You're no good, you're no good, you're no good, baby, you're no good.

One rainy afternoon a few years ago, I gave each of my kids a puzzle to complete. Noah had picked out a Spiderman puzzle and promptly set the box before him, ready to study it. Brow furrowed, he tackled the work starting on the corners and the edges like a good left-brain thinker. Isabel, my right brained child, started with the most random pieces, singing as she worked, and when I tried to show her the box so she could be guided by it she exclaimed indignantly: "No, mami! I want to be surprised!"

I should have known then what our journey through homeschooling would be like. Isabel draws on every paper and she devours books. I can't keep the bookshelves full enough for her. Noah sees everything as a problem to be solved and categorizes the world in terms of which parts of it can be built out of Legos. She is all creativity and he is all logic.

It is not surprising that math has been a struggle in our house from the beginning. One curriculum did not challenge Noah enough, while it brought Isabel to tears of frustration daily. Finally I had to choose two different curricula, which can be challenging, but it has restored the peace and love for learning in our home.

I still have to sit with Isabel and work through the math lessons. She and I spend a good bit of time each day hunkered down over the math book, playing with manipulatives, drawing the problem out, and such. With Noah all I do is give him his work and send him away to do it. He comes back if he has a question but for the most part he only comes to show me what he did and get his many check marks.  

Which is why I was so surprised a few weeks ago when they came home from church with a little "About me" quiz in which one of the questions was: "Are you good at math?" Isabel had answered "yes" and Noah had written "no" and I was utterly confused. That is until I thought about our math journey and had an "aha" moment.

I know Isabel struggles with math and I know how discouraged many girls become about their math and science skills by the time they hit middle school. So I have been telling her day after day how good she is at math because she does not let it defeat her. My mantra to her has been: "You are good at math because you work hard at it!"

I realized that while Isabel hears this day after day, I had not told Noah he was good at math because I assumed he knew this to be the case since it comes so naturally to him. But because I did not spend as much time working with him and telling him how proud I was of his efforts, he thought he was not any good at it.

So we re-defined what "good at" means in our home. You are good at something when it comes naturally to you, but you are also good at something when you don't let it beat you, when you work at it until you master it, when you don't give up. We decided you are not only "not good" at something when you don't even attempt it.

This morning I found an article that resonated with me and with the approach we've been taking. Here is the link for the article in its entirety: http://blogs.kqed.org/mindshift/2012/11/struggle-means-learning-difference-in-eastern-and-western-cultures/

The author talks about the difference in Western and Eastern cultures' understanding of struggle.  In our culture we think of struggle as a mark of lack of skill or intelligence. If you struggle with something then you are obviously not good at it. Eastern cultures view struggle as a "predictable part of the process of learning" (Spiegel). You're supposed to struggle. Everyone struggles some time. In fact, their academic lessons are designed slightly above the pupil's skill level. They believe it builds character and emotional fortitude.

And I'm beginning to agree.

I don't think there is anything wrong with telling your children they are smart, but when it comes to academics our family does not value being intelligent as highly as we value being persistent, hard working, teachable, and giving your best effort. A child who is willing to work hard and do their best, even if the work is difficult, will learn much more than a a child who is smart but refuses to do anything that does not come easily to them.

We are not filling our kids' heads with the song: "You are good at everything!," thus creating children who don't understand their limitations and have an unrealistic sense of their own selves. We are simply teaching them that just because something is hard they should not stop trying with the excuse: "I'm just not good at it." Of course our kids attempt, almost daily, to get out of something by whining: "This is haaaaarrrrrd!" I guess they expect me to say: "Oh, my darling, sweet baby, then you don't have to do it, my love" But they have learned it just does not work with this momma.

We understand that life and God will have a way to help the kids hone their interests, discover what they are particularly skilled to do, and put them in the path they should follow.  But while they are under our care, we will not put confines to their potential and dreams by pigeonholing them into only pursuing what is naturally easy for them to do. 

The Lonely

*Linking with Lisa-Jo for Five Minute Friday. You have five minutes to write. Period.*

We hear people tell us how big a heart we have for having adopted. How unselfish we are and how lucky our children are to have us. 

Sometimes I try to set them straight. Sometimes I just shake my head. 

But always, I remember this…

Because we have learned to seek God’s wisdom no matter how obvious the choice may seem, when the call came that a baby girl needed a momma and a daddy, as much as our hearts thumped wildly inside of our chests, we asked for a day to pray. To ask for 24 hours was tortuous when all we wanted was to run out to get her. 

But we did. 

And we prayed. 

And as I laid face-down in the room that would eventually become the nursery, I cried out for wisdom and courage to become what I had been dreaming of becoming for several years: a mom. 

I opened my Bible to my favorite book and my eyes fell quickly on these verses:

“Father to the fatherless, defender of widows- this is God, whose dwelling is holy. God places the lonely in families; he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy” (Psalm 68:5-6, NLT).

I felt the answer wash over me.

Yes, there was a fatherless baby girl. Yes, God was lovingly caring for her life through the adoption agency. And yes, this would be our baby. But you see, the reason we are not saints with big hearts, unselfish people who just wanted to help someone is because the ones who needed most desperately to be placed in a family, the lonely ones the verses speak of…that was us, not her. 

Isabel, the tooth, and the widow's mite.

A few days ago Isabel lost a tooth. After her daddy pulled it out and after the tears were dried her first words were: “The Toothfairy is coming tonight!” Then carefully, so so carefully, Isabel put the miniscule tooth into a red, Chinese box with a mirror that probably used to contain a fancy lipstick once upon a while. She snapped it sealed and placed it under her pillow. She fell asleep with her whole torso over that pillow, protecting her treasure fiercely.

And the Toothfairy came. This sneaky fairy tip-toed into Isabel’s room a few hours past the kids’ bedtime to do the job only the Toothfairy can do (or the little white mouse, if you live south of the Texas-Mexico border): to buy the long-wiggled, expectantly-yanked-every-few-days tooth. The exchange rate these days at our house is one crisp dollar bill for one white and tiny pearl. The Toothfairy had to pull and prod and, being careful not to wake her up, take out the little red box, and make the exchange. 

The next morning she ran, hopped, and skipped to our bedroom at a ridiculously early hour, a memory of Christmas morning all over again, with her little red box and more money inside it than a six year old knows what to do with. “Mami! It’s gone! My tooth is gone! And I got a dollar! I got a dollar!” Precious booty to a little girl who does not yet get an allowance and whose parents don’t tend to buy toys beyond Christmas and birthdays. 

Last year I bought her a three-piece piggy bank. It’s shaped like the letters A, B, and C connected, and each letter is a compartment. The A is for giving. This is the money she takes to church each week for Jesus. The B is for saving for bigger items she may want to buy. The C is for spending and this one is usually empty as the concept of “now” trumps the concept of “later” almost every time. 

As we sat at breakfast in the kitchen the morning after she became richer by a dollar I asked her to put her dollar into one of the three compartments so she would not lose it. Without hesitation she said she wanted to put it into the “Jesus” one. Eyes wide I asked: “The WHOLE dollar?” She nodded earnestly and happily. Because I am logical, thrifty, and practical, I offered to exchange her dollar for four quarters. “That way you can put a little into each box,” I suggested. Because she is generous, trusting, and much more obedient than I, she declined. “I want to give the whole dollar to Jesus!” she said. And pride and tenderness spilled out of my eyes. And just a few days before we had discussed our character trait for the month of April and its accompanying verse: generosity as found in 2 Corinthians 9:7

“God loves a cheerful giver”

And she embodies it. Like the little widow who put all she had into the coffers of the temple, so this child gave not from what was left after she bought her new toy, but the whole of her prize, everything she owned. She gave believing she would not lack and out of gratitude for the blessing itself rather than for what the blessing would bring her.  

And I don’t give like that. Ever. I tell myself I give sacrificially as I rationalize how little to give, as I add and subtract, re-arrange the numbers one more time, and frown over pennies and nickels. And when Jesus calls me to give just a little more of my money, my time, my energy, my resources, I grumble and complain and ask “Don’t I give enough already?” 

My children bring me great happiness every day. But every day they also teach me. And they partner with God to point out to me where my faith is lacking, where it’s little. I am the one who chooses the trait of the month for Isabel and Noah to learn to live out. I am the one who chooses the scripture that accompanies it. I am the one who explains it to them. 

Yet they are the ones who model it for me.

When you are six...

When you are six, you may be a little shy around grown-ups and everyone would understand. When you’re Isabel, you will learn their first names so you can scream at them joyously “Hi, Ms. Rose! Hi, Mr. Peter!” and steal their hearts in the process.

When you are six and you have a play date, your friends may dress up, or play dolls, or draw, or even build a fort. When you’re Isabel a small gathering will surely turn into a wild dance party, conga-line included.

When you are six, you may love to sing the songs you hear on the radio at the top of your lungs. When you’re Isabel you will sing all day long, about all kinds of things, with made up music and made up words. And you will expect everyone else to know and sing along to the newest song you’ve invented. And you will despair and huff because your silly family cannot learn their part quickly enough.

When you are six, you may prefer to go to MacDonald’s for your birthday lunch so you can play in the playground, or to Chuck-E-Cheese to see the giant mouse, or even to a pizza place where they sell your favorite toppings. When you’re Isabel, you will choose to go to the Japanese place, where they cook on the table because there’s fire and volcanoes made out of onions, and the chef likes to scare little children into giggles.

When you are six you may be glad to see visitors come to your door, especially if they bring little children to play with you. When you’re Isabel you will assign a theme song to each person that darkens our door to show them just how glad you are to see them.

When you are six you may be compassionate and sensitive and tender-hearted. When you’re Isabel you will cry at the thought of one day leaving your family and growing up, you will pray every night for God to give your birthmother everything she needs and worry that she may be sad because she does not get to live with you, and you will ask the Lord to help your friend be a better sister to her siblings.

When you are six you may know about God and you may know the stories of the Bible. When you’re Isabel you will devour the tales of Jesus, you will thank him for going to the cross for you in your prayers, and you will remind the rest of your family of how He taught us to live when you witness the ugly that we can be.

When you are six you may be the most wonderful, wild, crazy, sweet, amazing little girl to your mom and dad as every child should be. When you are Isabel you are all that and you were also hoped for, prayed for, waited for, longed for, years before we had ever seen your face.

Happy birthday to my little girl who turns six today. May this year be full of wonder, happiness, and learning for you. We, your parents, love you more than you can imagine and we thank the Lord each and every day for the joy your presence brings to our lives. 

Life in A Glass House in 2011: A Year in Review

Dear friends,

This is a year in review, a virtual Christmas letter if you will, to look back at the best of 2011 in our family's life, as recorded in this blog. I'm linking with Mama Kat this week, who provided the prompt for her Writer's Workshop.

Isabel was born in January. Her birthday always stirs in me a mixture of joy, pain, and gratitude. Perhaps because of the monumental decision her birthmother made, I felt compelled to write on a topic I would rather leave to better writers, or deeper thinkers. I prefer encouragement to discord but January saw me a little braver and able to take a stand. So in honor of my children, I wrote this.  

At Christmas I was given one of my favorite gifts of all time: my first sewing machine (or musheen, as Isabel calls them). I loved it so much I named her. Sally Maria Brother. 

Had I known the grief and frustration she would cause me as I tried to learn to sew, I would have named her Child of Satan. I wrote this in February after completing my most challenging project yet: a quick-sew-but-nothing-quick-about-it, make-in-two-hours-but-it-will-really-take-you-weeks fleece jacket for Noah. 

March brought me a crisis of discontent. We had gone through yet another infertility treatment, against our will, by doctor's orders, and, as usual, it failed. So I lost all perspective and, like a whinny child, began to complain about the things I lack. Patient as always, the Lord reminded me gently of his love and provision. This is what came out of my heart that day.  

On my birthday, in April, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of being loved, thanks to the magic of Facebook which allowed so many happy wishes from so many people in such a short time. It inspired me to think about the impact I can have in someone’s day by just taking one minute out of mine and I wrote this.  

Isabel started her first season of YMCA soccer in May. She was unsure and scared but she was blessed with the most wonderful coach we’ve ever known. This gentle man deserved his own ode here.    

In June my husband and brother in-law talked me into going camping for the first time in my life. On the beach. In a tent. But the experience began on the way there with a stubborn fly inside our van. Read about it here.  

I learned a hard lesson in July. One that I needed to learn and one that was embarrassing to admit, but one that is foundational to loving my neighbor as I’ve been commanded.  

In August we joyfully announced our new paperwork pregnancy like this. I have not updated much yet for the process is boring to tell, but when we have exciting news I will shout it to the four winds (and the blog world!).

I got my feelings hurt like a silly child in September, and, after crying and pouting, I turned to the Lord for help. Here is what I learned about his compassion.  

After eight months without a working stove, in October we finally bought a new one; only to have a frustrating and scary encounter with the Sears’ collection department. But we learned about God’s mercy for us in spite of our mistakes and because of our obedience, when He intervened here.  

Half-way through the first year of officially homeschooling my children, the constant questioning about homeschooled children’s social skills finally got under my skin enough to prompt me to write this in November. You be the judge!  

After a wonderful and full year, December brought our eleventh wedding anniversary. While this has been an amazing decade as Matt’s wife, as I looked back on it, I realized our life has not become what we thought it would be. Yet, it is so much more than we ever imagined: we embody a Proverb! This one.  

Have a happy new year and may your 2012 be filled with the love of family and friends, and many blessings. Above all, may you grow deeper in your relationship with Christ and, if you don't yet know him, may you come to know him and love him as He loves you. 

The Johnson clan.

The Eye of the Beholder

Joining with Lisa-Jo on her (slightly longer than) Five Minute Friday for: Beauty.

Is beauty really in the eye of the beholder?

On a bad hair day, when my curls won’t stay, when the make-up no longer glides smoothly on less-than-firm eyelids, when the skin does not glow like it used to, she looks at me while I try to work magic in front of the mirror feeling less than successful, and she exclaims with admiration I cannot understand:

You are so beautiful!

She observes me, she imitates me, she marvels at me. She wants to look like me, smell like me, dress like me. She asks to borrow my perfume, my jewelry, my shoes.

I am the princess in her fairy tales, Beauty and Cinderella, the belle of her ball.

And I believe her.

In her eyes I’m beautiful. She doesn’t know about perfect weight, perfect features, perfect hair. She loves me and her love transforms me into the lovely creature she thinks I am.   

And she has changed me.

I no longer complain about my hair.

She is listening.

I no longer fuss about my weight.

She is watching.

I no longer berate my features.

I want to teach her the One who made us both makes no mistakes.

I know this awe I inspire in her won’t last forever. She is only five. But for now, I don’t have to look in the mirror to see beauty reflected back at me.

I just look into her eyes.

A Proper Welcome!

Linking up with Lisa-Jo for her Five Minutes Friday.

How do you welcome a dream? How do you express the long wait, the deep longing, the desperation of thinking this day would never come? How do you show the deep gratitude and appreciation for the gift you were just given and the way it changed your life?

With the help of your friends and with seven different baby showers, of course!

The phone rang on a Tuesday. She was two months old, healthy, and in need of a family. Were we ready? We asked for a day to seek His wisdom; He said Of Course! We said Yes, yes, yes!

But we had nothing. We were ready but not prepared. So the community of our loved ones and friends rallied around us. They had been walking this journey with us. They had been praying and hoping and waiting just as long. They had been expecting this call with us and, when it finally  came, they rejoiced and celebrated with us. But they did more than just declare Congratulations!

They moved to action. So…

Baby shower #1: from my work.

Baby shower #2: from my students

Baby shower #3: from my department

Baby shower #4: from another group of students

Baby shower #5: from our church

Baby shower #6: from my family

Baby shower #7: from Matt’s family

By the time we were done our house looked like this:

This was everyone’s baby. Impatiently expected by a mob, dearly loved by a crowd, warmly welcomed by a community.

It really does take a village to raise and to welcome a child. And we never forgot the blessings of this homecoming that surrounded us with such generosity.

A House for S.

The other night Isabel, Noah and I were taking turns praying before I put them to bed. When it was Isabel’s turn she surprised me with this prayer:

“- Lord, be with S. and take care of her, because she could not take care of Noah and me.”

This came out of the blue, for we had not talked about her birthmother in a while. Wondering what was going through her mind I echoed her prayer in mine and lifted S.’s well being to the Lord.

When we said “amen” I braced for what I knew was coming.

“-Mami, why could S. not take care of us?”

“-Well, baby, because S. did not have a job or a house or any money and babies need a lot of things.”

“-Do you know where she lives?”

“-No, I don’t know where she is now.”

A few seconds of thoughtful quietness while I waited to see if there was more.

“-I am sad that S. does not have a house.”

“-I know, baby, so am I. Maybe we can pray that God gives S. a place to live.”

Something in the look on her face made me continue,

“-Now, you know that even if S. ever gets a house and a job you will not go live with her, right? I am your mommy and you are my baby, and we are a family so we will always live together.”

“-Why can I not go live with her?”

Gulp, swallow, illogical terror gripping me.

“-Well, do you want to go live with her?”

Shaking of the head no, eyes wide open. Terror gripping her?

“-That’s why. Because this is your home. And we are your family. But I’ll tell you what: when you are bigger, way bigger, big like mami, if you want to, maybe we can try to find her.”

No answer. Maybe too much just yet. But I did pray once more, out loud, for her sake.

“-Lord, please help S. know that the babies she had in her belly and loved but could not care for are doing well. That they have a mommy and a daddy that love them and that they are happy in their families.”

 Amen.

She seemed satisfied with this and went to sleep.  I think she is beginning to understand her birthmother is an unseen part of our family and a strong part of her life. There is no pain yet, no understanding of loss or broken connection. That day will come and we will deal with it when it does. In the meantime, her presence among us is that of a far-away friend that we love and remember fondly, that we pray for and hope to see one day. Like a long-lost relative of sorts.

I carry her name in my heart like a treasure and I cherish what little I know of the woman whose greatest loss became my biggest gain. One day I hope to tell her so face-to-face.

I have been asked before: “Aren’t you afraid that their birthmother will come back and try to take them?” and I have heard some say to me: “You are so lucky that the birthmother does not know where you live!” and “Aren’t you worried that the kids will not see you as their mom if they ever met her?” All comments and questions born of ignorance of the adoption process, the legal standing of adoptive parents in our state, and plenty of misconceptions.

Our adoption is closed by S’ choice. I don’t know why and I don’t even try to guess. Maybe there will come a day when I can ask her. Maybe not. But we’ll talk, we’ll pray, and we’ll grieve on her behalf for as long as it takes.

The Coach

This post was inspired by my friend Jennifer’s post who reminded me to give credit, where credit is due.

A few minutes before the game I helped her put on her mustard-yellow shirt with the eight on the back. She slipped on the black shorts and we talked about the moment the whistle would blow. I pulled back her hair while we discussed how to behave if a teammate accidentally kicked her. I secured her shin-guards and we chatted about water-breaks and the snack she would have after the game. I tied her cleats reminding her that the point is to have fun. We got in the van, all four of us, cheering as we went, excitement building, talking about kicking balls, running with the team, enjoying the first game of the season.

The team had practiced twice before this game and they were stoked as only five-year olds can be. My daughter, the lone girl in a team of boys, was ready for her debut. She would run, she would kick, she would have a blast, she said. The whistle blew and the game started. Immediately a mob of kids quickly found the hot pink ball and clustered around it, following it with little regard for the assigned goals or the different colors of their jerseys. They all just wanted a chance to make contact. Legs were intertwined, little arms flew everywhere, giggles were heard.

Except from the little girl in the mustard shirt with the number eight on the back.

She remained next to her coach, at the edge of the field, overwhelmed by the exhilaration of the other children. She grabbed his hand and would not let go.

What’s a coach to do in such a moment? Should he shake the little hand off and gently push the child forward to play? Maybe. Should he become annoyed and tell her harshly to get playing and quit being such a baby? Some would. Should he let go of her hand, leave her standing on her own and go coach the rest of the team? Possibly.

But this gentle man, this giant of a coach, did what any good father would have done. He held my little girl’s hand throughout the whole game and he chased the ball with her, followed the other kids with her, and still had her hand in his when the final whistle blew.

At one point they ran by us and I heard a snippet of their conversation. She was telling him about the boo-boo she had on her leg. He was listening seemingly enraptured by the misadventures of this five-year old.  At the end of the game I thanked him for his kindness and he told me he had one just like her at home. I hope he knows that day he made a fan of a little girl and her mother.

Isabel played four more games after that one. She went on to cluster behind that ball right along with the other children. She kicked many balls, ate many snacks with her team, giggled loudly, and received a trophy when the season was over.

Never again did she need to hold Coach G’s hand through a game. But her coach’s compassion, his infinite patience, his insight into the heart of a scared little girl built in her a confidence and a strength that carried her through that first terrifying game and brought her back for more week after week. It was a simple gesture and it was all it took. She loved the experience, loved the game, loved the coach and she asked me yesterday if she could go back in the fall.

I pray every coach she encounters takes his or her influence in these young hearts as seriously and carefully as this wonderful man does and they teach her more about life than just the skills of the sport.

Five Minute Friday: Five Years Ago.

This is linked to The Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday prompts. You write for five minutes. Period. Here is what I've got.

Five years ago this month we were pregnant with waiting. We had been for only two weeks and we had no idea how long our gestational paper period would last. We were hoping against hope for less than a year. We knew not the gender of our child. We didn’t know the color of the skin. We didn’t even know how old he or she would be when we were called to bring this baby home. We had no magic sonogram to tell us those things about the child that would be ours. We just knew the Lord knew. We just knew we were praying for this unknown child that was growing in our hearts.

Five years ago we didn’t know that within two weeks we would be called to hop in the car and drive three hours early one morning to pick up a daughter. We didn’t know, five years ago, that she was already here. She had been born last month. She was already waiting for us.

I think about who we were five years ago. We were a family of two. We ached to be a family of three. We were at a strange, unknown, limbo-like place with no end in sight. But the God who goes before us was already there, He had seen her birth, He knew the color of her eyes, He was working it all according to His will. He had plans for all three of us. Plans of hope and plans of future. And He was waiting for us when we arrived at March 10^th and a daughter was delivered to us.

A memorable date

Linking this to Mama Kat's Weekly Writers's Workshop...

June 21^st,. 

This is the day we became a family in the eyes of the law. We had been together for three months by then, but it was not until that hot June day that the state declared “The Johnsons” no longer a family of two.

The building was crowded. The faces around us were mostly long and sad. Divorce proceedings, custody battles, child-support disputes. We were dressed like the lawyers: suits, ties, high heels. But among the somber faces, the angry stares, and the desperate wringing of hands our countenance was dissonant for we could not keep a smile from our faces. 

A young couple with a small baby. A happy young couple, with a happy baby, with a smiling lawyer with easy laughter, and many hugs and kisses. Such as that we were that morning like a ray of sunshine through a cloud of rain.

We waited in the lobby, laughing, making plans, cooing the baby and passing her around. Then they called us in. Neither of us had ever been inside a courtroom. It felt so formal and so real we became serious and thoughtful. The judge looked at us with narrow eyes, studying us, as if trying to figure out what this case would be about, what new dissension and conflict would she be called to mediate. Then her eyes traveled over the dossier on her desk and she looked back at us with a broad grin on her face.

She motioned us forward, said a word or two to our lawyer and asked us to sit down. She read some preliminaries and told us how pleasant it was to do our case in the midst of a morning of strife and broken families. Next she called us to the stand…

Our lawyer had prepared us. He told us we would be witnesses in our own case. Standard procedure, he said. Technically we are suing the adoption agency for custody of Isabel, except in this case everyone wants you two to win the case. It’s just a formality, he said.

So I went up first. Like the movies, I sat on the witness stand, raised my hand, swore against perjury. I was asked my name, my age, and some biographical information. Then the judge asked:

Why do you want to be this child’s mother?

I was not prepared for that question. My throat closed and my eyes became blurry with gratitude. For what seemed like an eternity I could not speak.

How do you sum up the hope with which we filled out the paperwork for a child we had not yet met but already knew we would love? How do you explain the wistful waiting time of a paper pregnancy, preparing a wardrobe in neutral colors, imagining the hue of a pair of eyes never seen before, and the tones of a skin that was unfamiliar yet surely just as soft and sweet as that of any real or imagined baby?

How do you state in words the feelings “the call” ensued in our hearts? The joy that filled our ears as we heard the details of this angel we were being offered? The longing to jump in the car to go bring her home right then and there and having to wait two never-ending days to get to her? The heartbreak of knowing our joy would be another’s pain?

How do you answer a question that encompasses the first time our eyes met, the first time our arms held her, the first night she slept under our roof, the first moments she was our daughter?

How do you describe the strong bond, immeasurable love, incredible memories, wild protectiveness, fierce possessiveness and immense togetherness the last three months had brought to our world?

How do you put that in words? How do you define the depth of emotions that is parenthood?

Because she is ours…

That was good enough for the judge. That was good enough for the adoption agency. That was good enough for us. That was good enough for the Lord. All in agreement, papers were signed.

A little over a year later, one November morning, we did it again. The same courtroom, the same lawyer, different judge.  I would like to say it was easier this time. I thought it would be. I assumed it would be.

We are old pros. We have been there. This time no tears, just joy.

I was wrong. I knew the question was coming. I had rehearsed a more cohesive answer. One that was more complete and would do better justice to the vastness of my feelings. But I was wrong. All that came were tears of gratitude. All that came out was the same answer.

Because he is ours…

But yet again, and forever, that was reason enough.

The Person I Wish I Knew

Yesterday was Isabel’s birthday. Inevitably, my children’s birth date is a day I spend thinking and praying about the one who saw their first moments in this world and made the hard choice to let them go.

How do I thank the woman who changed my life and gave me such precious a gift I can never repay? I guess I don’t yet know the words invented to express what I feel towards her. It is so much more than gratitude, or admiration, or even indebtedness. I am a mother because she is not and I am reminded of her sacrifice every time I look my children.

One of the things we had to consider while going through the process of adoption is how open we wanted our relationship with the birthparents to be. The spectrum is wide from no contact whatsoever, to visits to your home or theirs several times a year. We thought about this long and hard. We weighed our options, the pros and the cons. We placed ourselves in the spectrum carefully and prayerfully. In the end the decision was made for us by the kids’ birthmom.

For whatever reason, S. chose not to have contact with our children.  I cannot judge her. What do I know? I’ve never been in her shoes. I choose to believe that she felt it would be easier on her pain not to know them or see them. Perhaps she had never heard of open adoptions and felt she had no other option or choice. I do know in my heart it was not a heartless act of a careless mother. From what I know of her situation, the choice of an adoption plan was a courageous one for her, meant to give her children the life she knew she could not. That’s a woman who loves her children in my book.

But adoption, as happy an event as it can be, is not all rainbows and butterflies. In adoption there is loss and, believe me, we are the ones that suffered the least.  Yes, we mourned the loss of the biological children that never were, but in the end we are parents; we have these two amazing beings that fill our lives with laughter and joy.

On the other side of the adoption triad is a woman who walked into a hospital carrying life and walked out with empty arms back to real-life, minus baby. On the other side of the adoption triad are two children who are loved by their parents but who are left with lots of painful questions that may never receive an answer and that become deeper and more thoughtful as they get older.

Isabel began asking such questions early on. I’m waiting for the day the one I dread the most will come: why didn’t she want me? Now, I know that’s not true, but how do you explain that to a little girl?

There are seasons when the questions cease for a while, and then there are seasons when adoption is all that seems to be on her mind.

A few days ago she came to me and said:

“-Mami, I saw a picture of Miss S. holding me as a baby!” (she calls her birthmom Miss S., as she calls all women in our life)

“-No, baby, we don’t have a picture of Miss S. holding you.”

“-But, mami, I saw it on the computer screen!”

Our screen saver is an ongoing slide show of pictures from our files. I realized she had seen a picture of her foster mom holding her the day they placed her in our arms.  It made me smile that her foster mom is white. Isabel still does not associate families by color as most children do at her age. This is not unusual given that there are four adoptive families in our church, all formed transracially.

“-Baby, that is not S. That is a lady that took care of you when you were little.”

“-Oh. Well, where is Miss S.?”

“-I don’t know, baby.”

“-Where does she live?”

“-I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“-Oh.” Off to play she went.

She had never before expressed a desire to see her birthmom or to know where she lives. These are shadows of things to come. How I wish I could provide her with a picture. How I wish I could see a picture. I want to know where she got her big brown eyes and her beautiful mouth. More than anything I know the feeling of belonging that I experience when I look at my mom and see the family resemblance.

There is loss in adoption and the mirror is a constant reminder. Isabel and Noah are blessed to have one another: they look like each other, they have that connection. Many adoptees do not and we can’t minimize the importance of family resemblance. Matt’s family has strong genes. There is the Johnson’s mouth, the Johnson’s hair, the Johnson’s you-name-it. When they discuss the cousins’ traits I ache for my kids who will never be part of that conversation.

No matter where I was in the openness spectrum of adoption before, I have now become an advocate for the open adoption end. What child would not benefit from more people in their lives that love them and cherish them?

There are lots of misunderstandings about open adoption out there and they mostly come from a place of lack of knowledge. Yes, there are situations where the child is best not to have a relationship with his or her birthmother. But when this is not the case, I now think that the decision about how open to make the adoption, if you have the choice, should be one that is considered carefully, with research, and with the child’s best interest in mind.

Since we did not have the choice I can only pray daily for S. and tell my children what I know about her, making sure they always know the difficult choice she made for them and how much love, pain, and selflessness is involved in that choice.

**Dear S., if you are out there, I hope someday we meet face to face. I want to thank you in person for the way you changed my life and introduce you to the two incredible human beings you brought forth. I hope you can feel our prayers; I ask God to give you a peace that your children are safe, loved, and growing to know Him and love Him.**

Don't you know?

My daughter humbles me. She has an understanding of who God is that is unadulterated by any personal agenda, any past experiences and any un-repented transgression. She takes Him at his word, with child-like trust, and believes He is exactly what she has been taught He is. No doubts, no questions, no suspicions.

Yesterday she and her little friend M. were sitting down to watch a movie while M.’s mom and I chatted in the kitchen. In an unusual move she didn’t pick a princess movie when I gave her the choice but took instead The Lion King.

I was surprised because she had not seen this movie in a while. When she was younger she had a love-hate relationship with Simba, Mufasa, and Scar. She loved, loved, loved the movie but would only watch the scary parts holding on to one of us. She would bury her face in her daddy’s chest but refuse vehemently when we asked if we should turn it off. As she got older and traded her animals-dressed-as-people stage for baby dolls, so did her taste in movies shift to princesses and fairies, and she had not asked to see Lion King in a while.

When M. found out what movie they would be watching she voiced similar concerns to those Isabel had had in the past about the story:

-“But the Lion King has Scar and Scar is scary!”

And here I was humbled. My little girl replied with a smile on her face:

-“But we don’t have to be scared. God will take care of us. Don’t you know?”

Don’t you know?

I know, don’t I? It is what I tell her when she is worried and we sing God is bigger than the boogie man. I know. It is what I say to her when she is afraid to walk from her bed to the potty in the middle of the night. I know.

Don’t I?

I know until…the doctor tells us a biological child is not likely to happen for us.

I know until… God calls me to quit my job and stay home with my children and the budget doesn’t add up.

I know until…my friend is diagnosed with terminal cancer at 15.

I know until…something happens to stir my world around and to take away from me all the illusion of control.

I know until…

…and then I don’t know. Then I panic. Then my faith slips through my fingers like water. Then it’s hard to look at someone and ask “don’t you know?”

and then...

…Isabel and Noah happen.

… a job from home happens.

…my friends’ parents reconnect with Christ in the sorrow of her loss.

…God shows up.

Over and over again. God shows up. I know. I’ve seen. I’ve experienced.

And yet, this four-year-old with seemingly no life-experience to speak of or tangible answers to prayer to show for, trusts God’s care wholeheartedly. She, who does not have volumes and volumes of journals recording all the times God has shown up; she, who doesn’t have story after story of God-ordained moments that saved the day; she, who in her short existence cannot look back and marvel at God’s constant hand over her life. She can ask confidently: “don’t you know?”

Amazing.

And humbling.

One day I will be like her.

One day maybe I will have faith like a child.