Children from hard places who have experienced trauma
(and I would argue that losing your birth family is always traumatic) are going to have attachment issues.
Their trust has been broken by the very people who were supposed to be the most trustworthy.
Your words mean nothing to them. They have no reason to trust what you say and they have every reason to doubt. They have been hurt, they have had to learn to protect themselves, they lack the ability to empathize, and they are scared to death, they are master manipulators and they want to be in control.
WARNING: Their behavior is going to reflect this.
And it is going to make you feel crazy. And parenting them is hard CRAZY HARD.
Even if you fell in love with their referral pictures, chances are that once you enter this crazy hard world of loving a child with attachment issues, you are not going to FEEL like you love them. No, it does not FEEL the same as parenting a healthy attached child. Not the PC thing to say, but true. It’s hard to feel love for a child who tries to sabotage you at every turn.
But, you see, you DO love them:
You love them by doing the loving thing over and over and over.
You love them by parenting them in the way they need to be parented with high nurture and high structure (despite how you parented your other kids or how your church friends parent).
You love them by holding them when they are raging and telling them that you aren’t going anywhere.
You love them by praying for them and fighting the spiritual battle on their behalf.
You love them by not being easily offended.
You love them by not being easily manipulated.
You love them by not giving up, by not confirming their suspicions that you are just like all of the others who abandoned them and broke their trust.
You love them by laying down your life, picking up your cross, and dying to yourself
over
and over
and over.
Yes, you love them. . . and by the grace of God, someday, yes someday, you will wake up and realize that they believe you and they trust you and both of you FEEL, truly feel that phileo (friendship) love that you have both been longing for.
Dear “trauma mama” if you are in the trenches today, lovingly parenting through the crazy-hard, please do not lose heart! Do not give up or be easily discouraged. Fight the battle by dying. Just for today, lay down your life and choose love.
_________________________
Jen Summers
Blessed beyond measure to be a child of God, wife of Disco Man, mother of ten awesome children (9 adopted from “hard places”), and friend of many. Messed up in most ways and so thankful for His saving grace in my life. Trying to be thankful for His refining fire as well. Desiring to live fully, every day, for His glory alone. You can follow their life at Grace and Glory.
No one ever promised us that adopting our children would be a simple thing. I didn’t expect to whisk Silas into the mix and then just go about my happy business.
I knew it would be really, really hard.
For like six months.
And then it would be sort of hard for another six.
Then we might have a few bad days over the next six months.
Then we’d be home free.
We’d be in “regular parenting” territory then, which is never a slice of pie. It always requires effort and attention. It can be frustrating sometimes, exhausting often. But the dark, bruisey days would be over.
We’ve had Silas with us for 19 months. My extremely generous timeline for unfavorable behavior has expired, and we’re still registering a solid Month Ten. At least this week.
It’s been one of those weeks that used to find me feeling bullied and defeated, but now, after much practice, I simply feel bone-tired. It has worried me, the way I’ve learned to compartmentalize. It has concerned me at times, the way my patience grips the very edge with its fingernails.
This adoption thing? It can be lonely business. It’s hard to find the kind of everyday support that I crave, not because people in my life are unwilling to offer, but simply because it’s different.
When these hard weeks come, I sometimes feel judged. She should be doing things differently. I feel inadequate. I’m tired of screwing up. I feel defensive. He’s had a difficult life. I feel exasperated. What will it take for him to start to understand how this stuff works? I feel rejected. My kid doesn’t love me.
I feel all of those things, at times. They are my knee socks, my jeans, my gray T. I wear them well. They fit just right, at this point and they’re surprisingly comfortable.
But then I pull on my love for my child. I zip certainty up to my chin. I ball up my hands and shove them into Promise.
I walk in the sunny-day truth that I often know the right thing and choose the wrong anyway. I do not always obey the very first time. I shove and kick when I’m scared, or when I think my idea was better.
And still, just as I love my angel-lashed boy, I am loved.
I could never have known for sure what this journey would look like or how it would feel. I might have run screaming for the hills had I understood that it would be this hard this long. That is the thought that threatens to break me. I might have turned my back on one of the blessings of my life. I might have missed the moment where he turns to me and says, “I lu yew Mommy”. I would have missed stifling a laugh when he looks up at me and says all mean and sassy, “I tickle yew”. (He finally understands that “I spanka yo bottom” wasn’t working for him, so he improvises now.)
So, I’m learning to let go a little. I’ll not take personal the days where he wakes up spitting mad at me and the world, because these days come in waves. I’ll ride it out knowing that maybe tomorrow, or next Monday, he’ll smile straight into my heart and giggle me through my day.
Every day is a step in the right direction, even when it’s hard.
Every day is a chance to remember that God honors this work. He honors it full. He cheers us on, reminds us that the dark days move faster if you dance a little.
Every day is one more opportunity for grace – for all of us.
________________________________________
Shannan Martin
Shannan Martin is an ordinary girl who searches for and finds beauty in the everyday. She’s the wife of a man who thinks all of her jokes are funny and who regularly indulges her late-night, thinking-out-loud ponderings. They have three funny shorties, Calvin, Ruby, and Silas, who came to them across rivers and oceans. Together, they are embarking on a fresh adventure and are confident that God will meet them there. And though they no longer live on the farm, life remains a heaped-up pile of blessings, and Shannan will forever remain a Farmgirl at heart. She has blogged for three years; come take a look.
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.
________________________________________
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.
It has happened to me quite a few times over the years. The first time was
in high school, and then it happened again in college. I get these
packages delivered to me out of the blue. They have my name on them, and
my address. Even when I lived in Texas, then North Carolina, and here in
Georgia, I hear a ring at the door and when I go to answer, this delivery
guy is standing there with a package addressed to Beth Templeton. He says
something like, “I have a package you need to sign for.”
And as an adoptive mama I have heard my door bell ring quite often with
these deliveries, as I suspect you may have as well.
In the early years, I just did what you have probably done many times as
well– I signed for the package. It had my name on it, for heavens sake!
Of course it is mine, right? And when these packages first started coming
to my door it simply never occurred to me to do anything else but sign my
name and take that package as my own.
I Did Not Order This!
Then I would, of course, open up this package addressed to me, but inside
was something I definitely did not want. These aren’t the gifts we ordered
to put under our tree this year!
Inside my package, the one with my name on it, the one I signed for and
accepted into my home, was something I had become quite familiar with–
Anxiety. Like I said, for years when the delivery guy arrived, most of the
time completely randomly it seemed to me, I just figured this package of
anxiety was mine.
I was anxious. I dealt with anxiety. Anxiety is a part of who I am…..
It seemed that signing for it made a sort of sense I suppose. Because I
had bought into the lie that if it is delivered to my door and if it has
my name on it– for no doubt, there were always things to be anxious
about!– then I would have to accept it and deal with it as a part of my
life.
Standing at the Door
And ever since then, if you could hear the things I say to myself, you
would hear, “I’m not signing for that,” repeated many times over the
years. Because what I have learned is that the enemy will take any
opportunity to offer a package that has a certain perverse attraction for
us. For you it may not be anxiety, but some other lie rooted in an
experience or way of thinking from your past. Perhaps rejection, or out of
control anger, or fear, or depression, or hopelessness….
But, my friends, there is great freedom and power in realizing that we get
to choose whether or not we receive these packages. You and I have
authority in Jesus to stand at the door of our homes and authorize entry
to those things that are True and Good from the Father’s hand. And we have
authority likewise to de-authorize those packages that contain lies and
deceptions from the enemy.
I Am Not Signing For That!
Certainly, as adoptive and foster parents, there is much we could be
anxious about for our children–the trauma of relinquishment, along with
neglect and even abuse for some of our treasured ones. And if you are like
me, you will find that the delivery guy will still try to trick you into
signing for that old package you used to receive at will. My guy seems to
like to drop by and try his old tricks at different times just to see if I
might sign this time. He’s pretty persistent. Sometimes he won’t show up
for years, and then sure enough, the door bell rings and I find myself
getting ready to sign for that package with my name on it. Adoptive
parenting has certainly provided some prime delivery opportunities for
sure! But no, I know better than that these days. That package is not
coming into this house, this heart!
So, I want to encourage us all today to take a second look at those home
deliveries. Is this package really yours? Does the return address say,
from: Father God, Heaven
If not, I invite you to say as I do, in a loud voice, with the authority
that is ours in Christ, “I AM NOT SIGNING FOR THAT!”
________________________________________
Beth Templeton
Beth has been married to her husband Stephen for 27 years. They have seven children, ages 18-24. Several years after giving birth to three girls God called their family to the adventure and blessing of adoption. In 2000, they brought home a brother and sister, ages 5 and 10, from Russia. Then they returned to the same orphanage 18 months later and brought home two more brothers, ages 7 and 10. Beth’s heart has been deeply and forever changed as she has watched the love of Father God poured out on her whole family through adoption. She leads Hope at Home, a ministry dedicated to help adoptive and foster parents encounter the Father’s heart for their families, partnering with God to transform orphans into sons and daughters. For more parenting insight and encouragement in the Lord, go to Hope at Home.
Before Afua joined our family, I read many books, I researched the best doctors and hospitals and I spoke (or facebook messaged, texted, skyped…) with moms who had adopted children with similar special needs. But no matter how much I prepared, some things still took me by surprise. Maybe they never came up in conversations or maybe this is the stuff we don’t usually talk about. Adoption is a beautiful way to grow a family (we had adopted before and knew this). Adopting a child with known special needs is a beautiful journey with its unique challenges that stem from loss, trauma and often unmet medical needs.
Learning the child’s diagnosis
I remember sitting at our Neurologist’s office and he patiently reviewed Afua’s MRI results with me. He described the areas of her brain that were affected by the lack of oxygen, that it likely happened during a certain part of the pregnancy and that in the end, the diagnosis given to her in Ghana, cerebral palsy, was correct. Hearing those words took my breath away, made me speechless as if I had no clue and this was a newborn baby with a devastating, unexpected diagnosis. I knew it was coming. This wasn’t a surprise. But in that instant I grieved the diagnosis as if I had not known. Adoptive moms are not superheroes, we grieve our children’s diagnoses as all mothers do. We may know what’s coming when a doctor confirms the test result. But it’s just as real and sad.
Then came a diagnosis I did not expect. The audiologist came to me as Afua was still in surgery.
“Profound hearing loss” “it is unlikely she hears speech at all” “deaf”
Tears were streaming down my face as I listened to her explain waves and decibels and hearing levels. It was like a foreign language and all I wanted was to hug my girl. But she was still in surgery so I sat in disbelief.
We are not extra tough as we process new diagnoses that sometimes come unexpectedly. When we say “yes” to adopting a child with special needs, it is not because we are expecting an easy road or we somehow are up for anything. We say yes to a child and we join their journey of medical diagnoses, different abilities and navigating a world that isn’t always as accepting as we want it to be. Because we firmly believe that every child regardless of their differences is deserving of a loving home and a family. And in the midst of our “yes”, we realize how much we needed them too.
When others notice your child is different
I remember the first time we went to a high school football game. Afua was in a stroller and I took her to the concession stand. Two little girls stood in front of us and one kept looking back. Then came the dreaded words: “What’s wrong with HER?” Don’t worry, I handled the situation with adult maturity, kindness and compassion (with a little bit of education thrown in for good measure). But it bothered me. It made me sad that there were children who were not around children with special needs. Children who didn’t know a nice way to ask why a child was in a stroller when they should be walking.
The truth is, as I have parented Afua, the less I think of her disabilities. I see my daughter. I know her smiles and her expressions. We have a language and I know how her body moves. None of it is strange or unusual to me. But other people (strangers usually) will remind me that she is not typically abled. They do it by their looks, their stares and their comments.
Friends may or may not stick around
This journey is hard to understand, right? I’ve had people ask me why we would choose to parent a child with special needs. When you adopt, you get to pick, they say. Some have hinted that we are trying to prove ourselves to be special, faith filled or we just may not have thought this through. They know our time alone as a couple is non existent. They see the way our life is stretched thin. Some choose to continue our friendships (even thought we aren’t always the most consistent company). Others have stopped asking, and that’s ok too.
What I have found is that the friendships that have remained have become so special and authentic. There is no pretending that this is all easy and smooth. They also see the absolute beauty that exists, the way Afua is changing all of us and how she is an equal member among the siblings. Those who take the time to know Afua get why she is in our family. She belongs with us and we belong with her.
You will doubt your abilities and it’s ok
I am not an organized person by nature and it is a vital skill when parenting a medically complex kiddo. I also work part-time which makes things challenging. Afua is one of 5 children and they also have appointments and needs to be met. Honestly, there are days that I wonder how to juggle it all. In the process of figuring it out, I have learned to let go control (so hard!!!) I’ve reached out for help (so humbling!!!) and I have had to find organizational tools that work for me.I am still struggling with this area of parenting but modern technology is helping me keep most of my appointments :)I know I can’t do this by myself and I don’t have to. I have a great husband, wonderful family and friends and also a caregiver that fills in as needed. Our life is richer because we aren’t doing it all alone.
You will find allies in the most unlikely places
Parenting a child with special needs means you spend a lot of time in local children’s hospitals, therapy clinics, surgery waiting rooms and doctor’s offices. There you will meet
other families who are exhausted yet so proud of their children just as you are. We give each other “the nod” and in silence we know that there are others who are walking this path too. And whether we chose this journey or we discovered a diagnosis along the way, there is a mutual acknowledgment of the hard.
You will meet therapists who are innovative, energetic and supportive. They tell you to take a break and get a cup of coffee while they help your child achieve a new skill or make them more comfortable. You meet doctors who devote their lives to children and their families and you are not just a number. They explain things in a way that makes sense and guide you through tough decisions as if they were making them for their own children. Allies are everywhere and it makes things a bit better.
I share these thoughts in hopes that I am not alone. That others may feel the same grief, the same joy and the same purpose in parenting a child with special needs. That maybe your friendships were tested also and the invitations are fewer. That maybe your child wasn’t adopted but you recognize these feelings as universal. And maybe this opens a conversation about special needs, adoption or even prompts someone to reach out to a family raising a child with special needs.
______________________________
Jenni Wolfenbarger
Jenni is a mother of 5, married for 19 years to her high school sweetheart Eric. Her children range in age from preschool to high school by birth and adoption. Jenni works part-time in a charter school system providing therapy services for children with special needs. Jenni is a advocate for orphaned children with special needs and is passionate about family preservation. When she is not driving her minivan to various activities and appointments, she can be found blogging at Joyful Journey.
It has been some time since I last blogged. I have been busy being mommy and not had much time to write about it. But God is working in me through this new chapter of my life and I felt it was time to share it. So here goes…
I anticipated adoption would be hard, but I was unprepared for what has been revealed as my toughest challenge.
My transformation.
Let me be real. Adoption has brought a new level of responsibility that at times overwhelms me.
My response to this calling is often not a reflection of His work in me. As much as I’d like to say its going great and I’m doing fine, if I am honest its much harder than I had imagined, but not in the way you might expect. Lily and Liam are doing so well that I am in awe of how smooth they have assimilated into our family. The splendor is in the effortless love that is developing between these two precious hearts and mine. Each day our connection grows a little more and a little more and a little more. It is moving to watch them enjoy so many firsts, to hear their giggles and to witness their smiles. It is hard to discover their wounded hearts more each day and know I cannot fix it; but seeing them grow to new depths and new heights despite their difficult beginnings makes all the hard work of transformation worth the pain. They are beautiful and happy children and I am falling in love with them more and more each day. Oh they are not perfect, and we have had some bumps in the road, but overall their transition has been incredible to witness. So what’s the problem then?
Me.
I humbled by my weak human flesh.
It is uncomfortable to say. But if I am being real, it is my sin that has been unearthed in this life altering excavation. You see as I try harder and harder each day to endure the pressures of all these changes it feels overwhelming and I go to that place—that place where I think I can control the outcome. When life is out of control, I seek to put it back under control—or so I think I can. Only I can’t. But instead of leaning into the Father’s arms and seeking Him more, I turn away and try to fix it on my own.
Only I’m powerless. Instead I battle whispers of failure in my head. Yes, me who has faith to move mountains for this unlikely adoption, but who cannot live daily with strength to make it through the afternoon. I am a warrior fighting for the hearts of my children. I long for them to seek and love God more than anything. I want them to make right choices, be respectful, kind hearted and obedient. When I do not see immediate results to all my parental efforts—well, let’s just say it isn’t pretty!
Then God reminds me…
“Not by might, not by power, but by my Spirit says the Lord.” Zachariah 4:6
In my helplessness I finally recognize that I am striving to do this alone—in my own strength. And then I recall the epic story. David, barely more than a boy, fearlessly conquered Goliath. How did he do it? Faith. He used what he knew best—a sling and a stone. David’s combat history with wild beasts had prepared him for the confrontation with Goliath. As a shepherd he had experienced encounters with fierce animals that threatened his sheep. If one of his flock was carried off by a lion or a bear, David went after it, striking the beast dead. This time would be no different—David would use his experience to face his enemy while giving credit to God for the victory. So it is no surprise to note that when David saw Goliath moving towards him, instead of shrinking back, he ran forward to attack. With one precise shot, a single stone centered on Goliaths head and the 9-foot giant toppled over—dead. Victory was in the hands of God’s people because of the faith of one young man who understood that this unmatched battle was not his to win. He needed only to move forward and do his part and trust God to make up the difference.
I must admit that there are times when the work of adoption feels like my Goliath. It is a giant that looms over me threatening to take me captive. Yet I am reminded that I need only use my talents and strengths to do my part and God himself will make up the difference. It is ultimately not my battle to win. I may not be a parenting expert, but I am a decorated warrior fighting for the hearts of my children. I am not perfect, but I serve the Almighty who is able to use my small efforts to bring about His plans for these children.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future” – Jeremiah 29:11
Satan wants to use fear of what I lack to cause me to shrink back. He places doubt in my mind—just enough to let fear threaten to become my adversary. But God has planned victory for those who move forward despite the threats that appear to overpower. Nothing can stand against the Almighty. David did not move towards his enemy because he was powerful, rather his faith stood in the power of the Lord who had already delivered him! I love that David faced Goliath with such radical boldness.
As I embrace each day working through the transition of my new life, I recall that God has prepared me for this day. This is not my battle to win. I need only move forward in faith moving towards my enemy (fear)—firmly trusting in God to see us through. As I grow through this season of change, I feel the work of Him pressing me back down into a lump as he labors to refashion me. I sense his gentle hands drawing me into a new shape. I am still the same lump of clay being transformed for a new purpose through this season of change. It is uncomfortable being made into a different vessel and I wish I could say I was not fighting against it—but it hurts—and I resist letting go of my false sense of control. But I have not been called to this adoption because of my perfect self, rather because of Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all that I can ask or imagine.
He is revealing my heart day-by-day, bit-by-bit. He is the potter—I am the clay.
Life as I knew it is no more. Despite my weak flesh, God is in control here, not me. This transformation of them and me, all of us…
It’s beautiful—and hard.
“But those that wait upon the Lord, they will mount up with wings as Eagles, they will run and not be weary, they will walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31
“Do not fear for I am with you; do not be dismayed for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10
_____________________________
Tiffany Barber
Tiffany is a wife to Kirk and mother of eight including six biological and two newly adopted from China. With a looming financial crisis at the outset of their recent adoption, God took their family on a journey of faith. Having been home just over eight weeks, they are currently working through the transition phase of their new adoption. Tiffany writes an honest account of challenges of adoption and the redemptive work of her savior Jesus Christ at Extravagant Love. Though her faith and limits have been tested, she points that adoption is paving the way for her to grow and experience God’s presence as never before.
I can see an airplane from where I am. The tails of cloud widening out behind it. It looks like the flames of the birthday cake candle I saw on the TV in Miss Fu’s office and I can’t help but squint and pinch it with my outstretched fingers. Is it small or big? I have never seen one up close. They are always just dots against the wide, flat sky. And how do they stay up there? God must live in whatever country they come from.
I’ve heard of God and am sure he could make metal fly. At least that’s what Mei Mei says and she knows God. She met him in an ambulance in Beijing when she had her heart surgery. She says he visits our orphanage at night sometimes so I often stay up past lights-out to hear him. Lying on my bed with my eyes closed so Ayi won’t see, I wait. Does he sound like wind? I have heard that he speaks Mandarin and Cantonese and can sing like a bird—at least that’s what Mei Mei says.
I wonder if he knows my mother and father. I have never met them, and Ayi says she is my mother for now, but I know I have parents that love me and will come find me. I must, because Kang Ming’s parents found him. So did Chu Guan’s and Xiao Bo’s. I wonder if I ask God, if he will tell me what they look like. I think my father is tall and thin and solemn, and mother must have beautiful hair like mine. Ayi braids my hair in intricate patterns and I like to think my mom will do the same.
What if God spoke to me and I didn’t understand? Was the sound of the clouds hitting together, him? Or the rain tapping against the roof above me? There have been three rainstorms this month so I hope I haven’t missed it. I tried to listen for a pattern but there was none. I have ruled out the voice booming across the square because it belongs to Mr. Ping and he is very mean. God does not treat people like that.
Because I think God made me and my parents and Ayi. He made us to look like him. To look beautiful. Mei Mei says it says so in the Bible. That’s the book that God wrote that Mei Mei hides under her blankets from Ayi, the one that is black and ripped and smells like old sandals. I want to read it but it’s in a language I have never seen where the letters are all separate and look like little buildings. But Mei Mei tells me that God is our Father. I am not sure what she means by this, but I believe Mei Mei because I always wanted a sister and it makes me happy to know that someone will protect me when the older boys fight and throw rocks and curse at each other. I wish I could meet God though. I wish that if I waved my arm big enough the airplane would see me and come down and take me to meet God. Or at least maybe they could bring me a Bible that is written in Mandarin so I could read it and see if Mei Mei is telling the truth because sometimes she lies about knowing famous people. But the plane is so small now and I can hear the Ayi yelling for mealtime. Her voice is echoing against the yard wall so it sounds like two voices. For a second I thought I heard a pattern, I thought I heard God but Ayi is shouting and I can’t hear past her telling me to stop walking with my eyes closed and come eat. It is mealtime now, but someday I will meet God and my parents. I know that they are there and I will not stop listening.
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My name is Ben. I am a photographer/writer from Phoenixville, PA. My wife, Abbey, and I have been involved with Kelly, Mark and the Sparrow Fund for 3 years and count them among our closest friends. I write to unearth myself, my past, the collective history of my family, from the compression of memory over time. I write for the moment when a bit of dispatched truth pushes out from the din of the everyday and whispers: I made you. Remember me.
I’d never seen a more independent four-year-old. When K came home, she could literally do everything for herself. She dressed and bathed herself, brushed her teeth, got herself a snack. For a while, we were relieved and grateful. These are the things we’ve taught our boys to do for themselves because we want them to be independent and confident. She fit right in. But then it hit us.
She was independent because that’s how she’d survived.
Based on attachment parenting research, we started to re-parent her. We started saying things like, “I know you can brush your teeth, but I would love to take care of you. May I brush your teeth for you tonight?” A little at a time, she started to let her guard down and let go of some control. Later it became, “Can I help with your PJ’s tonight?” to which she would respond, “Because you want to take care of me?” She was getting it.
Now, we are in the trenches of dependence. At this point, we’ve created some dependence on us so she can develop out of it into healthy independence. If we say, “Go brush your teeth,” she often says, “I can’t!” It’s not a particularly fun stage, as we value independence. But we know it’s going to be worth it in the long run.
There’s something we’ve noticed about her since she’s started depending on us: she’s at rest. When we are patient and meet her needs, she is happy and peaceful. Her guard is down. She accepts help consistently now, which means losing the thing she held onto more than anything- control. And she’s happier than ever. It seems counter-intuitive for someone who holds onto it so tightly, but there’s comfort when she lets go of control.
Like many things in life, children show us the way. K has taught me so much already, and this is no different. She had no control over her environment before she was with us, so now she holds onto any sliver of control with white knuckles. I often feel powerless in my circumstances, so I scramble to control something, anything. How much of my life have I complicated by fighting God for control? More than I’d like to admit. Our baby girl literally goes from kicking and screaming to peaceful and calm when she surrenders and lets us meet her needs. And much like a four-year-old, I fight and fight until I finally surrender. Then I rest in the comfort of having God meet my needs. I always wish I’d done it sooner.
She is getting more and more comfortable with releasing control, and she’s starting to realize it feels good to be taken care of. I’m thirty years older than she is, and I just wish I had learned as quickly as she has.
Where do you fight to release control? What would happen if you surrendered?
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Matt and Becca write about marriage, parenting, and life through the lens of a married couple, parenting team, and pastor and professional counselor. They share hope and restoration by giving a glimpse into their lives- the failures, the successes, and the brokenness and beauty of everyday. You can read more of their writing at WhitsonLife.
…these are my thoughts as I step onto the American Airlines plane. Everyone is smiling professionally. Their hair is clean. Their demeanors calm. The pilot grins a cockeyed smile to ensure us who are boarding that he’s totally got this flight in the bag. Every light bulb is functioning. It feels like a spaceship from the future to me. And people are relaxed as they step past me, orderly and shushed. I am leaning my head back on the stiff blue pillowed chair, completely upright and squeeze my eyes closed so that I can’t see every single one of them stare at me anymore as they file past my 14th aisle seat, watching my endless, silent tears streaming like a never-ending river down my cheeks. I can’t decide if it draws more attention to wipe them away or just let them stream down my cheeks, my chin, my throat, into my hair and my shirt and onto my lap. Either way, I cannot make the tears stop, even though I am literally tired of crying by now. It has been 4 hours since I kissed her for the final time and they are still running down my cheeks and this is just feeling so ridiculous now I am downright angry with myself. I am angry at all the Haitians boarding with leisure and business on their agendas. I am angry at all the Americans staying here. I am angry that no one else feels a boulder of agony on top of their heads, sitting here feeling crushed by the weight. Just about the moment that a peace settles on my face and my heart feels still and my face relaxes into an expressionless passivity, the captain says we are next in line for takeoff. The plane is racing down the runway. Andrew films out the window beside me, watching for Haiti to become a child-sized toy beneath us, and I feel fresh anguish squeeze around my heart. {“Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me….“} on repeat. These are my only thoughts for minutes while I sob.
She is too far away in just seconds. I can’t get to her. She needs me. She is too far away. I will have to wait for people to figure out what happens next, wait for a break in life’s demands, wait for it to make sense, wait for money, wait, wait, wait until I land here again and am within maybe a day’s walk at most from her if it came to that. If there’s another earthquake I can’t run at top speed to her and scoop her up, laws be damned. She is on an island. I can see the water lapping at the edges of her island and I see it from way, way up here now – she is smaller than a particle, small and gone from me somewhere I cannot find or get to on my own, in the middle of a wide blue ocean I know nothing about. Almost evaporated. Before we even land in Ft Lauderdale it feels like it was all just a dream.
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All day I had planted my heels in the chalky dirt, digging my toes against the door, pulling back with both hands and all my strength, hands wrapped around the doorknob, heartache knocking on the other side. I determined not to let her see me crying. These white people crying while the babies were playing would only be confusing and troubling to this baby girl who now wanted to be on my lap, who wanted me to feed her by hand, who would go to no one but me, who smiled mischievously and lovingly, who laid upside down on my legs to have her neck tickled and nuzzled, who walked with arms up stretched to Andrew and I, back and forth, while dancing and giving kisses.
There is no holding the door closed anymore. There is nothing to numb this. There is nothing to dial it down. It steamrolls and flattens me, leaving my bones crushed to powder, my stomach filled with lead, my head thick with cement. Putting one foot in front of the other takes thought.This is sorrow. It is here.
I had leaned her back in my arms and said: “I gotta go bye-bye, baby“, remembering I should never just disappear from a toddler, and I watched a cloud pass in front of her eyes, watched as she furrows her brow, watched as she retreated from me in her eyes, scampered down out of my lap willingly for the first time this day, marched across the room to her beloved nanny whom I am so grateful is here to rescue her from me, watched as she wound her arm around the nanny’s neck, her baby doll still clutched tightly, watched as she looked at me with hurt and distance. I kissed and kissed her cheeks while she sunk into the nanny. She waved and smiled, safe again. She blew final kisses and made the “ok” sign with her hands because she can’t master the “I love you” hand signs we spent all 2 weeks sending her from across a room. 2 weeks. Behind us, we leave 2 weeks.Ahead, there is unknown.
We determined we will not despair – she is far from us but she is not lost to us. We will wait. Jesus is steadying our hearts. We are sorrowful but not destroyed. God is with her. God is with us. He is so, so near, still using our weakness for an opportunity to show up. Andrew is already at work, already a doctor again instead of a One Man Toddler Entertainment Machine. My kids are clamoring for souvenirs and kisses, Rissa already in our bed this morning between us by 2am, ready to reclaim her parents in a way only a 3 year-old can. I hear birds outside but no armed guard, I see sunshine but no school children. I hear cartoons on the TV but no Creole songs. It’s weird. I feel disoriented still. It will take time to gently reclaim our lives but we will not ever feel right again until all 5 of our children area asleep in this house, under the same roof, breathing the same air, 10 arms wrapping around us instead of 8.This is what it feels like to leave your heart behind you and walk away.This is what it felt like when Andrew and I were long-distance dating for 2+ years. This is how your brain starts to take all the messy, sloppy emoting and turn it into action, trying to get steps accomplished to achieve the goal. This is how it feels. It feels like sorrow. It is a boomerang, though and it will not return to us empty. We are sending it all like single-lined texts to God our Father and He will send back answers and whispers smothered in grace enough for that moment. He already is. He will not let this be for nothing. He never does. He brings beauty from destruction. We will see it happen, friends. He will – He must.
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Esty Downes
Esty is a wife to Andrew, mama to their 5 growing kids including 3 biological boys, a daughter from Uganda and their youngest daughter, who is not yet home from Haiti. This, their second adoption, has reached the 21-month mark in progress, and they earnestly hope to have their daughter home in 2015. It’s a very long process but they are surrounded by community and find that adoption has led them to deeply hidden treasures like nothing else. A former pediatric nurse, Esty now fill the days chasing her kids while her husband practices medicine in a southern Florida beach town. Their passion to build community among adoptive families birthed OASIS, a retreat offering intimacy and ongoing fellowship to adoptive mamas. This life is held together and flourishing only in Jesus, rooted in His good grace. You can follow their Journey at These Little Lives.
You can read all the adoption and attachment books you want.
You can prepare as thoroughly as possible.
Your heart can be bursting at the seams at the thought of finally meeting and bringing your child home.
And it {most likely} will still be hard to adjust.
Jet-lagged parents have little to no energy to make it through the day, let alone manage those first days of juggling the bumps of sibling adjustment. Emotionally drained parents have little ability to truly assess how things are going, how the newest child is bonding, how the family as a whole is adjusting. What was read in a book or learned in a seminar days, weeks, or months before can seem entirely different when you are the one navigating it all. All the stuff you learned before you adopted can come flooding back in snippets and you might catch yourself over-analyzing every. little. thing.
Whew! She’s sleeping in her own crib…is that okay? Does it mean she isn’t bonding…or won’t bond?
How is big sister adjusting? Is it just me or does she seem a bit distant?
Is our child showing signs of bonding? Even tiny signs?
He’s crying…a lot. Crying is good, right? Grieving. Or is he crying too much? Am I not meeting his needs?
If you are like me, the desire to “get it right” and implement all those good techniques can leave you more than a bit overwhelmed and even confused. I should know this stuff. I’ve read all about it. So why is it so hard to know what’s going on now that I’m in the midst of it?
Fatigue, emotions, stress, adjustment, jet-lag, they all have a way of clouding our judgement. Seeing the affects of trauma up close and personal seems more overwhelming than you thought it would be back when you read that book.
You want some advice? Get yourself a mirror. Yes, a mirror.
Not an actual, reflective mirror you can hold in your hand or hang on a wall. But a trusted and wise friend, a close family member who can reflect back to you what they see in your children and in your family. Like an actual mirror, they will be able to help you see yourself from the outside looking in.
Following both of our adoptions, the words of those closest to me — who spoke truth to me as I felt overwhelmed by how much adding a new family member rocked our carefully balanced family –were balm to my soul. From outside of my overly analytical and emotional mind, they could see what I could not. Their sight was not clouded by fear and worry and sheer exhaustion. Instead they spoke back to me encouraging words about what they saw happening in our new child and in our family.
Look! I can tell she keeps her eyes on you as you move around the room. She wants to know where you are. That is good!
You guys are so natural with your kids. You are doing such a great job of keeping their routine and making life feel as normal as it can.
She already seems much more relaxed and alert.
From inside my crowded mind, I could not see what they were seeing. My fear and worry had kept me from seeing the bits of growth happening right before my eyes. Hearing their positive observations reflected back to me helped me to see reality a bit more clearly.
Are you feeling overwhelmed? No matter what stage you are in the adoption process, we all find ourselves there sometimes. Resist the urge to just keep muddling through. Invite that trusted friend over. Call a close family member. Ask them to reflect back to you what they are seeing. What they have noticed. Let them be your mirror.
Note: Perhaps you are in the position to be a mirror for someone else. Has God crossed your path with another adoptive parent who could maybe use some encouraging words? Pray about how He might have you be their mirror.
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18 years in the classroom as a teacher was easy compared to parenting three little ones at home full-time. Through their three daughters, God has revealed Himself most clearly to Stephanie and her husband Matthew. He not only worked a miracle in giving them their biological daughter, He continued to show Himself in mighty ways throughout adoption journeys in China and Bhutan that were anything but normal. Nowadays she enjoys encouraging and connecting with other adoptive families through speaking and her work on the leadership team of “We Are Grafted In”. You can read more about their family on their personal blog We Are Family.
