Voices of Adoption, Part One

In honor of National Adoption Month, I’ve asked a few adoptive parents to share a reflection, something they’d like their communities to see, to know, about their journey in caring for foster and adopted children.  A note from the author of this post: “Adoption is complicated, full of both joy and grief, celebration and sadness. Each story is individual, uniquely its own, in the same way that we are each uniquely our own. As adoptive parents, we keep our children’s stories, protect what was entrusted to us. That can sometimes make it difficult to share the complexities of adoption with others in a way that honors the children we love. May this raise some of the awareness but also keep safe, a story that is both mine and not my own.”

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She walked in, set them down, both secured in their carseats.

Little feet reaching out past fabric and plastic, stretching beyond, announcing growth and life.

Their wide eyes looked around the room, taking in the composition of furniture and artwork, skillfully nurtured and placed to create a home.

A home that was not theirs. A home unknown.

Their watchful eyes began searching for something familiar…but everything was new.

She took them out, little hands and feet, circumspectly moving about, lifting, pulling, rolling. She talked to me, I can’t remember what she said. Maybe something about hair or skin. Black. White.

She pulled her son close. His little body relaxing into hers, touching her face with his round, trusting fingers. The familiar smell of his mother’s breath, her skin, her touch.

She pressed her lips against his head and breathed him in, trying to hold this moment, his softness, his smell, so she would never forget it. Never forget them. She kissed him and drew a breath.

Tears stung my eyes. I looked away so she wouldn’t see. My body screamed but my mouth was silent. Grief gathered in my throat, choking out sound. My eyes betrayed me.

She reached for her daughter…but baby girl moved away, making it easier to say goodbye.

How does one watch a mother break, robbed of her children, her dreams? What can a stranger offer to comfort her children who know she is gone? These are not my babies. This is not right.

I have so much and what little you have, you lose? Injustice, embodied.

Rocking, singing, stroking. I gave them all of me but it didn’t unbreak them. They cried, their eyes far away. My own children cried while my heart and my body were away. They were alone, where had their mother gone?

Pools of tears and milk. When her babies cried, my body ached, traces of milk left from my own weaned child, let down, spilled out. Milk in my breast for babies that were not mine.

Days, weeks, months, went by. By law they were hers. They were always hers. They should always have been hers. And then one day, the court said they were mine. But I knew the truth. That day we all lost something.

I see your pain. I see your courage. If I listen, I hear your tears. I cannot give what this life stole from you but I will try to keep them safe, mama. I will bring them back to you. There is enough room in the heart for us both, but you are theirs and they have always been yours.

We never break in black and white. A mother’s heart breaks the same in every color. 

My Angel Story

I was a dawdler, fully capable of making my one mile walk home from elementary school stretch into an hour or more.  I varied my route, sometimes walking a friend to her house before ambling home.  I was alone and it was all ordinary, my backpack tugging my small shoulders back.  I’d just begun descending the Big Hill, the one that initiated me into a lifelong love of adrenaline as I flew down it on my bicycle on warm summer evenings.

An old truck rumbled by and I barely saw the driver, but he was turned fully towards me.  I felt the look on his face, but I didn’t have a word for it.

I cannot describe the urgency and immediacy of the command I heard just over my left shoulder.

GO.  NOW.  RUN INTO THE TREE.  HIDE.

I did.  On the lawn beside me was an evergreen tree with thick, low branches that laid like a hoop skirt over the ground.  I ran straight for it, my backpack slapping my back with each bound.  I could hear the truck revving, speeding quickly to the base of the hill.  I ducked into the branches and huddled behind the trunk, watching with horror as the truck whipped around at the intersection and tore back up the hill, the man leaning out of his window, eyes roving, searching.  He slowed.  He looked, his head swiveling back and forth, perplexed, frustrated.

He finally gunned the gas and left.

I don’t remember how long I stayed there, I don’t remember telling anyone what had happened.  I don’t remember trying to make sense of the being who’d spoken to me and saved me from the man, whoever he was.

My heart pounds as I type; the adrenaline of the memory still has that grip on me, but alongside that, marvelous wonder.  My Angel, thank you.

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Improbable Balloon

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We’d been hiking with friends because it was in the high seventies at the end of October, and joyous clouds danced along the horizon but didn’t approach.  The tilt of the light of October; it lends some starkness, it fills up the golden and red leaves and fires them with electricity.  Everywhere I turned the light was playing with the colors.  I had to pay attention.  I left our group and wandered down by the mighty Susquehanna River, taking off my socks and shoes and rolling my jeans up to my knees, and wading out into the edge of the vastness.

I began to pray, perhaps I had been praying already, drinking in the creation afire round about me.  My face to the strong wind, the waves lapping at my legs, and that stillness found within my heart when in the wild, I closed my eyes.  Feeling the wind push me, push me; the river gently tugging, my shirt billowing behind me, I opened my eyes.

There, about 30 feet above the water, way across the wide river, was something shiny and red and moving.  My brain tried hard to understand this thing, and then, ah…a heart-shaped balloon.  Where had it come from?  Who let it loose?  Or did the strong wind pull it from a child’s wrist?  Did a lover spurn a gift, did it escape a trash can?

It was coming fast on the wind, crossing the river.  Improbably, impossibly, it descended, it rushed, and before I could ask why this should be, it was there, right beside me, pinioned on a low branch above the lapping water.  I realize it doesn’t sound like an impressive thing, but…

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…sometimes when the day is barely of earth, when it is stalked by light so enchanting that all things seem full of mystery, when you’ve just been praying…well

You cannot be blamed for feeling that God sent you a red heart balloon; that in loving mischief He wiggled it away from a somewhere, and ushered a wind to take it to astonished you.  Well, it can happen, on a day like that.

The Dishwasher’s Prayer

shortstory3She bent low, being tall

Light touched her face from the window, touched the bubbles

She was careful with the water

Don’t let it flow, don’t let it waste itself unheeded down the drain

She was careful with the soap

Dilution, always, mostly water

Shaken in the worn bottle, coaxing out suds

Your eye can see all this and then

Come, come around to the side and watch

Her lips which betray the words

Her heart is whispering to God

Have you seen eyes like that?

Seeing dishes and Heaven, at once?

Come away now

Here is every goodness at once

And we too must begin.

 

Singularity

Singularity

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It is beyond my ever-obvious limits

Lay it down, here, on the floor

Your heavy expectations- I cannot hold them

I’ve been learning, see, what my arms can hold

And what they cannot.

 

I am not you

There’s delight there, see?  Only one you, only one me

Are you not glad to be singular?

I know, I know you see all my flaws

Who doesn’t?  Yet, some are tied

And knotted, and woven, into the good, the gold.

 

He knew what a busted pot He’d chosen for His kitchen

Madam, aren’t your arms tired?

Hold your goodness; it is yours, perhaps

Discard these stones, mixed in- they are not good for you either.

There.  Good.  We can embrace now, see?

You, being you, me being me.

Memories of His Mercy- A Review

IMG_6133It can be a lonely journey.  For those of us who’ve ventured away from the warm, familiar arms of Western Christianity into the unknown, mysterious, and foreign embrace of Eastern Orthodoxy, it is a profound comfort to walk alongside fellow pilgrims.  We find parts of our story in theirs; we can co-suffer, and ,also, rejoice together as we encounter the ancient faith, it’s healing, depth, and richness.

I never met Fr. Peter Gillquist of blessed memory, but in his memoir Memories of His Mercy, Recollections of the Grace and Providence of God, I came to know this fellow pilgrim and heard his heart for His Savior and for the lost.  When he converted to Eastern Orthodoxy he brought not only himself, not only his family, but his whole church with him!  What began as his passion for understanding the early church grew into the discovery that it had never ceased to exist; that it continued to this day in uninterrupted succession.

His memoir beautifully chronicles the ways in which God met him in the journey.  One poignant example was in how God provided money for a breakfast that he and his wife were hosting for fellow Campus Crusade collegians.  The day before they had no money to purchase the needed groceries, but unexpectedly received a ten dollar bill in the mail, anonymously sent.  Again and again he recalls the big and little ways that God encouraged him and his wife Marilyn over the years as they stepped out in faith.

I resonate with how much he treasures his upbringing, his years serving as an evangelical, his experiences at Wheaton and in Campus Crusade.  Becoming Orthodox wasn’t a cessation of that, but a fulfillment.  His ministry has reached so many, and it’s easy to see that it will continue to do so through his books.  May we be encouraged by this faithful, holy, and devout man and his heart to share the gospel.