Olivia, one year ago we walked into a crowded Civil Affairs building. We were full of nerves and anticipation.
How would you react? What would you look like in person? What would your personality be like? Were you small or big for your age? Could you walk? Were you loud like your brother and sister or a calm addition to our family? Would you bond? Would we bond? What was your favorite food, favorite toy? How did you like to be soothed? Did you like to sleep? In what position? Would you know how much you were loved?
We never could have imagined the love we felt the instant we saw you. It reminded me so much of the day your brother and sister were born. I locked eyes with you, touched your hands and consoled you by gently rocking while stroking your head. The terror you felt is nothing we could have prepared ourselves for. I am so so sorry you had to go through the pain you went through. No person should ever have to experience what you experienced. You are brave my daughter.
It has now been a year. I can now answer all of the questions we had that January afternoon. I love watching you each day and seeing more and more of your personality unfold. I am certain that God created you for our family. I am just sorry that you had to go through what you did so God could get us to you. Your first mommy, your tummy mommy made a very brave decision so that I could be your forever mommy. I am so grateful for her. In my eyes she is a hero.
Your forever family day will always be a favorite day of the year for me. I don’t ever want to forget what you went though a year ago but, I don’t want to dwell on it. Because, that baby is not you. It has been a miracle this year watching YOU unfold. You are mighty, you are spicy, you are loud, you are loving, you are silly, you are stubborn and you are a miracle.
So to celebrate you we decided to indulge in your favorite “cocholate” (Chocolate) with a trip to the local French Bakery. We let you pick out any item you want and eat until your heart was content. I loved our day together just as I do all of our days together. You lighten our world baby girl. You are so very loved.
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Caitlin has been married to her high school love for 10 years. God placed adoption on her heart at a young age. Caitlin and Brad have two biological children and they brought their youngest home from the Guangdong Province of Chine in 2013. Caitlin works part time as a pediatric occupational therapist. She views this career path as God’s design toward orphan care in her life. She is excited to serve with The Sparrow Fund on their mission trip later this year. Caitlin blogs, but not nearly as often as she would like at Fortunate Blessings
It was just over a year ago that I answered the phone call that changed the trajectory of our lives. It was the call from our adoption agency family coordinator letting me know that she had two referrals for us to consider. As she began to describe the children my heart raced. This was it! This was the moment I had dreamed about and anticipated for so long. Could it be, that I was about to be introduced to my children for the first time?
It had only been the day before that call, that, I had received a text from a close friend, letting me know she had a dream that Kirk and I were walking out of the airport holding hands with Lily and Liam. Both children had excitement and a bit of worry in their eyes—but more excitement. She elaborated and said, “But the look on your hubs face, it was priceless!” She encouraged me that our referral was coming, “But not when you think.”
I woke the morning of January 16, 2014 at 5:30am feeling impressed to get out of bed. I was tired, but felt urged to read my Bible and pray. I’m not even sure how I came to this next verse, but when I did, I felt sure there was a hidden message in it for me. Habakkuk 2:3 says, “For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and not delay.” I wrote it down unsure what it meant. I had no idea that the calling we had been given, to adopt a boy and a girl, was about to be revealed but in the way I expected.
At 10:33 am my cell phone rang.
I saw the (703) area code but it did not register. Ashley (our family coordinator) was calling to let me know she had two referrals for us to consider. I was beside myself when I realized who it was and why she was calling! After she explained the purpose for her call she gave me some preliminary information about the children to allow me the option of reviewing their files or waiting for another match.
She started by saying, “Okay, I have a little girl that is considered special needs. She is almost 8 years old. She has a vision problem, (crossed eyes). Would you like to review her file?
I swallowed hard. “Yes!”
“Okay.” She went on, “There is boy almost 10. He is only three months younger than your youngest child, would that be a problem if your children are in the same grade?”
“No.”
She proceeded, “Would you like to review his file?”
“Yes!” I squealed.
“Okay, I’ll send you their files. Examine them with your husband and let me know if you’d like to proceed with a full review.”
After the longest ten minutes of my life, I had their information in my inbox.
I was floored with emotion as I opened those files for the first time. This was the moment I had waited so many months for. I can still recall the intense emotions that sunk deep into my chest, as I looked blurry-eyed at their photographs for the first time.
Time stood still.
He was a handsome boy, an older child whose only special need was that he was older and harder to place and she an adorable little girl with what appeared to be a minor vision problem. I called my husband and forwarded the files to him. We were both at work, so we agreed to look them over together later that evening.
During the waiting, I had envisioned what it would be like to receive my children’s referrals. I wondered, how would I know if they were mine? Would I feel a connection immediately, or would that sense of knowing they were mine come gradually over time? The moment of discovery had finally come.
Months earlier we had discussed the list of possible special needs we felt comfortable with. I had done research on the various conditions and reviewed the information with Kirk. Somehow checking the boxes of special needs that we both were comfortable with felt awkward, but this was a required step. Part of the home study is designed to evaluate and approve a family to care for a child with special needs. The family is assessed by the social worker to determine if they are equipped to care for a child with needs noted on the list. Kirk and I had agreed that only special needs that we both were comfortable with would make it on our list. If one was okay with a special need but the other one not, then it was a no. It seemed simple enough.
At first glance the needs of these two children appeared to fit within our list of approved special needs. Yet, as we read through the little girl’s file more closely, we discovered she had significant developmental delays. This was an immediate red flag. We were adopting two children at once and we already have one child whose needs will require life-long support. Neither of us felt comfortable taking a second child whose needs will likely necessitate the same.
Despite the red flag, we both felt paralyzed to make any decision.
We questioned ourselves. Was God calling us to take on more than we had planned or anticipated? Or was our discomfort a signal meant to offer us direction? Either way, we were not ready to decide as we both felt unsure.
We immediately bathed our decision in prayer and then sought additional information to help guide our steps. We started with requesting an update from the orphanage. We sent a list of ten questions, and waited for their reply. Next, we obtained an expert opinion from a physician who specializes in reviewing adoption referral files. Next we reached out to the adoption community, requesting feedback regarding ‘how to know when to say yes’ to a referral.
The orphanage updates were a mix of good and bad news. The boy’s update stated he was on grade level in school and appeared to be healthy in all respects. The little girl’s update indicated that her delays had prevented her from attending school and she was unable to speak full sentences. This news heightened our hesitancy about accepting her referral.
Next, we sought the opinion from a physician who reviewed adoption referrals. She stated very matter-of-factly that in her opinion, the boy was a healthy older child with the exception that he appeared to be very small for his age. She pointed that the little girl had significant delays that would likely prevent her from ever living independently. She held nothing back and gave me the worst-case scenario to think about. At first, I was a bit taken aback by her negativity, but later I realized she had done me a favor by making me see what I did not want to see.
While all of this information weighed heavily on us, we were eased by the encouragement we had received from the adoption community. So many families responded positively regarding how they had come to make hard decisions. Some told us of ‘knowing’ it was their child the moment they saw a picture. Others said they did not know right away but came to their yes more slowly. Others told of stories where they did not accept the first or sometimes even the second and third referral they were given. I was comforted by the fact that there was more than one way to ‘know’ and that not everyone accepted the first referral. It became clear that there was no perfect formula we needed to use, we just had to keep asking, praying and waiting until a clear answer was revealed.
Why was this so hard? The answer I discovered was painful.
In that period of waiting I came to understand that part of my hesitancy to not saying ‘yes’ to adopting this little girl, was the implication that our lack of a ‘yes’ was really a ‘no’.
That was it. I knew that I was struggling with saying, ‘no’ to a child who really needed a family. Despite my gut feeling that this was not our little girl, I was not comfortable sending her file back and saying—no.
I wrestled with this one for several weeks until I found some encouragement from a book I was reading, Kisses from Katie, by Katie Davis, a(single) adoptive mother of fourteen former-orphans in Uganda. As I read her story, I found answers to mine.
After adopting her eleventh child, Katie had decided not to adopt any more children. She felt her family was complete, until the Lord made it ever so clear she was to take another and not just any child. The child presented to her had significant delays. Katie described how she was hesitant to take a child with limited mobility since she already had a large level of responsibility to her other eleven girls as well as to the people she ministered to in the villages. Having a child who could not walk would mean she would have to carry her everywhere. But then one day the Lord made his plan so clear Katie could not deny it, and once more she embraced a new daughter.
I connected with this story, and wondered if this was my answer. Did God want us to take on more than we had planned but not more than He had planned? Though I felt willing to move forward with her, my husband did not. I wondered at this discrepancy. We would have to move on this decision soon. Although the adoption agency had given us a lenient two weeks to decide, the clock was ticking and we would have to give an answer soon.
January 27, 2014 “Not every child that came to Katie was Katie’s child.”
Those were the words I heard the Lord speak that morning as my husband prayed for God to show us his plan for these two little ones. One would become ours and the other one not.
After hearing from he Lord, I recalled the rest of Katie’s story. I realized that many, many, many children came to Katie for help. Sometimes people would bring children to her or ask her to adopt them, but she did not adopt every girl that she ministered to or every girl that needed adoption. Katie adopted only the girls that were her children—the ones that God had chosen for her.
God made his plan for us clear that morning. Our first referral for a girl was a no. She was not ours. My wrestling was over as quickly as it had come. In that moment of prayer, I knew this little one was not my daughter. I realized that even though I was not called to be her mother, she was His child. It wasn’t up to me to save her or any; I only need be obedient to the calling he set before me.
If you are waiting on a referral, here are some tips on how to get ready for your yes:
Pray for your child while you are waiting. (I am in awe at how our Lily’s personality matches the prayers I had prayed over her exactly).
Seek the Lord throughout the process and follow His lead. (Getting behind God instead of running ahead was a hard lesson for me at times).
Seek godly men and women in the adoption community to offer their wisdom when you need help, support, encouragement or direction. (This is vital!)
Seek to understand your spouse’s concerns about the adoption. Move forward only when you both agree.If one spouse is in on board and the other not, take it as either a no and move-on, or a wait-not-yet, but do not push. (There was a lot of waiting I had to do. God will move in a spouse’s heart, you just need to get out of the way and then wait.)
Be prepared that if you do not accept the first referral that comes your way, there may be some people that will not agree with your decision. You may feel rejected and judged, but do not be discouraged. It is only God you need to please.
Do not adopt to try and save anyone. That is God’s job and only He can do it. Adopt out of obedience to your calling then rely on Him to carry you through. (It is hard work but oh so rewarding!)
Realize there is no perfect formula for deciding to accept a referral or what special needs (if any) you’re equipped to handle. “Pray like it depends on God and then work like it depends on you,” (Mark Batterson).
One last note–one of my concerns in writing this is that it would discourage a family from adopting a child with significant delays or offend someone who already has. So before I leave anyone with any negative impression of how we feel about children with severe developmental delays, let me clearly state that we highly value all children, but especially those precious ones with significant needs. They need families too! We are parents to a child with special needs and he is our pride and joy! Our hesitancy to say yes to another child with significant developmental delays was based on what we felt we could manage in the mix of our other responsibilities. We prayerfully considered it and do not want our decision to discourage anyone who has been called to embrace a child with significant developmental delays. Go and do what you are called to do and if you already have, then Amen!
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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 ten 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.
“God is knitting our hearts together – but it turns out stitches hurt, and
what goes on inside a ‘cocoon’ is messy.” My mother e-mailed that to a
friend when she asked how things were going.
We’ve glimpsed a sweetness in my sister that is wonderful, but we’re
grieving hard – and this grief is coming out like anger. I was recently
asked to share my post “Broken”, and I feel guilty about it because I
don’t feel that way now.
But I’m realizing that I still love her – a brutal kind of love that holds
on when everything turns ugly. A love that sometimes almost feels like
hate. And Mama told me the fact that I get this worked up about her
behavior is good – because IT IS WRONG so it shows I know what’s right.
But that doesn’t mean I can act on my feelings. And what makes things worse
is that no one else does either. I just sit there and watch this grief
come out and wish someone would do something! But my part is going to
be hard, because I’m *inside* the cocoon. And all these people are asking,
“How’s it going?” while they’re waiting for it to pop open…. And I want
to say “awful” but I smile and say “good” because, considering, it is – and
people don’t understand what Lucy’s been through so it isn’t fair to tell
them.
So you smile, and say “good” and tell them about the “ups.”
Someday we’re gonna’ pull outa’ this and look back and exhale. And the
brutal ugly love will give way to something beautiful and graceful without
the brokenness and ugliness.
Someday this cocoon will pop open. We’ll break out. We’ll be ready.
And someday this little butterfly and I will dance together. In the
sunshine. And we’ll forget about the time we were cooped up together with
that ugly love.
But the words of “Broken” don’t bother me that much anymore. Because I’ve
found my heart is still capable of shattering. It isn’t strong enough yet,
and I hope it never is! Our girl can still tear me apart like cobwebs when
I let her. And I probably stick to her fingers and she doesn’t know what to
do. She probably looks at the girl who says “I love you” when you yell
at her and smiles when she’s yelling on the inside, and doesn’t know what
to do – and I don’t know what to do either, and here.we.are. And we’re both
torn apart and messy, and we’re both broken, confused, and scared.
I thought I knew how to love unconditionally, and then the full force of it
hit me and I couldn’t take it. And I wonder *what in the world’s wrong with
me!* And other people reach their max and flare up, and it doesn’t shake
me; and I find myself mad at my little butterfly when she didn’t do
anything! And I don’t get it – any of it.
Things are calming down now. I’m able to look back and see progress. I’m
able to understand things a bit.
Little brother and I are grounded; little sis and I are still taking root.
We’re taking root fast, but we’re not deep yet – and Satan is trying to
pull us out and throw us away. He wants to pull us off the vine. He doesn’t
want me to love my sister, period. But he can’t stop me.
I wish I could say I’d-like-to-see-him-try, but I have and it’s ugly. He
will always try. He has been trying – and he almost succeeded in getting us
off. But our girl doesn’t have the Branch to stay grounded in, so if I snap
we both crumble.
I have to stay strong, but I don’t feel that way. Because the world is
broken, and our girl is broken, and she’s breaking me.
Our friend wrote my Mom back:
“Stitches hurt – but they *heal*.”
Our butterfly’s wings are growing, and I’m struck breathless by their
beauty.
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Hanna Rothfuss
My name is Hanna Rothfuss. I am 14 and in eighth grade. I have lived in the suburbs of Omaha, Nebraska for my whole life. My interests are reading and writing, mainly about fantasy and orphan care–often adoption. I have four siblings, two of which are adopted. I’m a homeschooler and a child of God. I pray that all my writing is encouraging, empowering, and brings glory to Him.
You can read more of Hanna’s writing on her blog: Taking My Time.
On Saturday, February 28, 2015, 11 month old Avery Madison Foot of Fulton, Maryland passed away unexpectedly of SIDS. Avery is the beloved daughter of Shaena and Jeff, sister of Caitlyn Foot, and granddaughter of Roxy and Dave Kreuger. She is also survived by many aunts, uncles and cousins.
Pray for this family, that they would tangibly feel the presence of God and that they would cling to Him as He starts to put their broken hearts back together in a new way.
At the request of Avery’s parents, donations can be made by clicking on the donate button below in lieu of flowers. The Sparrow Fund will be working closely with the family so that whatever funds come in are used to support adoption and honor their precious daughter who joined their family via adoption.
You can donate with a credit card through PayPal below. Donations can be made even if you do not have a PayPal account.
Please select gift when donating, PayPal will waive the transaction fees.
To donate by check, please make payable to The Sparrow Fund and mail it to:
The Sparrow Fund
124 3rd Ave
Phoenixville, PA 19460
It’s the story of a young woman with a heart as big as a mountain and a brain as small as a pea.
Someone who went out to change the world by adopting a helpless baby girl, envisioning all the ideals without acknowledging any of the challenges.
How many of us are in that position? When life gets tough and our idealistic notions lie in fragments at our feet, how many of us look back at our early selves and beat our present selves over the head with a rubber hammer, mumbling, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”?
Maybe it’s just me.
Let me be clear, I don’t think I’m stupid for adopting my daughter, who is now thirteen. No way. She’s ours and we love her. I am thankful to God for working every out so we could officially adopt her.
If I feel stupid for anything, if I beat myself up for anything, it’s for trying to be her mother when I was so ill-prepared for the challenges.
My first novel recently came out, and a reporter from a local paper wanted to interview me. The phone rang after the time we expected her arrival, and, in trying to disconnect it from the charger, my daughter inadvertently answered it.
What followed was a disaster. I was across the room and saw my daughter’s dismay. She held the phone at arm’s length, all her phone-answering skills abandoning her.
“Just say hello,” I whispered.
She exploded. “I don’t know what to say, Mom! She wants to talk to you, not me! Duh!”
I managed to get the phone away from her, but it was too late. She was embarrassed and volatile, slamming a cupboard closed, stomping, yelling her way down the hallway. And the reporter got to hear it all.
That’s what life is like for us right now. Some very good days, but then there’s a trigger (that I can’t always pinpoint) and everything falls apart. It’s painful, it’s raw, it’s emotional, and our whole family takes a nail-biting ride on the roller coaster.
For me there’s a lot of guilt associated with that roller coaster ride.
We didn’t do things the “right way” when we adopted our daughter.
We were too young by Chinese law to adopt, but we were living in China at the time, so when I spotted a newborn with a cleft lip and palate at the orphanage where I was volunteering, I asked the director if I could bring her home.
My plan was to foster care for her. She was failure to thrive and I’d found her lying flat on her back one day, a bottle propped in her mouth. The orphanage ayis were too busy to give her the attention she needed. I wanted to save this baby’s life. I wanted to make a difference.
My husband and I had been married for two years. He was away at fall camp with his students when the orphanage director gave her approval for us to foster. There was no ceremony. The ayi put her in a disposable diaper, a clean, threadbare sleeper, wrapped her in a blanket, and handed her to me. Every month after that, for seven and a half years, I brought our daughter back to the orphanage to “check her out,” rather like a library book.
For the first ten months of her life we were fostering her for a family in the United States. That family’s adoption fell through, but by then we were attached to this ten-month-old with the huge smile and couldn’t imagine taking her back to the orphanage. That’s when we made the commitment to be her real parents, even though we had to wait almost seven more years for everything to be finalized.
So whenever my daughter has one of those fall-apart moments, when one of those triggers gets flipped and she freaks out, the enemy pours accusations into my head:
You would have treated her differently from the beginning if you’d known you were going to adopt her. You were holding back a piece of your heart all those years to protect yourself from getting hurt. You were too young, too naïve. You didn’t even ask your husband if he supported you bringing home a baby that day. You listened to everyone’s advice and got a lot of things wrong. If she has anger issues it’s YOUR FAULT.
But what does God say?
Trust me.
The past is behind you.
I’m teaching you, I’m molding you. I will never leave you or forsake you.
Haven’t I provided for you before? I’ll provide for you now.
The hard days pass and spring comes for awhile. It’s late and my daughter, who is quite the night owl, peeks through my cracked-open bedroom door. “Can I snuggle with you, Mommy, just for a little while?”
These are the moments I treasure—the calm in the eye of the storm, the promise of better things to come, the assurance that there is grace even in our brokenness and failure. And forgiveness. I’m learning to forgive myself for not being perfect.
Our adoption story isn’t completely written yet. I will cling to hope and leave guilt behind.
___________________________
A.L. Sonnichsen is the author of a newly published middle-grade novel. In it a young orphaned girl in modern-day China discovers the meaning of family in this inspiring story told in verse, in the tradition of Inside Out and Back Again and Sold.
Kara never met her birth mother. Abandoned as an infant, she was taken in by an American woman living in China. Now eleven, Kara spends most of her time in their apartment, wondering why she and Mama cannot leave the city of Tianjin and go live with Daddy in Montana. Mama tells Kara to be content with what she has…but what if Kara secretly wants more?
Told in lyrical, moving verse, Red Butterfly is the story of a girl learning to trust her own voice, discovering that love and family are limitless, and finding the wings she needs to reach new heights.
_________________________________
Raised in Hong Kong, A.L. Sonnichsen grew up attending British school and riding double-decker buses. As an adult, she spent eight years in Mainland China where she learned that not all baozi are created equal. She also learned some Mandarin, which doesn’t do her much good in the small Eastern Washington town where she now lives with her rather large family. Find out more at http://alsonnichsen.blogspot.com.
She stood in the middle of Build-a-Bear, clutching her new stuffed bunny, with tears streaming down her face.
We were there to continue the tradition of letting each child choose an animal, stuff it, bathe it, and name it. And each time a child goes through the process, my husband and I sneak off to record our voices onto a little device, which is placed in the animal’s paw. At bedtime, or anytime they just need to hear us say we love them, they can press the stuffed animal’s hand. We loved watching our daughter take great care in making the bunny her own.
Finally, she took “Stuffy” in her arms and pressed the hand. Our recorded voices started, telling her how much we loved her. She looked up at our excited faces and started sobbing.
As much as we wanted to believe her tears were due to her overwhelming happiness, I knew it wasn’t true. We were spending the evening celebrating her one-year anniversary in our family with dinner and a trip to Build-a-Bear. Because Matt and I were going to be out of town on her homecoming anniversary, we went the week before. We wanted some family time before we left anyway, and we loved the idea of leaving our voices at her fingertips while we were gone.
We presented the evening as a celebration of one year as a family of five, not specifically about her. But she’s a smart girl. She knows we are only a family of five because she’s in it. And so the tears came.
For adopted children, sometimes celebrating a new family is a stark reminder of the family they lost. Often, the times we think will be most joyful- birthdays, holidays, “Gotcha Day”- actually bring up the deepest pain.
So we tread lightly. And when unexpected tears come, we hug harder and don’t try to force words. We love them, we cry with them, and we try to imagine what that pain might feel like. Some have called the loss of one’s biological family a “primal wound,” and from parenting two adopted children, I would have to agree. There’s no way for me to explain the pain that comes from that loss having never lived it. But I witness it often.
For some adoptees, there’s the added pressure of feeling like they need to seem happy about their adoptions 100% of the time because the alternative would be a betrayal to their adoptive family. One of our goals in adoptive parenting is for our kids to know they can be sad or confused or angry about their adoptions, and we will be there with them in it. They can talk to us without worrying if we’ll take their pain personally and make it about us. As we have said repeatedly to them, they can (and do) miss their first families and love us at the same time.
Their grief is not about us.
I was talking with our son the other day about how we can respond when others say things that feel uncomfortable to us. That’s a pretty common experience for any adoptive family, and even more so for a transracial, adoptive family. One example we talked about was what he thinks or can say when someone says he and his sister are lucky to have been adopted into our family. He looked at me with genuine disbelief and said the perfect thing.
“Lucky? But I lost my other family.”
That’s why we don’t celebrate Gotcha Day.
__
Every family and every adoptee is different. I can speak only to what works for our family right now (it might be different in a few years even). Every family has to do what’s best for them at the time.
____________________________
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.
As we blissfully stood posing for pictures following our wedding ceremony, we had no idea how God would write our family’s story, the twists and turns our story would take, the struggles we would face.
We were completely clueless.
Had you asked me I would have told you that we would soon work on having a couple biological children and would later adopt. Although I wouldn’t have known to reveal it, if you had seen my plans, my version of our story, the story would unfold very “normally” on a very “normal” schedule with me being the primary person in control of its unfolding. God would be there, for sure, but if I were to be honest, He would fill the role of blessing my plans.
We didn’t have a clue that getting pregnant would not come easily. No clue that fertility specialists would soon be part of our future, specialists who would tell us that we were delusional to think we could get pregnant. No clue that the God I imagined cheering my plans for a family on would become the God who held me together in heartache as He nudged me from the driver’s seat.
We didn’t have a clue about the family God had in mind for us as we posed for this picture celebrating that we were DTC back in October 2006, seated at a local Chinese restaurant with a newly purchased panda bear in the background.
No clue that the 11 month wait to adopt from China would stretch into 14 months and eventually 3.5 years. No clue that God would be pressing into my plans with His whisper of, “Not yet. Wait.”
No clue that less than a year after that picture was taken we would find ourselves miraculously pregnant — with no medical intervention — after many fertility treatments and a failed IVF. No clue that God would show Himself to be the God of surprises and miracles.
No clue that 9 months later we would not be holding our Chinese daughter, but our biological daughter, Miss E.
No clue that 1.5 years after her birth we would change course in our adoption and commit to a special needs adoption and, six months later, come home with our precious Miss A. No clue that God would so obviously be our source of strength during that adoption trip, proving himself to be the never-leaving, always-guiding God who comforts the weary and whispers, “This is the child.”
No clue that less than a year after coming home with Miss A, God would show us another daughter in a country we had very little — if any — knowledge of. No clue that God would so clearly answer our prayers of, “Who?” No clue that He would call us to an independent foreign adoption in which He would become our source of bravery and courage nudging pushing us into unknown territory whispering, “Trust me.”
No clue that only six months later we would be bringing that daughter, Miss L, home. No clue that we would see God’s work and miracles so clearly in her adoption story as He moved bureaucratic mountains with ease saying, “Nothing is too difficult for me.”
No clue that we would become the parents to not one, but three beautiful daughters with three different nationalities within five years of that wedding picture. No clue that as we were singing, “Jesus, Be the Center” during our wedding ceremony God was most likely whispering, “Hang on! I’m about to show you what having me at the center looks like.”
Yep, we were pretty clueless back then. And it’s a good thing. Had God filled me in on the plans He had for building our family I would have said, “No way! That’s crazy! I can’t do that. It’ll never happen.”
I would have thrown out every excuse in the book. It sounds too hard. Too complicated. Too expensive. Too abnormal. Too risky. (Don’t we all just want normal? Easy? Typical? I know I did — and honestly I still crave it!)
But God is God. And He can work through anybody to do anything to reveal Himself more fully.
Even an over-emotional, non-risk-taking, clueless worry-wart like me.
Glory be!
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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” and on the Board of The Sparrow Fund. You can read more about their family on their personal blog We Are Family.
It has been four years since I first set foot in this country. Four years ago today that I held my youngest child for the first time. Four years ago Monday that my oldest son completely ripped my heart from my chest, and a burning passion was lit inside of me for children who have had their childhood stolen from them. Four years since I left my blonde little babies an ocean away and in turn radically changed the life they once knew. Four years since this country captured my heart and beckoned me here. Everything changed in those first moments. Little did I know that four years ago 31 year old me was about to have her world completely turned upside down. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and I am glad because I am mostly a coward. God knew that, so He kept me in the dark until I was too far smitten to do anything but follow the wild path He set my feet upon.
Looking back, it all started rather simplistically. We wanted another baby, but my pregnancies were rough, so that led to tender hearts toward adoption. Ethiopia had what appeared to be a crisis at the time- a crisis of orphaned children needing families. We were a family. We wanted another child. It made sense. So we said yes to adoption and to Ethiopia, and then to our special, sweet Jamesy, and then to Habtamu, and all the while our world tilted off axis and lines, that we had once drawn, blurred. And in it all I held my breath waiting for everything to right once again and return to normal. I waited for friends to return, for the American Dream to take hold again, for our family to blend back in, for life to return to the easy pleasantness that it once held, for Jesus to stop asking us to do crazy, wild things. Our yes was over, and it was time to get back to normal.
But normal never showed back up, and a new normal took its place. Sometimes in my most honest moments I grieve the loss of that normal, but mostly I embrace this adventure that my Jesus has so lovingly invited me into. I feel as if I am one of the lucky ones, as I get to look back to a specific moment in time, four years ago exactly, when everything changed.
I now live this one, wild life back in the country where it all began. There are late nights with no power and cold showers and spiders and dust everywhere. And there is laughter and life and love. I cannot walk outside the safety of our gate without being surrounded by children. Some of them are teeny tiny and some are bigger than my own big boy. Some dirty and tattered – so dirty that to touch them makes me stink with them. And some not as much. My hands are always grabbed and smiles are abundant, as are hugs and kisses. My hair is touched, my clothes yanked on, and always a silly grin is plastered across my face in a contented happiness I have never before known. My heart is continually stretched, and I so desire to pick up the life of Jesus here – to make every person that I encounter feel as if they matter – because they do. I have been making this my goal every time I walk out my gates. It is simple and yet I believe it is exactly what Jesus did. I cannot help everyone who comes to me, there are just too many. How can I pick and choose the countless street children that I encounter? The magnitude of the needs just outside my door are surreal. The number of starving children and half grown men addicted to chat and young mamas begging on the corners overwhelms me. How do I choose who to help? Most days, unless the Spirit clearly prompts me, I can’t choose. But I can look every person in the eye and acknowledge them as another human being. I can love in big ways just by giving a dirty street child a hug and a squeeze – just by noticing them when everyone else hurries on by. I can imitate Jesus just by seeing them. I am learning this and putting it into practice every day, and it is changing everything. It is changing me.
At home my lap is constantly full, sometimes with my blonde babies, sometimes with brown-eyed babies, and even still sometimes with my teenage boy who even after two years of security still questions whether this mama can really love him. Our house is seldom quiet. Languages collide and shouts and giggles echo off the walls. Currently I answer to “Mom” from seven people, and my head swims to keep up with who needs what from me. And every day, although most would see this as mundane, I fall more and more in love with this life. For me this is what my heart has ached, longed and cried out for. Four years ago, the moment my feet hit the dust here in Addis I knew something was missing, but I couldn’t possibly understand what it was that was missing. But now I know. It was the African sunrises, and Habesha food, and cold showers, and grubby hands reaching for me, and grown women, who missed out on childhood, calling me mom, and a spunky little two year old who is too precocious for her own good. It is watching my belly babies love in ways I did not know they were capable of, and seeing my brown-eyed boys back in their home country and finally healing from wounds that should have never been. It is catching my husband’s eye across our crowded and crazy living room, as children twirl and dance, and adults laugh and sip buna and nibble popcorn, and in that single glance a thousand words pass between us, all resting on the knowing that this is what we sacrificed for. It’s roosters crowing and dogs yapping and the low growl of hyenas. It’s seeing Jesus in the dirty street children or the young man who finally realizes that life is worth living. It’s opening my home to strangers and witnessing the miracle of how quickly love crashes in making us a weird, jumbled-up family. This was all missing in my former life, and while nothing looks the same as it once did, I wouldn’t change this new normal for all the white picket fenced houses in the world.
I know that I am here because God has put me here. In some little way I know that He is using me to change the world. He is using me in simple ways, and I want to give my life away right here. There is no place else I’d rather be than right here.
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Tiffany has been married to Jim for almost 13 years. They have four children, two from birth and two from Ethiopia. Since landing in Ethiopia to adopt their youngest son, with special needs, and at the same time meeting their oldest son, who was a former street child, they have been on a wild journey. God has been writing a unique story for their family, and after years of prayer and pursuit, they are now living in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and are passionate about family reunification, redemption, street children, and living their lives in a way that intentionally mimics the way Jesus lived out His life. Sometimes that means feeding a large group of people in their home, sometimes that means taking midnight emergency hospital trips, and sometimes it means just stopping to hug a lonely child on the street and really taking the time to notice him. No two days are alike.Tiffany blogs at amomentcherished.com and you can read more about their family’s non-profit and their life in Ethiopia at mercybranch.com or look for them on facebook at Mercy branch Inc.
“When did we start believing that God wants to send us to safe places to do easy things? That faithfulness is holding the fort? That playing it safe is safe? That there is any greater privilege than sacrifice? That radical is anything but normal? Jesus didn’t die to keep us safe. He died to make us dangerous. Faithfulness is not holding the fort, it’s storming the gates of hell.”
–Mark Batterson
We have been home almost exactly two months. It’s kind of funny how I let myself think that since some issues haven’t surfaced yet—they are not going to. Not! I have seen grief this week, like never before. I was not expecting it, yet somehow I felt prepared for this moment and did not react negatively when the grief was displayed in a manner directed towards me. Emotions erupted over small issues that could have easily been mistaken for something other than grief. Thankfully the Lord has given me the discernment to see beneath the surface of these outbursts.
My response? I did not take an ounce of this personally. I let the emotions purge from a broken heart and sat, just sat (almost silent). I was determined that I would not shrink back in fear of what I was seeing. I sat for hours, watching as ugly outbursts erupted like a volcano. Words and feelings were often directed towards me, as if somehow I was responsible for the pain, yet I could see that I was just a safe place to let it all out.
This is one of those posts that well, might seem like too much information. Still, I share it because for those praying us through you can know exactly what we need and for those who are in the same place or who will be soon, it’s good to be prepared for the grief.
You see as beautiful as adoption is—it is also very ugly.
In order for us to have the privilege of adoption there had to be great loss for our children. This is the part of adoption that tends to be glossed over when we talk about going across the world to become a father (and mother) to the fatherless. It all seems so wonderful and good that surely it should be easy right? They will see just how much we have done for them and wake up every day and thank us from the bottom of their hearts. Only they cannot. They cannot thank us for security when they cannot begin to understand what security is. They cannot begin to trust when their trust has been repeatedly broken.
This is the part of the journey that I had prepared for and understood fully that I would never really be able to prepare for it. I recognize that this is just the beginning. There is more to come, I am certain of it. So, what then? I can fear this grief or trust that the tears, the anger, and the hurt are the path to healing.
Pain precedes comfort. It’s part of the process. It’s the step where the hurt is purged making way for the comfort.
So often when hurts come we don’t want comfort—what we really want is to be comfortable. There is a difference. Comfortable is the state of ease, but God does not promise us that. In fact, he offers us the opposite, “in this world you will have trouble.” When we are grieving, the process of healing comes through feeling the pain. It literally hurts. Comfort comes as we are strengthened through our pain, not necessarily out of it.
So, as I sat yesterday, waiting and watching the torment of emotions purging from my child, I was helpless to remove the pain, but I could be present hoping that in some way it would offer some small comfort in that not-so-comfortable place.
Though I cannot change the circumstances, remove the hurt or even begin to fully understand the pain—at least I can be present. Having a mom to be present in the midst of hurt is something new for these little ones. It is what I have to offer. So I bring it, praying my actions will point towards my comforter—Jesus.
Grief hurts. It hurts to watch and it definitely hurts to experience.
Though I cannot fix it, I am reminded that in the moment when I love my children despite their unlovable behavior, I am the tangible evidence of God’s unconditional love. What better way to teach them about the gospel? After all, unless I live out the gospel message in the day-to-day moments, it remains just a story in a book; but faith lived changes hearts.
I pray that God would strengthen me to be faithful in this journey.
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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 ten 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 remember the yellow hue of the hospital lights in Moscow. Not the warm, buttery kind of yellow that warms you up inside, but the dingy kind. The kind too dark to usher the relief that light usually brings into the dark.
I was there with my husband John, a translator, and our newly adopted son Arie. He wasn’t sick. We were there for his visa exam: the one that would grant us permission to go home.
For me and for John this was a momentous step forward: one of the last details to check off our long but dwindling list that would make our adoption complete.
For Arie this trip to the hospital was terrifying. He whimpered in my lap, fighting back the urge to cry with as much courage as his two-year-old body could muster. I held him tight, reassuring him as best I could as a relative stranger with a foreign tongue.
“It’s the smell,” said our translator, trying to explain the fear on our usually happy boy’s face. “It reminds him of getting his shots.”
Indeed, it did smell like alcohol swaps in that waiting area. Our translator whispered some encouraging words to Arie in Russian. He started sucking his thumb feverishly.
When at last it was our turn to see the doctor our boy’s demeanor turned around. The crinkle of the paper on the exam table and the happy tickles from the jolly Russian doctor distracted him from his fear. He laughed! Soon the exam was over and we were on our way back to our temporary apartment. Ever closer to home.
Two years have passed since that day, but I remain forever changed. Forever changed for having witnessed the inner turmoil of a child scared and alone. My husband and I were there with him of course, but oh how little Arie knew of us. He called us Mama and Papa, yet had no way to know what those names truly meant. He didn’t know we were going to be with him forever; to him we might have been two more faces in his ever changing sea of caregivers.
Today Arie knows exactly what Mama and Papa mean. He knows we are forever. He knows he is safe and secure. Just this morning I took him to the dentist and rather than wail in terror as he did at first, he climbed into the dental chair and laid back without hesitation. He giggled as the hygienist “tickled” his teeth with raspberry flavored toothpaste, glancing occasionally in my direction with a goofy grin.
These days when he is scared, Arie searches out my comfort. A normal action for most kids; a milestone for those who have had a lonely start like his. In the night, if he wakes up in the dark he cries out for me and my husband. Those suppressed whimpers we heard at the Moscow hospital have been replaced with loud cries for help. Where my foreign words formerly provided him with little relief, my simple presence is now his favorite comfort. He falls against my chest; the sound of my heart and the whisper of my voice quiet his wailing. He sighs deeply and snuggles in.
This is adoption. This is a picture of redemption. This is something that was lost, found. Broken, put back together. Injured, healed.
Adoption is not easy. Not for the child, not for the parents. When I say that I have been forever changed, I mean it. My eyes have been opened to a world I would rather have not seen. I know that today there are thousands of children just like my son who wait. Hundreds, at least, who have been brought to hospitals not by new parents and not for a simple visa exam, but by a nanny or caregiver- maybe known, maybe not- sick or for surgery or an extended stay.
The caregiver will leave when her shift is over and a new one take her place. Or maybe not. Maybe the child will be left alone, under the care of nurses and doctors who have to check his chart to remember his name. They do their best, I know it- those caregivers and medical staff- but they are not Mom. They are not the one he really needs to walk him through his fear. Not the ones to hold him in his time of need.
We do not adopt out of obligation or sympathy. We adopt because we long to hold the hand of the one who needs us. Because every child deserves to know the love of a family. We adopt because we were made to live for more than ourselves. Because we know what it means to be redeemed. We adopt because in Christ we know what it is to have been chosen.
We love because he first loved us.
Do you have more love to give?
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Jillian Burden is still adjusting to this beautiful thing called motherhood; she and her husband are parents to a son by way of a Russian adoption. While her belly might not have expanded, her heart and her faith sure grew as her family did! You can read about this soul stretching journey to parenthood on her blog.
Caitlin has been married to her high school love for 10 years. God placed adoption on her heart at a young age. Caitlin and Brad have two biological children and they brought their youngest home from the Guangdong Province of Chine in 2013. Caitlin works part time as a pediatric occupational therapist. She views this career path as God’s design toward orphan care in her life. She is excited to serve with The Sparrow Fund on their mission trip later this year. Caitlin blogs, but not nearly as often as she would like at Fortunate Blessings
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