Let’s not sugar coat things here, adoption is scary. It can be scary to walk into the unknowns. What if this child hates me? What if this child has issues? What if this child needs more than I can give? What if it costs a lot? What if my comfortable life is never the same?
To answer all the questions: He might. She will. Yep. It will cost, time and mone, actually. And it will never be the same. But the beauty of the gospel made alive in your life, the sacrifice, the suffering, can lead you over and over again to the cross. If you let it, you will find Jesus in these places. In these terrifying unknowns. In the opening of your own. Let the darkness into the light. Let the Lord make beauty out of ashes. Will it be easy? No. Will it be worth it? I hope so. Will we ever have a normal, calm, safe home again? I can’t promise that. Will it all make sense someday? The pain and the suffering and the hard? I believe it will, in heaven.
Maybe that’s not much hope for you now. Maybe that doesn’t make you want to adopt or foster. Maybe we won’t be safe, but maybe we never really are. Maybe actually welcoming the broken into our home, leads us back to utter dependence on Christ. Maybe being in the place of suffering and pain also leads us to the place of pure, holy joy. Holy joy, within the suffering.
I’ve not admitted this to many people, but adopting an older child is just short of terrifying.
The emotions sweeping over me as I held my 25 pound four year old daughter was relief. She was safe in my arms, my baby girl. All spice and brave came through that first week as she sang songs and danced in the kitchen. Her nightdown touching the floor, she scooted chairs up to the stove to help me make eggs. Smiles a mile wide, a song in her heart, we couldn’t be more in love with that bald little head and tiny frail body. Now she could heal. Now she could live. Now she was safe. Brave doesn’t begin to touch her strong personality. Her determination and will helped her survive. Her passion and spunk, her fierce love and skeptism shone through photos, now it sat in our living room and fought me in the car. Daddy’s girl from the start, she knows the way she wants things to go. She needs purpose and reason and to make sense of all things. She’s courageous, this one. And bold. And a lot of times, she is certain she knows better than me. And I see myself in her. I’ve been told, because of her quick, sassy comebacks when she’s mad, that I’ve met my match. The thing is, I understand her. Really well. I remind myself she didn’t come from my womb, because I swear sometimes, she just makes sense to me. Her fight. Her spice. Her gentleness. Her bravery. Her kindness. Her joy.
And then two months after the spicy one came home, we held him in our arms. An even more frail six year old. Staring at us like a deer in headlights, I was more afraid than he was. All the fears came bubbling up. I’ve never had a six year old boy. What does he like? What does he need? Am I enough mom for him? Am I too much for him? What if? What now? How? Relief wasn’t overwhelming this time. Finally, I exhaled. He was home. But now what? Again, I questioned. The battle was ahead. How to parent this child who had for so long been surviving, barely, and sometimes even on his own? How to love him well when I wasn’t even sure he knew what love was. What was mom to him? Dad to him? Fear or hunger? What were we getting ourselves into? Plopping a child down right in the middle. In the middle of other trauma filled children. In the middle of a family. What was family to him anyway? In the middle of a neighborhood in America? Overwhelmed and full of fear. Quiet and hungry. Eyes wider than I could even explain. He sat, wrapped in a blanket with shirt too short and pants too long. With legs too skinny and belly too hungry. With mouth open wide, in awe of these crazy white people, perhaps? Why are they counting my fingers and toes and smelling my head? This woman wouldn’t stop crying and the man smiling, gently touched his shoulder, introducing himself again. What does it mean to have another mama and papa? After having one or two or three or more and moving on to the next? What is a family? And how does forever work?
The shell shocked, brave, skinny boy followed where we lead him. He smiled at the dog and rubbed the soft blankets on his very own bed. He was quiet. And scared. He watched. He listened. He wandered. He scolded his sister for being goofy at the table. He raised his voice and his hands in loud hallelujahs as we prayed for our first meal together. He didn’t let any food go to waste. He was learning family. Learning love. Learning boundaries. Learning a new culture. Learning new food. Learning a new language. He was sad. And grieving and slightly confused. But he was home. And we loved him. And it was hard. For both, it was hard. For all of them, it is hard. Because parenting is hard. Because life is hard. Because this world is broken. And honestly, adoption just simply isn’t the first choice. But it’s a redemptive one. For the broken. For the grieving. For the hurting world.
It’s scary and it’s hard. There is suffering and pain. There is healing and restoration. There are good days and bad days. But such is life. Such is parenting. If we didn’t have the hard, we wouldn’t understand the easy. If we didn’t have the pain, we wouldn’t understand the healing. If we didn’t have the hurting, we wouldn’t understand the joy. If we don’t experience the broken,maybe we wouldn’t understand the gospel.