Adoption - The Rest of My Brother Story

As usual, when I write a post in which I feel I am completely undressing my heart publicly, I get an overwhelming response.  And I am undone.  Again and again.  His grace and His glory shine in the  vulnerable places...

Some of you would like to know more of the adoption story because you're on your own journey of Big Questions.  I will gladly share more of mine!

This little-brother-by-choice went off on his own.  He sought and found his birth mother, but that didn't work out in a way that anyone desired.  Understandably.  I grieved that she would feel she had failed her son twice.  I wish I could find her and tell her about grace.

We rarely knew where he was.  The nature of his disability is that it's very hard for him to hold down a job or function as a normal adult so he lives a transient life.  Because he's quite childlike, he's easily led.  This got him into trouble before and was the thing I dreaded most--that and the possibility he might be preyed upon by perverts.

Many nights I would lie awake and wonder where he was.  Alive or dead?  Hungry?  Safe?  I remember one night in particular...I could not sleep and tried to lift all my anxious thoughts in prayer.  I imagine that it reached the Father's ears in a cacophony of anxiety and fear mixed with genuine love.  I'm so grateful that He blows away the chaff of unbelief and gets to the heart of the longing.

The next day I got a phone call from my brother.  He was so excited to tell me how he'd been hitch-hiking in the middle of the night (that didn't calm my anxiety one bit!) and how the soles of his boots had fallen off and he was walking barefoot.  A trucker stopped to pick him up (my unbelieving heart leaped in fear again).  This trucker took him to a store (in the middle of the night?) and bought him new boots and a warm jacket.  Then he took him to KFC for a hot meal.  According to my brother, this man then "disappeared".  He was so excited about his new coat and boots--he hadn't a second thought for the mystery.  I could barely breathe and I certainly couldn't contain the flow of tears.  Man or angel, I know not.  This I do know:  my Father heard my prayers and He really, really wanted me to know that my love is but a drop in the ocean of His compassion!  I can trust Him to care for and watch over my broken brother.

I had a lot more peace about him after this.  My prayers held more faith and less fear.  I'm also very grateful that he calls from time-to-time.  Someone lets him use their phone to call and I get to hear his voice and have a general idea of his location.

In the summer of 2008 we were holidaying in the area where he was living.  I knew he had a job as a dishwasher in a road house.  I prayed he would call and he did so we made a plan to connect.  I wasn't absolutely sure he'd be there, but as we pulled into a dusty parking lot by a derelict road house, I saw a fellow that must be my brother.  He ran sobbing into my arms.  The emaciated, toothless, unwashed body held the heart of my little-boy brother seeking comfort.  Our tears mingled and that dusty corner became holy ground while my kids looked on in wonder.

We broke bread together in the road house.  A surreal experience.  It was a place unlike any other in which I'd ever eaten--I felt as though we were literally glowing in the dark.  I tried to absorb the fact that this man was the brother I hadn't seen for eighteen years.  All the while being mother to three kids who were trying to sort out this experience.  Was this man who looked unlike any they'd ever met really their uncle?  Why didn't he have teeth?  They tried to be polite and look away when he laughed in all the wrong places and talked way too loudly, but mostly they stared.  And he was delighted!  Delighted to be hosting his family.  He wanted to tell everyone I was his sister and he was an uncle and...and my heart ached because we all need to belong to somebody.

He was especially proud to introduce me to one of the waitresses.  Her face and her eyes were far older than her years.  She was tough, yet when she looked at my brother there was a motherly tenderness.  As she refilled my coffee cup, she rasped into my ear that she was happy to meet me and that I shouldn't worry as she was looking out for him.  I stopped to hug her long and hard when I left.

I could hardly stand to leave.  I longed to fatten him, put him in a shower, give him clean clothes...but he'd refused that kind of help.  I had to let go, recognize that I am not his rescuer.  Place him in the hands of my Father.  Trust.  And give thanks for mysterious truck drivers, crusty waitresses, "some guy" who's letting him stay in a cabin, for the knack he has with small engines, for a welfare system that does help those who simply cannot, for random phone calls, and most of all for a Father who never abandons the helpless.

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

Adopted

I was five when a baby boy was delivered to our door and I became big sister again.  I remember that day--so much excitement for a little girl.  I'd enjoyed our visits with the social worker and tried hard to appear the kind of girl that would make a good big sister.  Apparently, I had succeeded and now this squalling bundle was ours.  To keep!  He was ours and we were his.

Squall, he did!  A lot. There were some nasty marks on his little body too, not placed by love.  Everything about him called my fledgling feminine heart to nurture.  I loved him fiercely.  Surely enough loving nurture would heal it all.  That's what they told families in the early '70s.  Treat him like you treat your own and all will be well.

Of course, it became obvious before too long that this wasn't quite true--what could you do but keep on trying?   It was almost twenty years before adoption records were opened, testing done, and we learned new words like "fetal alcohol syndrome".  Too late for much intervention; small comfort that there was an explanation.

Now this boy was a man though his body contained a mind that had not properly developed to adulthood.  He carried our family name--a rare and unusual name in Canada--out into the world...and into the news.  The day I received the news was the only time in my life that I have literally wailed in anguish of heart.  I could not hold it in though others tried desperately to shush me.  All the years of trying.  All the grief over a child who didn't choose, but had a teen barely old enough to manage her own life devastate his with drug use. The pain had multiplied, reaching out to ravage others.

I was also ashamed.  That name in the news?  It was my name.  I was ashamed and at the same time ashamed of being ashamed.  My brave parents had bestowed their good name on a child in an act of love and it had been tarnished.  Rather publicly.  

I never think of this without thinking of the Good Name I've been given.  The Name that is above all names, granted to me with reckless abandon, without hesitation, with a furious love.  He adopted me, He chose me, and made me His own.  I am a child of God and I wear the name Christian.

This too has been awkward, as it associates me with those who claim the same name, but have used it to wreak war, havoc, and judgement.  I've barely done the name justice...  If He was unafraid to share His good name with the likes of me, what shall I do with it?  

Boldly declare that He is a God of fantastic love that embraces the weak and imperfect...  

Humbly extend the grace of His love that can never be earned, but is generously given...

Pray for those wounded by lies about His beautiful character...  

Seek opportunities to repair the breach. .. 

Be consumed by that Love.

So you have not received a spirit that makes you fearful slaves. 

Instead, you received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. 

Now we call him, “Abba, Father.”

Romans 8:15

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us,

that we should be called children of God!  And that is what we are!

1 John 3:1

I will be a Father to you,

and you will be my sons and daughters, says the Lord Almighty.

2 Corinthians 6:17-18

Mother's Day can be Muddled

I'm having a pretty stellar Mother's Day.  I had coffee in bed (albeit in a slightly sticky mug--perhaps some sloshed on the way to my room?), beautiful roses, and a lovely hike (children complaining loud and long and clear most of the way!).

They haven't all been so fine...it took a few years for my husband to catch on to the whole holiday and I'd cry and feel sorry for myself.  Never mind the years when all three preschoolers would be wailing and pooping and I'd think the best Mother's Day gift would be a break from them all!

I can't celebrate the day without thinking of my friends who aren't mothers because their bodies just wouldn't cooperate--I long to reassure them that they are not "less than."  I want them to know that the beauty and nurture they carry for everyone around them is what we're really celebrating.

I think about my friend who simply hates it all because her relationship with her mother is so...smashed and wrecked beyond hope of anything short of a miracle.  I know her story is extreme and that many others simply struggle with a quieter sadness that their parent/child relationship isn't what they'd like it to be.

Mother's Day is another holiday that can be kind of messy...which sort of makes sense as it involves people.

The disappointments that surround the day have something to do with the deepest longings of our hearts.  We were created to give and receive nurture and comfort...because we were created in the image and likeness of God. He is the only source of comfort for those aching places.

Jesus expressed His longing to comfort and nurture...  "How often I have wanted to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks beneath her wings, but you wouldn't let me."


Are you blocking Him out and blaming Him for your disappointment?  Or resisting the comfort He offers because you just wish it was all different?  He's the only one who can heal the broken and comfort the weary.  He has not forgotten you.

Yet Jerusalem says, "The Lord has deserted us; the Lord has forgotten us."

Never!  

Can a mother forget her nursing child?

Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?

But even if that were possible, 

I would not forget you!

See I have written your name on the palms of my hands.

One of my friends writes stuff on her hands all the time.  She never forgets if she writes it there.  I really like the idea of my Papa with the letters of my name carved on His palm.  I love knowing that His love for me is even bigger than the love I received from my mom.  I really, really love knowing that His love is so big it will make up for the places my parenting is lacking.

My name...my kids' names...your name...carved on the palms of the hands that formed the mountains, that paint the sunrises, and hung on a cross.

Matthew 23:37

Isaiah 49:15-16a

Unscripted Romance

I'm not very good explaining why Valentine's Day isn't a really big deal for me.  It usually ends up coming across as a judgement on the way others do it.  Believe me, it's not!  I've thoroughly enjoyed everyone's romantic updates on Facebook.

You see, if I'd married a man who was a crazy romantic and loved setting up secret rendezvous and writing steamy sonnets, I'm sure I'd love it!  I'm very romantic at heart.  But I didn't.

When the honeymoon was over, I needed to learn to really love the good man I married.  The committed, for better or for worse, until death do us part, on good days and bad days, kind of love.  Yes, he needed to learn to love me in ways that are meaningful to me too--but I didn't/don't get to demand that or the timetable.

It was sometime during the years when all three of the kids were preschoolers (two still in diapers) and I a sleep-deprived wreck, that I realized I felt pretty despondent about the unromantic state of our matrimony.  Actually, there were times I felt downright angry and indignant.  I was trying so hard to do all the things I was supposed to do (according to the books I'd read) to keep up my end of the deal.  I could have listed all the things he wasn't doing that I thought he should have been doing.  This included being more "romantic."  He wasn't following my script.  At all.  The script seemed so reasonable to me.  It seemed others were following it.

I was offended.

Offended.  Not ticked or annoyed.  Offended.  In the core of me resentment and a sense of self-righteousness had taken root.  It doesn't take a genius to recognize this wasn't headed in a very good direction.  I felt a little terrified and helpless.

The kindness and patience of God is abundantly obvious to me because He speaks into the turbulence of our lives.  Maybe I was just uninformed.  Maybe we just have to learn some lessons through the process.  Whatever the case, it certainly wasn't out of my own wisdom that I figured out the key.  I needed to forgive him.  Not because he said sorry.  Perhaps he hadn't done anything wrong.  I needed to forgive because through pain and disappointment I had let offense take root in my heart.

I needed to forgive him for failing to meet my expectations.

I was really and truly afraid that by letting going of my expectations maybe I was letting him off the hook...losing control...and maybe somehow losing hope of him loving me in a way that felt meaningful to me.  I felt like I was letting go of some of my rights.  In a wild and reckless bid for freedom I chose forgiveness anyway.

I never said a word to him about it, but something changed, something shifted, in our marriage that day.   What I did was set him free to love me the way that had been in his heart to love me all along.  I think it may have become less intimidating to express love to me.  I was set free to recognize his love in ways I hadn't been able to before.

He is actually very romantic--it's just not according to the script and I was missing it all when I was angry.  I couldn't receive the gifts he was trying to give to me when my hands were full of my own expectations.

I read The Five Love Languages and began to make the translation from his love language to mine.  I've learned to see the way he immediately fixes a loose handle on a pot as an expression of tenderness.  When he builds something for our home his fingers are fashioning poetry in wood.  The twinkle in his eyes now speaks volumes to me--even when he doesn't have words.  I learned to choose to express love in ways that are meaningful to him and not just instinctive to me.  We're both still learning--'til death do us part.  Why don't they make movies about stuff like that?

I've had to lay down my expectations again and again, only to discover a hundred other ways he loves me.  Roses may not be delivered today because the calendar says he must or because I've badgered him into it, but someday when his heart tells him I need a boost he'll bring me a bouquet.  I'll feel like the luckiest woman alive.

He's a prince among men and I wouldn't trade him for anybody.

I have learned to truly love the person I married.

In fact, I'm crazy about him.

Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm.

For love is as strong as death, its jealousy as enduring as the grave.

Love flashes like fire, the brightest kind of flame.

Many waters cannot quench love, nor can rivers drown it.

If a man tried to buy love with all his wealth,

his offer would be utterly scorned.

Song of Songs 8:6-7