Your Name

To our son, the boy who was born with no name.  

No child deserves to live the first year of life without a name.  And yet, that is how your story began.  With nothing to identify you.  We are not sure why your birth mother did not name you.  Perhaps she was trying to distance her heart, not wanting to become too attached to the baby she knew she would not keep.  Or maybe she understood what a great honor it is to name a child, and was saving that as a gift for us, the ones who would adopt you.

Whatever her reasons, she could not have possibly foreseen that the adoption process would take so long.  That for nearly a year, “Baby Boy” was officially recorded on your birth certificate, social security card, and medical insurance card.  Every time I took you to the pediatrician, the nurse would open the door to the lobby, look around at the parents and children waiting there, and call out, loud enough for everyone to hear:  Baby Boy?  Sure, those two little words were benign, seemingly harmless by themselves.  But the message they communicated?  You do not belong to a family.  You are not significant enough to have a name.  You are indistinguishable from every other orphaned child in the world.  Unnamed.  Unwanted.  Unimportant.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have been further from the truth!  When that happened, I wanted to hold you close and protect you from those words and everything they meant.  I wanted to announce to everyone in that waiting room that you do have a name.  That you are wanted.  Chosen.  Loved.  It’s just that we were waiting for the legal system to catch up to what we already knew with certainty:  that you were our son.

Losing Her Mother

We are enjoying ourselves, my young daughter and me, soaking in the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air, and savoring this rare opportunity for just the two of us to be together.  I turn my back for just a second to grab something just out of reach, and when I turn around again, she is not there.  I turn every way, thinking surely she is just a few steps away, but I do not see her anywhere.  I start calling her name, not caring if other people are staring, and try not to panic.

After a few unsuccessful moments of being unable to find her, I locate a security guard to help me.  I describe her as best as I can:  4-years old, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pink sparkly dress (did it have a unicorn or a rainbow on it? I suddenly can’t remember!), flip-flops on her little feet.  He goes one way, speaking into his walkie-talkie with his colleagues, and I go the other way, calling her name, more loudly now, looking frantically in every space, around every corner, under every surface.

Ten fear-filled minutes later, I finally spot her, huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy!  I want my Mommy!  over and over again.  This young child has just endured, for ten fear-filled minutes, her worst nightmare: losing her mother.  I run to her and scoop her into my arms, where she continues weeping into my shoulder, her tears staining my shirt.  It takes a long time to console her, to assure her, Mommy’s here now.  I love you so much!  You are safe!

Reluctant Warrior

There are many roles I have chosen for myself.  Roles I love.  I am a Christ-follower, a wife, a long-time foster and adoptive mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a homeschool teacher, a neighbor, a sign-language interpreter and a blogger.  But now, for the past few months, I have had another role thrown at me: a warrior.  Being a warrior is not a role I would have chosen for myself.  I did not voluntarily sign up for this.  I am unskilled, ill-equipped, and insecure at times, but a reluctant warrior nonetheless.

When I first heard the words cancer, rare, aggressive, incurable, stage 4, I naturally felt deep fear.  Terrified at the unknown future.  How long do I have left to live?  And how long will I still feel like me?  How long will I feel well and be able to take care of myself and take care of the two youngest children that God has brought into our family through adoption?  What will the symptoms be like as they worsen and progress?  What will it feel like when I am no longer able to speak or to swallow or to breathe on my own?  What if the pain becomes excruciating?  How will I bear it?

Suddenly, it felt like this little village that is my body was being attacked, under siege by a powerful enemy, and even if I could somehow defend myself from its progression, it would only be a matter of time before this evil conqueror would eventually prevail.

Sitting in the oncologist’s office that day, I felt weak and helpless, utterly at the mercy of the cold, clinical medical technology and what it would do to me.  I felt like a victim.  No choice, no voice, no power over the limited treatment options I was being offered, nor the dreadful side effects – both temporary and permanent – that would be left in their wake.  I felt a deep emptiness inside, knowing that my season of advocating for orphaned and vulnerable children, of caring for them and loving them in my home, was over.  Now, instead of foster mom, adoptive mom, speaker, advocate, mentor – roles I was passionate about - I was forced to become “cancer patient.”  And with every bone in my body, I hated it, grieving the loss of all that I had lost.

For several weeks after receiving my diagnosis, my heart was filled with fear and dread.  Uncertainty about which direction to take.  My husband and I spent countless hours researching and discussing options, praying for wisdom, weeping in grief and worry, seeking counsel.  For weeks I lost sleep, was unable to think of anything else, and was almost completely paralyzed with anxiety.  Not only did I have a physical enemy that was attacking my bodily health, but I had a mental enemy, every bit as detrimental, that was attacking my emotional health.  I couldn’t go on like this.

Teaching Him

Please, God.  Please don’t make me do this!  Surely there is some other way.  Surely there is a solution I haven’t thought of yet.  You know me!  You know I am weak and exhausted and ill-equipped for this path.  You know I have cancer, for heaven’s sake!  God, you know I can’t do this!

And yet, despite my tear-filled tantrum, despite my reminding God of all the things He already knows, this is precisely what He is asking me to do.  He is asking me to teach my son.  At home.  We tried sending him to school where he might be able to receive the special education that he needs.  But that was not the answer.  We tried hiring a private teacher at home where his fragile health will be protected.  But that was not the answer either.  

No, I know in the depths of my heart that there is no other option for his education.  For this season, anyway, God is calling me to this task.  He is calling me to rely on, not the experts or the professionals or the “multitudes.” There is certainly a time and a place and season for those resources. But for this season, He wants me to rely on the Holy One of Israel.  He wants me to seek help from Him as I walk this path.  (Isaiah 31:1)

And the path, for me, is daunting. Since the day I met him nearly ten years ago, I have poured myself wholeheartedly into protecting him and keeping him healthy.  I have researched his complicated physical conditions and have found the very best specialists who can help him to thrive.  And it has been such a tremendous joy to see him thrive!  Every day, his vibrant personality and zeal for life simply amazes me! The fact that he is alive simply amazes me!

But his learning difficulties? His neuro-developmental disabilities? Those are way beyond me.  They defy my ability to understand.  How can I possibly teach him to read, much less to comprehend and apply what he is reading?  How can I help him memorize math facts when numbers make no sense to him? But even more frightening than the academics is the life-skills that are so essential for him to learn.  How can I possibly teach him everything he needs to know to live a productive and independent life some day?  The very thought of it overwhelms and almost paralyzes me.

When Your Bucket List Overflows

It’s cancer.  Malignant. Stage 4.  Angry and aggressive.  Rare.  Incurable.

The oncologist is speaking, and she is saying words that surely I must have heard before.  But never have I realized what ugly, vile words they are.  These words?  Describing me?  Unbelievable!

The oncologist goes on, almost apologetically, explaining that medical science doesn’t know what could have caused this terrible disease, especially since I do not have any of the usual risk factors. I am young-ish, not overweight, non-smoker, no family history.  Not even any genetic mutations or elevated tumor markers.  Well, medical science may not have clinical evidence to prove it, but secretly, I suspect the real cause.  In fact, I have suspected it for years.

I mean, the human body can only endure so much anxiety and trauma and grief and heartache, before something has got to give. Honestly, during our 20+ years of caring for some of our community’s most broken and most fragile and most needy children in our home, I have given my finite body an Olympic-worthy workout. I have demanded of my little adrenal glands, day after day, year after year that they keep producing an almost constant stream of adrenaline and cortisol, those hormones that the body needs during times of extreme stress.  How can that not eventually have an adverse effect?

Those thousands of nights when I should have been sleeping, that vital time when the body’s cells restore and rejuvenate, but instead I was keeping vigil at a child’s bedside, wondering if he or she would survive until morning.  The thousands of nights when I cried into my pillow, wondered if I  would survive until morning.  Managing countless moments of destructive behaviors, calming violent outbursts and tantrums, trying desperately to understand the hidden fears and hurts behind the rage.  Grabbing a quick granola bar or skipping meals altogether on my way out the door to yet another appointment or meeting or visit or court hearing.  The frequent worry and desperate prayers for a child’s uncertain and precarious future.  The dozens and dozens of times that I was overcome by grief, weeping for days when a flawed court system suddenly decided that a precious child who had been a part of my heart and a beloved member of our family for months or years, would not be able to stay, and I knew that life would never again be the same.

How could many years of, quite literally, laying down my life (John 15:13) for the least of these (Matthew 25:45) not eventually have an impact?  How could a lifetime of “being poured out as a drink offering” (2 Timothy 4:6) not eventually take its toll?  

Are We Willing?

“We will adopt your baby!”  We have seen the posts and read the comments.  We have seen the pictures of individuals and couples holding signs with this printed message, standing outside the clinics and at the pro-life rallies.  And while this is a well-meaning response to the recent abortion legislation and subsequent media attention, is offering to adopt her baby the right answer?  The intent is good!  Big-hearted and noble even!  But offering to adopt her baby is an overly simplistic answer to a complex and much deeper issue.

The offer itself, if anyone chooses to be so brave, will need to be an offer that is made unconditionally.  It is an offer that cannot be made with any exceptions. Not a single “if.“   Offering to adopt a child who has not yet been born is a serious consideration, a game-changing decision that could significantly affect us and the other members of our family for the rest of our lives!  

Can we honestly say that we would be willing to adopt a baby with a different ethnicity than our own?  One with special needs or who may be born with serious birth defects?  One whose birthmother has AIDS or other communicable diseases?  A baby who has already been exposed to dangerous substances that most assuredly has negatively impacted his or her brain development?  If we are unable or unwilling to adopt a child with no questions asked, then perhaps we should not be offering at all. 

Please hear me . . . I am not saying that a baby with significant special needs is ever a valid reason to have an abortion! Not at all!  But if we ourselves are unwilling or unable to raise a child with significant special needs, perhaps we should not be so quick to criticize the expectant mother who is unwilling or unable to do so either.

And let’s take a step back for a moment, so we can look at the bigger picture. While offering to adopt her baby – unconditionally and without exceptions - is certainly a valid alternative to abortion, adoption is not the only alternative.  Nor is adoption necessarily the best alternative.  Adoption can be a beautiful thing, a moment when an orphaned child and a loving family find each other, joining their hearts together for the rest of their lives.  Many of us have a story that includes adoption, and we are so, so thankful that it does!  

But adoption only tells half of the story. What we often miss is that adoption is, or at least should be, the last resort.  Adoption is the solution for when all other options have failed.   If our response to abortion is to stand up and say, “We will adopt your baby!” we are inadvertently skipping to the last resort. And when we do so, we miss entirely the other piece of the equation.  We completely overlook the mother who is carrying the baby.

The Silent Ones

We are a community of mothers who love our children powerfully and passionately. Who want and dream and envision only the best for them and their future.  And together, when we see first-hand how difficult this job of parenting can sometimes be, we stick together.  We are a tribe of warrior mamas who defend each other in the fiercest battles.  Sisters who support one another with practical resources during the most difficult seasons.  Kindred spirits who refuse to let another one fall.  We encourage one another, as often as necessary, to keep pressing on. 

Some of us have children with chronic or life-threatening health issues. The ones whose children are facing such a terrifying medical diagnosis, that we know, intuitively, that there is no way we can do this by ourselves.  And when we openly ask our community of mothers for help, the response is almost always immediate and powerful.  Neighbors bring meals.  Church leaders and family members gather to pray.  Friends wear the special t-shirt that symbolizes their esprit de corps . . . their camaraderie.  Mothers who are further along in the journey, those of us who have traveled this way before, share our experiences and hard-earned wisdom, extending a hand up to those of us who are just starting out.  We are reminded in so many ways that we are not alone.

Some of us call ourselves the lucky ones, the mamas of children with genetic disorders or developmental delays or heart defects. The ones who have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. (1)

Some of us have intentionally chosen the hard and rocky path.  We have stepped into the brokenness of foster care and adoption, opening our arms and our homes to welcome children who have been traumatized, neglected, abused, forgotten. Children with immense emotional and behavioral challenges that wreak havoc in our families.  

At the beginning, we were excited about where this journey would take us, knowing that we, too, were the lucky ones.  We just knew that we would have the incomparable privilege of watching God’s plan unfold in unexpected and miraculous ways. But now, years later, our blog posts have become fewer and fewer.  Our posts and pictures on social media are pretty much non-existent.  Once upon a time we were the most vocal, the most passionate, the biggest advocates for orphaned and vulnerable children!  But now?  Now we have become the silent ones.

Our Rescue

The outburst at school is completely unexpected, and catches his teacher by surprise.  In the whole time that he has been in her class, she has never seen him act this way before.  She knows a little about his story – about his rocky start in life, about his birth mother who was incapable of caring for him, about some of the trauma and uncertainty and upheaval that he has experienced during his childhood, about his multiple disruptions and moves during his journey through the foster care system.

Still, it’s been more than a year that he has been with his current foster family, a family who is loving and involved and who want the very best for him, and he seems to have settled in nicely there.  Where could all these sudden strong emotions be coming from?

A brief conversation with his foster mother clears up the mystery.  Yes, he fits in well with their family.  Yes, they love him passionately.  But they recently found out that everything will soon be changing.  His birth parents’ rights are going to be terminated in court, and he will be free for adoption.   While this is what he ultimately needs – unconditional love and permanency and stability -  this also means yet another move from his current foster family to an unknown adoptive family somewhere.  This will mean yet another painful, difficult, frightening transition.

He had been brave when they first started talking about it, asking questions and trying to imagine what the future might look like for him.  But he realizes that the permanent loss of his biological parents means that any hope he might have been holding out for reunification is now over.   That door is forever closed. 

And now the loss of his foster family too?  The loss of his friends and church and school and neighbors, everything that is familiar?  The fear and grief eventually came bubbling to the surface at the most inopportune time – in the middle of class! – and thus, the emotional outburst.  Everyone understands but, although they are sympathetic, there is nothing they can do to change this boy’s situation.

This child needs a family.   A family who will gently, patiently help him deal with his grief and loss.  A family who will love him as their own son, who will embrace his disability and provide him with opportunities to excel.  And now that he will soon be entering adolescence, he needs a family with a father who will walk alongside him as he navigates the tumultuous years into young adulthood.

For most of us, when we hear his story, there is a little stirring in our hearts, a spark of compassion for this boy.

We Do

Before the church service began, we could tell by the muted noises up front that it would be a special one.  Little ones dressed up in their best outfits, parents doing their best to shush them and keep them calm for just a few more minutes.  Little girls with pink bows in their hair. Baby boys with miniature suits. 

Several times a year, our church has a Child Dedication ceremony – an opportunity for parents to commit to raising their children in a godly, Bible-focused, Christ-centered home.  It’s a sweet, tender moment, a solemn vow that these parents are taking.  And for some of us, it’s a poignant reminder of our own children, and our own commitment not too long ago to raise them to know and love the Lord.

This brief ceremony is also for us, the Church Family.  The pastor asks us if we will commit to walking beside these moms and dads on their parenting journey.  If we will encourage them when the days get hard.  If we will mentor them and counsel them as they seek wisdom.  If we will pray for them and support them and partner with them along the way, doing everything within our power to help their children come to a personal relationship with Jesus.

Yes, we say, with enthusiastic agreement.  Yes, we commit to stand with these families and their beautiful young children in the days and years to come.  Yes, we promise to help them keep the vows that they have made today.  Yes, we do!

Unexpected Gift

Sometimes, when you least expect it, the extraordinary happens.  You open your hands wide to receive the gift, and find that it is more amazing, more remarkable than you could ever have imagined.  You find that you are holding something beautiful, a priceless treasure wholly undeserved.

I know, because it happened to me.

I watch this little one running down my driveway, full steam ahead, hair streaming behind her like long brown ribbons.  Her strong legs pumping with energy and enthusiasm, her back strong with confidence.  And my heart overflows with love for her.   With gratitude for this immeasurable gift.  Moments like this almost take my breath away.  I look at her, amazed, and can hardly believe that this beautiful child is mine.

Three years ago, I had no idea that when I answered the phone one winter afternoon, that my life, and the lives of our entire family, would forever be changed.  I said yes to the woman on the other end of the line, asking if I would please come to the hospital as soon as possible, because there was a baby, a precious newborn there in the plastic bassinette, waiting for a family.

Walking in the Rain

The first hint of worry about the impending storm surfaced in my heart, but I ignored it, convinced that I could weather it just fine.  After all, I was confident and capable.  It would take more than a little rain cloud to quench my faith.

The rain began, innocently enough, with tiny droplets of water, only a light mist of disappointments.  Not all that concerning.  But then the rain began in earnest, quickly drenching me completely.  A foster child so traumatized and damaged, that my very best efforts were utterly unable to help him heal.  A dreaded medical diagnosis that taught me what it means to truly fear.  A grown child who has chosen a different path, leaving me shocked and devastated, sobbing into my pillow at night, wondering what went wrong.   It wasn’t long before the light sprinkles became a steady downpour, a deluge of wind and driving rain, and I could no longer pretend that my faith was strong.

God, if You are even listening at all, why have You led me to this dark and lonely place?  My faith is so weak!  And if I’m deeply honest, I’m pretty sure I might be losing my faith altogether.  You promise that You will work all things together for good, but how can this, this downpour, be for my good?   I have cried out to You again and again to please help me be strong, and yet day after day, year after year, You remain silent.

This journey has indeed tested my faith almost to the breaking point.  I have been discouraged so many times, disappointed in myself that the trials of this journey have proven – to me and to everyone who knows me - that my faith is not very strong at all!

But what option do I have?  Give up?  Hide?  Do nothing?  Let the darkness win?  If I did that, what would I say?  Sorry, I can’t serve you today; it’s raining.  Sorry, I can see that you are drowning, but I can’t help you into the lifeboat; I’m too discouraged.  Of course not!  I think of King David who described his "downcast" soul and the tears that soaked his pillow.  Clearly he walked in the rain, and yet God called him - and equipped him - to rule an entire nation!

But how?  How can I keep loving the children the Lord has brought into our family?  How can I keep ministering to the least of these?  How can I keep serving and giving and doing?  How can I keep walking in the rain?  

Poster Child

One day you sit back and take a good look at your life, and you are overcome with gratitude.  You suddenly realize that everything is almost picture-perfect.   Your home is orderly and organized, the clutter under control.  Your children are well-behaved and happy, not perfect of course, but generally manageable.  You are happy.  You have a predictable routine, wonderful friends, enjoyable hobbies, big dreams.  You are the poster child for a comfortable, cozy life.

And so you ask yourself, innocently enough, why not?  Why not share this beautiful life with a child in need?  There are so many forgotten children who do not have a family to call their own, why not share yours?  After all, you reason, you have a lot of love in your heart.  Wouldn’t it be amazing to be able to make a difference in someone else’s life?  To give someone else an opportunity to thrive?  To give someone else hope for the future?

It is not an easy decision.  You know, in the corners of your heart, that it will be difficult.  Life-changing, even.  Of course there will be an adjustment period.  Some getting used to.  But, you tell yourself, you are a fairly intelligent, competent, confident person.  How hard could it really be? 

And secretly you think, maybe you can become the poster child for this brave new thing.  If you can do it, maybe other people - your friends, others in your church, your contacts on social media – maybe they will follow your example and be inspired to do it too!

When You Come

‘Twas a few nights after Christmas, when all through the house . . . the creatures are indeed stirring.  Every bed in the house overflows with relatives – aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents – who have traveled long distances to celebrate this holiday season.  But none of us can sleep on this not-so-silent night.  The little ones are tossing and turning and squirming fitfully in their beds, refusing to succumb to sleep.  Their wild footsteps echo off the hardwood floors in the hallways.  Their agitated cries ensure that none of us will be settling our brains for a long winter’s nap.  At least not anytime soon.

This is not exactly the image of my home and family I was hoping you would see when you come.  Just a few days earlier, we are all cleaning and sweeping and polishing in anticipation of your arrival.  We look out the window frequently, waiting for you to come.  The hour gets later, the clock ticking well past the usual bedtime.  Finally, you come!  And out in the driveway there arises such a clatter, the littles ones spring from their beds to see what is the matter.

Which is fine, just this once.  I want them to see you.  While you are here, I hope that you will get to know these precious children who are living in my home.  I want you to love them and treasure them as much as I do!  During your visit, I hope that the bonds between you and them will be formed and strengthened.  May they find in you, unconditional love and acceptance.  May they find, in your warmth and tenderness, a sense of belonging and connectedness.

The hallway soon fills with rolling suitcases and zippered jackets, excited laughter and lively conversation.  So wonderful to see you!  I’m glad you made it safely!  How was your trip?  Do you want anything to eat?  Understandably, it takes a while for everyone to settle in.

Black and White

It seemed so black and white when they asked if I could care for this little boy who had nowhere else to go.  I never thought to ask the color of his skin.  That question did not enter my mind.   All I knew was, he was a child in need of a mother, and here I was, a mother with a lot of love to give.  What else mattered?

And mostly, it hasn’t mattered.  Most days, I never give it a second thought. Occasionally, I will see a photo of the two of us together, or I will catch a glimpse of the two of us in a mirror, and it sort of takes me by surprise that we look so different – me with my milky complexion and he with his milk-chocolate brown one.  But then the moment passes, and we go back to the only thing that is truly important . . . the fact that I am his mother and he is my son.

Ever since he was a tiny baby, since the day I first met him lying in that hospital bed, I knew that I would need to care for this little boy a bit differently that I cared for my older son – my White son who is now grown.  I knew that I would need to take extra care to keep his skin well-moisturized and his black curly hair buzzed close.  But other than that, I barely noticed our differences.  I know how to love and nurture and train and teach him.  What else do I need to know?  

He is almost 8 years old now, and I am starting to realize that maybe it is not so black and white after all.  Or in truth, maybe it is more Black and White than I originally thought.  I can no longer be naïve and pretend that the color our skin, the differences in our looks, do not matter.

The Perfect Parent

Surely they are out there somewhere.  Parents who are doing a great job at being, well, parents.  They are the ones who should become foster parents.  The ones who should adopt.

A dad who comes home from work at the end of every day, excited about spending time with his kids and hearing all about the details of his wife’s day.  Who never gets distracted by the game on tv or the latest news update or the urgent emails from work.  Who always has the energy (and skill!) to tackle the home repairs, patiently teaching his eager son the tricks of the trade while doing so.  Who coaches Little League and serves as a Scout leader in his spare time.

There must be a mom, too, who never raises her voice at her children, gently training and correcting and mentoring each one according to their particular personalities and interests.  The mom whose house is always clean because she consistently uses the chore chart that she created for herself and those in her household.  Who prepares nutritious meals, patiently showing her eager daughter the way around the kitchen while doing so.  Who serves as the homeroom mother in her spare time.

Where are they, these perfect parents?  They have so much to offer a child in need!  They would be exactly the kind of parents that an orphaned child is wishing for at this very moment.  Why aren’t they signing up to become foster parents?  Why aren’t they the ones who are adopting?

What is the Question?

To be or not to be?

That is the question,

but it is not the only one.

To risk or to be safe?

To love or to withhold love?

To protect the weak or to leave them defenseless?

To open the doors to your home or to keep them closed?

To share your abundance or to accumulate it?

To share your name or to refrain from sharing?

To include or to exclude?

To walk in faith or to stand in doubt?

A little one somewhere is also asking questions.

And not hypothetical ones.

To be at risk or to be safe?

To be treasured or to be forgotten?

To be protected or to remain vulnerable?

To find an open door or to encounter closed ones?

To be filled and warm or to be cold and hungry?

To belong in a family or to be alone?

To have a name or to be a statistic?

To be included or to be isolated?

To dare to dream or to lose hope?

To be or not to be?

That is the question.