following verse from Hebrews:
Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful.
Hebrews 10:23
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Trevor and Jennifer Chase live in Southwest Missouri where they reside with their two biological children. They have been married for 11 years and desire to serve Christ in all that they do. Their current journey to bring their next child home from Ethiopia has been filled with ups and downs as they manuver through the ever-changing process of international adoption. However, they are leaning on the Word and trusting in God’s perfect timing as they wait for the referral of their child (or children) from Africa.
My Orphan Heart
God had blessed Brent and me with 4 beautiful children the
The Scar
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.
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Tracy Whitney blogs over at