Finding E. Finding me.

It was around 12:15 p.m. on a Wednesday in February when I opened the single most important and long awaited message of my life.  I slipped into the bustling campus coffee shop to check my email and Facebook before my voice lesson.  As I opened my messages my heart stopped. “Hi my baby…” With trembling hands I clicked it. The guys sitting beside me in the computer lab must have thought I was crazy as tears began to roll down my cheeks.  Hurriedly I typed a brief message “Thank God! I don’t have time to write much now but I will write you later!” I searched the faces in the crowded room to see if I recognized any of my friends as I left. I wanted to scream, “Hey ya’ll I KNOW WHO I CAME FROM! And she STILL LOVES ME! ” There is something about amazingly life changing news that makes you just want to share it with someone and have them laugh and cry with you.  I spotted one of my best friends and ran up to her, “OH MY GOSH KAYLA MY BIRTH MOTHER JUST WROTE ME CAN YOU BELIEVE IT I FOUND HER AND THEN SHE FOUND ME!” She looked at me puzzled, “Is this good thing?” “YES!!” Then the hugging and crying commenced, “Yayyyyyyy!! I’m so happy for you!”  Thank God for friends like Kayla who love you and celebrate with you even when you are an emotional mess and don’t really make sense.

Many people ask me how I found her, and why I wanted to find her.  Well, I always wanted to find her.  I know some adoptees are older when adopted and who come from bad situations don’t always want this, but for me (and I would say a greater percentage of adoptees) there is a deep driving need to know who you are and where you came from.  If you weren’t adopted there is no possible way you can understand this, because you can’t imagine what it is like to not know who your family is.  You don’t sit and wonder where you got your big brown eyes and strange looking nose from, because you know.  My father had always told me he would take me to find her when I got older, whenever I was ready.  While I had been quite content to wait, my curiosity had been growing lately. One night while staying with my parents over the Thanksgiving holidays, I snuck downstairs and made my way to the fireproof box which held all of my adoption papers.  After a few minutes of sifting through the files (and hoping my mom wouldn’t walk in and ask me why I was sitting in her closet) there was the little pink rectangular birth certificate which had her name on it.  I put the rest of the papers back and nonchalantly made my way through the living room and up the stairs to my awaiting laptop.  I sat there for a minute turning the card over in my hands. Now what?  I don’t know about you, but when I ever I want to find out about somebody I Facebook stalk them.(Admit it—you do it too).  I typed the name in the search bar and waited. Then, voilà two names popped up. The first one I knew I had to be her. She lived in Venezuela, she was the right age, and most importantly she looked like me. The second name that came up I assumed was her mother.  They were friends and had almost the same name.  Once again I asked myself, Now what? I called my support line (aka Caleb) and talked it over with him. “She has your nose, Kate. That has to be her.” I decided that instead of writing her and taking a chance that her husband or kids or someone else who had no idea that she had had me would read it, I wrote her mother. It was pretty simple. Your basic I’m your long lost family member kind of message, “Hi my name is Katie.  I think that I might be your granddaughter.  Write me back if I’m right. K, thanx.” The next day she wrote and confirmed that she was the right one, and asked me not to write to her daughter yet.  I agreed, and for the next few weeks we wrote back and forth.  She shared with me the whole story, told me about her daughter and her family, and tried to explain to me what had led them to the decision to give me up.  It was after one of these messages that I became overwhelmed with the guilt of my birth. I had caused this family so much pain, and for me to come back now would only bring back more.  We didn’t write for a long time after that--I didn’t know what to say.  I pretty much gave up on the idea of ever knowing the woman who had sacrificed so much for me.

At Christmas I decided to tell my family what I had been up to.  I expected them to feel betrayed, unloved, and disappointed in me for doing all this behind their back.  Boy did I ever underestimate them.  If there was ever a time when my parents exemplified the love of God it was then. I was met with love and understanding, even joy and excitement at my new discovery.  They encouraged me to not give up hope of contacting her.

Then came that February day three years ago in the computer lab when she found me…

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but for me curiosity pretty much just left me really confused. I went from being really excited, to really depressed in a matter of months. I was angry and unrational.  I suddenly felt like she was trying to take the place of my real mother.  I didn’t want anything to do with her despite her constant texts and messages asking me what was wrong, and if I was ok.  I still am not sure why this happened.  At one point I even sought counseling, but stopped after the first session when the counselor stared at me in a daze and bit his finger nails the whole time—seriously?  Two things happened that brought me healing. First, I watched the movie Octoberbaby. If you have not seen this film, then I encourage you to head to your neighborhood Redbox right now and rent it.  From it, God showed me that I needed to learn to forgive—both myself and my birth mother.  The second thing that has brought me the most healing, has been talking about it.   The Lord showed me that I was not alone.  Not only did I have family and friends who loved me, but there are millions of adoptees in this world who battle with the same feelings of anger and insecurity.   I hope these blogs have blessed you as much as writing them has blessed and encouraged my heart.  Things still aren’t perfect with me and E.  I still am not to the point where I want to call her and spend hours on the phone, but when she writes now I can respond.  We can talk online every now and then. It has taken me years to finally say that I am glad that I found her.  But mostly I am thankful that God makes all things new—even me.  If you have been adopted, don’t be afraid to talk about it. And I don’t just mean admitting the fact that you are adopted, because you know that.  Explore those doors of your heart that you keep locked away before you make the decision to contact your birth family, because it will change your life.  Furthermore, I would strongly discourage you to do so before you graduate high school. That task is hard enough emotionally and mentally without having to balance two families on top of it.

May God bless you and strengthen you, and I hope you find your E too.

Putting the broken pieces back together...Part 2

In every story there are supporting characters that keep the action moving forward, and in most cases make the lead character look good. They share in the hero's quest by fighting along side them, and offering them encouragement when they want to give up. I have shared with you many of these supporting characters in my story, and in part one of this post I shared with you about my closest partner and best friend. Caleb is my Samwise Gamgee (yes, I'm a nerd, and you can get over it, K?). He has carried me up Mt. Doom more than once, and stuck beside me when I have been very low. Kate would not have made it far without Caleb, this much is true. Today you get to hear from him, as he shares with you some snippets of my story from his view of things. I hope you will be as blessed as I was hearing from him.




Excitedly I pulled up Facebook, typed in her name and pulled up one of the best pictures I could find of her.

“This is her, Mom. I think she’s Hispanic or something."
“Why do you think that?”
“She looks like it. What do you think?”
“She’s cute isn’t she, Son?”

I knew there was something different about Kate from the beginning. I picked up on the dark skin, black hair, and dark chocolate eyes. It didn’t help anything that she wore a bracelet on her arm that to me looked like rosary beads. I even asked her denomination knowing that most Central and South American Christians are Catholic, I simply added two and two together (even though I turned out to be wrong about the Catholic part!).

It wouldn’t be until later that I actually learned of her heritage and her story. It was intriguing to me. I wanted to know everything, maybe partly because I was so interested in her romantically, but mainly because though I had been friends with adoptees before, I had never come so close to someone with a story like hers, adopted from another country by a family of missionaries. She wasn’t like other adopted children I knew. She had a deep appreciation for her parents and what they had done for her. She is very patriotic. She had been back to her Venezuela and knew what type of country she could have grown up in. She was not just religious or spiritual, but she shared in a deep relationship with Christ. She was more mature in her mannerism, she was driven, had a dream and a goal that were attainable and had a plan to get there. She was not a flirty young college girl, she had never dated and was not looking for a relationship with a boy, and if one found her, it would and did take a back seat to her relationship with Christ. I learned all these things early on. She was, as I said, different. She was and is special.

One thing that has affected our relationship is her adoption. One of the first things I noticed was when I would go with her to the doctor, they'd never fail to ask, “Do you have any of this in your family history?” I remember seeing the look on her face as she would have to tell them she didn’t know because she was adopted. “That wasn’t fair!” I wanted to scream. I remember a letter she received early on from a relative in her birth family, which told her how much pain and difficulty her birth had brought to the family. Distraught doesn’t begin to explain the way she felt. What was I to do? I remember the fear in her eye and her trembling hand as she prepared to tell her family that she had gotten in contact with her birth mother. I was just there for moral support and to be a glorified tissue dispenser. I was the one who was privilege enough to go with her to meet her birth mother for the first time. I was the one who asked the questions too difficult for Kate to ask like, “Tell me about Katie’s birth father? What was it like to let her go?”

In July 2011 we went to Venezuela on a mission trip with a large church group. While there we were able to meet the rest of her family. As North Americans we view a close family relationship as parents, siblings and their children. Walking into a “welcome” party in Latin America meant the WHOLE family. There was Kate’s birth mother and her husband, their three boys, grandmother, every aunt, uncle, cousin, several friends of the family and I’m sure I missed somebody. They played games, sang songs to an acoustic guitar, gave her gifts, and took new “family photos”. It was fun, but it was a touch frightening for Kate at first. I was the one who stood beside her as they welcomed us in that night showed us to a room they had set up just for her—permanently in their home. I was the one who held her that night when she was scared and confused…

If you are married to an adoptee, then you understand what I mean when I write all of this. If you are an adoptee, you know how important you spouse is to you (or will one day mean to you). It took me while, but I finally understood: she was different. She was broken. I realized it over time. Tears swell in my eyes even as I type this. Even after being adopted, she still honestly felt abandoned. I can’t imagine what she dreamed her birth family was like. I can’t fathom how her mind envisioned the events surrounding her birth and adoption. All I can do is listen, and take note. I can hold her, but I don’t even have the ability to truthfully tell her everything will be alright.

I tried to back out of writing for her blog; after all, it’s her blog and her story, not mine. But upon her insistence, I relented. I have tried to tell pieces of her story that I most remember as one looking in from the outside, and maybe help you understand her a little better as she shares with you. I didn’t know what bit of wisdom I could offer up on adoption, I have never been in a family that adopted (prior to our marriage). As I thought about it, I came to this. If you have adopted, or if you plan to adopt, be prepared that that adoption doesn’t just have an effect on you and your child. It will also affect your whole family, and their future family. Pray for your child’s future and for their future spouse and as they grow, teach them to do the same. Pray that they will find someone who will accept them, broken pieces and all. Their future spouse will have to find broken pieces that you may never have even known were there. I think Kate’s brokenness has made her more empathetic. I wasn’t adopted, but even I had loose end and broken pieces that she helped find and heal in me.


I’m so thankful that God brought us together to share in this journey.

Putting the broken pieces back together... Part 1

In eleven days I will be celebrating my second wedding anniversary. Yes, I know, I’m still a baby and I don’t know anything about marriage beyond the “honeymoon” phase.  Maybe.  Lord knows I still have much to learn about biblically loving and respecting my husband inside the walls of marriage. One of the chief tasks I believe God gave Caleb in our relationship was to love me with His love. I know what you are thinking, “That’s biblical Kate—to love your wife Like Christ loved the church.”  This I also know, but it’s one thing to A) DO it, and B) experience it.   The love of Christ is infinitely more powerful than we give it credit for, especially when it comes to healing brokenness.  In my life, for example, God plays many roles. He set the example in my life for a Father who cares for me, providing for my needs and disciplining me when I need correction.  He is the Lover who loves me no matter what I have done or do, and accepts me by saying, “I want you.”  And He is my Savior, restoring my brokenness and healing my sin problem.

When we think of love in marriage our first thought is romance, but as so many of you know there is a deeper driving passion than that.  Let’s be real, I love him to death but my husband is not always romantic! However there has never been a moment in our marriage where I have not felt the inescapable love Christ lavished on me from my beloved. 

That’s beautiful…but what does this have to do with adoption?  Well, several things. 

As a child ages and begins to grow through the different stages of life new challenges and emotional struggles will arise—for any child this is true.  For adoptees it seems that the more life experiences you go through the more you struggle with who you are and where you came from.  I believe (next to slavation) marriage and children are the biggest life experiences that one goes through, therefore they seem to raise the most questions.  The closer I got to my wedding day the more I wanted to know my identity. As a parent knows, the love you have for your child is every bit as deep and full of healing as the love between man and wife.  This is true, and it takes a lot less effort to love your child that intensely because they are your child.  This is why it is so important to pray for the spouse that your child—especially your adopted child—will one day meet.  They will be entering your child’s life at a pivotal point. Not only that, but they aren’t going to automatically love your child the way you do.  That is a love and a union that can only come from God.   You might have shown your child that they are wanted by adopting them, but their spouse choosing them is crucial. Think about the love and acceptance you felt when you met your spouse.  When my husband asked me to marry him, it said, “I love you and only you. No matter where you came from. No matter who you are. No matter what condition you are in. I want you.” 

I doubt there is an adoptee out there that has not, or will not struggle at some point in their life with the issue of feeling unwanted.  In my case, I struggled with the fact that I was conceived in sin.  My mother was not married, and I believe sex outside of marriage is sin.  You can call me old fashioned if you want to, but not only did it hurt her emotionally to have the burden of having a child as a teenager, but I in turn also felt the brokenness and abandonment associated with her sin.   Please understand that I knew that my mother was sorry, and that she didn’t want to have to give me away but knew that was what was best. Still, I often felt like (and still do) I was simply the product of sin, not really meant to be born.  If I was meant to be, then my mommy and daddy who were happily married and loved each other very much would have been happy to have me and done anything to never have to let me go…right? You may think that the eight your old child that you adopted at a very early age doesn’t understand the logistics of the birds and the bees and what that means for how they were created, but I guarantee you that they have a deeper understanding than your biological child who probably takes their “happy beginning” for granted.  While my parents were the example of what a relationship between a man and a woman is supposed to look like, it wasn’t until I was married that I felt like I had corrected the sins of my parents by saving sex for my wedding night. I was made clean.   I no longer wore their mistake, because I broke the cycle.

When I chose Caleb and he chose me, I was choosing the man who I wanted to build a family with.  That may not sound like much, but through our children we will have a biological connection that I have never had.  My future children won’t have to feel that they were made in anything but love.  They will never have to feel unwanted, or like they were “an accident.”  (I can’t think of anything worse than a parent telling their child they were an accident! ) I know that my husband will be the wonderful biological father that I never had, and I will always fight for my children.

When we were dating, Caleb would often ask me what feelings I had about being adopted and how that influenced my life. I don’t think that anyone had ever thought to ask me that before. Most people feel that it is too sensitive a subject and don’t go into much more details than, “Wow, you were adopted? That’s great.”  I remember leaning over to him during the closing of one church service and whispering, “I want to find my mother. I really want to find her.”   As always he wrapped his arm around and said, “I’m going to help you.”  He was the first person that I called when I succeeded in this.  When I received a discouraging message back from my family, and began crying uncontrollably, he was the one that let me cry.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t try and tell me things I wanted to hear, he just held me.  When I told my parents the news, when I finally met her, when I was conflicted with a million different emotions, he was there to hold my hand. As I write this blog and have begun to heal from deep inexplainable wounds, he is my biggest supporter.

Parents, I know that you want to be the one to be there for your child during this time if they ever go through a search for their biological family.  I know you want to listen to all of their struggles and concerns about how their adoption has affected them.  But the truth is, for many adoptees (I think many of you adoptees reading this can agree) we feel a sense of guilt for even wanting to approach the issue.  I felt wrong for not being happy with just knowing my adoptive family.  Once I found my birth mother many people told me, “But you know who your real mother is, right? You aren’t going to replace her.”  Well, no.  But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to be able to identify with someone biologically.  I was so afraid in the months that followed meeting my birth mother that I was going to do what everyone told me not to do.  I say this because even though you are the ones that want to be there, your child’s future spouse is probably going to be the one that they feel more comfortable pouring their heart out to about this particular subject.  After all, in marriage God makes them one for a reason, and they will experience all of their pain together. If not a spouse, a best friend—for me they just happen to be one in the same. 

In closing, I challenge you as parents to pray that God will grant your child with a spouse who will love and accept them with the love of God.  Most importantly, teach them who Christ and encourage their relationship with them so they will be able to pick out the good guys/girls from the bad ones.   As adoptees who are yet to find a spouse, pray for the man or woman that God has created for you, and set your standards HIGH—yes, one day your prince will come!  And for those adoptees who have spouse that has lovingly accepted them the way mine has, thank God for placing them in your life, and don’t be afraid to open up and share your every fear with them. 

As I said in the beginning, the chief task God gave my husband was to “be” Christ to me and he has so wonderfully allowed the Lord to work through him in this way.  He cares and provides for me. He loves me infinitely.  And he healed the emotional brokenness of abandonment that I had been afraid to face for so long.

 

 

Sister Sister

“Is this your daughter?” the young teenage cashier asked. “No, this is my little sister,” she said with a grin.  The girl smiled out of slight embarrassment and handed us the groceries. “Have a nice day!”  I skipped out of the small grocery store behind my sister chuckling.  My sister Missy was only in her mid- twenties, and I was ten years old.  I remember thinking how much I liked that the girl thought we were related, and that my sister didn’t say anything about me being adopted...

One of my favorite things growing up was when one of my sisters would come to visit me and my parents.  Once, when I was only about five years old, my oldest sister Amy was coming home from college for a weekend visit.  I was SO excited.   While mom was working around the house, I was sitting by the window waiting for Amy's arrival. I had a plan: when I saw her car turn in the drive way I would pour both of us a glass of tea from the full pitcher that my mom had just made.  Did I mention that the pitcher was full, and I was five years old? Yeah, I think you know where this is going.  I spotted her car turning in and bounded for the kitchen.   I grabbed the glasses of ice I had already prepared and set them on the table. As I tilted the pitcher, gravity took over and sweet tea now covered the table, the floor, and me.  In walks Amy to a sea of tea, and me who stood there disapointingly with tears forming.  Plan failed.   She hugged me as I explained the way things were supposed to happen, and then helped me and mom mop up the mess. 

My sisters were 14 and 16 when I came into the Cashion family.  I immediately became their human baby doll.  The played with me, dressed me up in silly hats, took me around to all their friends at school, and yes—they got me to say bad words when my parents weren’t looking.   They patiently waited at Christmas for me to open all my gifts first, and helped me put together my new toys.  They included me in their weddings, and in all of their black Friday shopping adventures.  They made the drive to my plays, cheered me on at graduations, chatted with me at 2 am about boy problems, and stood beside me on my wedding day. Not once did they ever make me feel…adopted.  

It is one thing as an adoptee to be loved and accepted as part of the family by your parents. After all, they are the ones who picked you out and legally committed to love and care for you.  Being accepted as a sibling is so different, and in a way, a deeper love and commitment.  They don’t have to accept you.  They can treat you like Cinderella if they want to, and talk about you behind your back.  They don’t have to share their toys and adventures and special days.  All these things are privileges for us adopted kids.  I think this is especially true if you are coming into a sisterhood.  There is something unexplainable about the bond between women, and when it is a familial tie that’s even stronger.  Not only that, but when my parents set out to adopt a child, they were looking for a boy. Surprise! Here I came to join and complete the girl power that is my family (we’re up to 11 women now and I am yet to have my kids), and become a candidate for the sisterhood of Cashion women. 

I don’t think I could begin to thank or explain how much their, not just acceptance, but overwhelming welcome of love meant and means to me.

This really is something that as adopted parents you have little control over. All you can do is, raise your biological kids in love and in the Lord and pray for friendships to form, bonds to be made, and the trust of siblinghood to be developed.

I think it was a cross between this love that I had with my sisters, and the fact that we didn’t have any boys in our family, that always drove a curious desire to connect with biological siblings. Next to my birth mother (and definitely above my birth father) I always have wanted to know if I there more “kids” like me running around somewhere.   In fact I have not one, but three half-brothers! Surprise again! 

For once in my life I was the big sister.  I remember step nervously into the sea of people at the Venezuelan airport.  I was met with flowers, balloons, and three sweet boys who hugged and kissed me just like the long lost sister I was.  During our short time together we traded small conversations of mixed Spanish and English, ate meals, celebrated a birthday, and played soccer (they actually thought I was good so I know they are sweet). 

I would like to say that we have a great relationship, but unfortunately it is not more than friends.   This is not their fault.  They have written numerous cards and sent me messages of warm greetings and love.  Sometimes the things we pray and wait for the longest end up very differently once we arrive there.  Even though I had wanted to connect with my birth mother and family all my life, I wasn’t prepared for what all that would entail.   The imaginary figures you have always dreamed about become real people, with flesh and bone, feelings, and dreams of their own.  I have thought so much about the months and now becoming years that have followed finding the woman who gave me life. I felt like once I found them and had this whole other family, it was like I was on the edge of some sort of strange double life.  If I accepted this new life and family, I felt like I would be betraying the one who had supported me for 21 years.  Could I really have both?  As an introvert, there are only a handful of people that I really connect to and keep close contact with.  The idea of instantly adding 20 people to this handful was incredibly overwhelming, and caused me to shut them out altogether rather than allow them in one at a time.  All this to say, that if I could do things again I would do them very differently.  Mainly, I would get to know each person in my Venezuelan family on a one on one personal basis: beginning with my birth mother and siblings, and then moving through everyone else in the family.  I think I was and am most sad that my brothers got caught in the middle of my own personal confusion.  All they wanted was a big sister to love and accept them, and I ended up treating them like they were the adopted ones.  I acted the way I was glad my sisters didn’t act towards me.  I love each one of them so much with my heart, but my mind always wants to trip me up and stop me short of acting on it. Slowly, things are beginning to turn around, and one day I hope I can be the sister that they always dreamed of.

For the mean time, I am learning from the best.  They have been with me during every step of my adoption journey, and just lived life with me.  I couldn’t ask for anything more.

Much love to you ladies—you will always have a special piece of my heart.

 

 

The Mysterious What If

I stood in the middle of an ashen covered field and watched the brightly dressed children run from one end to the other. High up in the Andes mountains in a remote Ecuadorian village I had never felt so free and purposeful. It had been a long and tiring week, and while I was ready to go home, I wished I could do this every day. At fourteen years old I behaved more like a 30 year old woman than a teenager. I was confident and sure of myself that I knew everything (or at least almost).  This was my very first mission trip, and since my church was not participating in a trip that year, I had volunteered to go with a local neighboring church. I only knew one other girl on the team, but that didn’t matter to me because I had been waiting impatiently for years to participate.  I was always so ready to grow up! Getting on a plane with a bunch of strangers to go to a strange third world country where no one spoke my language—Sign me up! I had no idea the effect this trip would have on me once I arrived. It was my first time back in Latin America since I was small child.  As we went from village to village and worked in the different schools, I felt like every child there could have been me.  Was I really that close to having this as my life? If I had not been adopted, would I have been put in an orphanage? Or forced to work on the streets and sell candy, or pick pockets like so many of the children I was ministering to? It was this, “What if?” that caused me to feel crazy so many times in my life.  But it also drove several other unexpected things.

My fear of, “what if” caused me to grasp ever so tightly to the family who had saved me from it. As a teenager I may have been ready to go anywhere and do anything at a moment’s notice, but as child I hated the idea of leaving home. I was convinced that my family desperately needed me, and that if I left home something bad might happen. It was so much a dependence on them, as the thinking that they were depending on me.  I was afraid that if I caused too many problems they may regret adopting me.  I wanted to be something they could show off and be proud of.  Thus I became a type A perfectionist who was fiercely independent with a need to prove something.  

This was magnified in high school.  If you have ever been in a minister’s family then you know that it is like living in a glass house.  In the small corner of Georgia (where we moved at the start of my sophomore year) everyone knows everyone, and our church was the largest Baptist church in the county. I had spent most of my life homeschooled, and was very much an introvert who liked to spend hours alone in my room reading a good book. Being a new girl in high school is tough. Being a new girl at 15 in a town of a few thousand people, who is the preacher’s daughter, never been to public school before or lived in the south is a nervous breakdown waiting to happen. Can you say culture shock?  In all my craziness I found making friends difficult.   I was so different from everyone around me. The pressure was on to stay physically beautiful, maintain a 4.0, be at church every time the doors were open, and NEVER SHOW WEAKNESS. Maybe if I was perfect then people would like me.  Maybe then my parents would be proud of me and not want to give me back. What if I let them down? What I failed to see was that they were so loving that never would have crossed their minds.  My friends just wanted me to be down to earth and act like a normal teenager instead of a perfect one.

Growing up I have had many adopted friends. In those friends I have noticed that they either shared my extreme type A want to please their parents and be perfect nature, or they looked at the “what if” very differently. They saw the “what if” as “What if my birth parents really loved me and didn’t want to give me away? What if my life could have been better with them in my life? What if I could just find them and maybe feel like I belong?”  Usually I saw this manifested in a more rebellious nature, and a person who is more indifferent about things than needing to be perfect people pleasers.

In doing research for this blog I wanted to see what mental disorders adoptees get labeled with. Some traits I came across consistently were: unsocial, lack of identity, insecurity, feeling alone, withdrawal, anxiety, and even aggression. These were made worse in children who were adopted at an older age, or those whose birth mothers had been drug addicts or alcoholics.  They actually have a mental disease called Adopted Child Syndrome, a dissociative disorder which has been used as a defense for many murder trials where the accused killer was in fact adopted.

To be quite honest I don’t know that I really buy into being labeled as one thing or the other. I’m definitely not a psychiatrist, and I know that many of my own personality traits and those described above are not reflected solely in adoptees but in many other children as well.  I do believe one thing to be true. Adoption is hugely popular right now, especially among the Christian community where well known speakers and musicians speak on the subject and adopt many children as well.  I must confess though that I grow somewhat irritated when I see these with their books, and their doctorates and so on speaking for those who have been adopted. They will never know what it feels like to be labeled as “adopted,” and everything that comes with that. So many times we here from the parents and how wonderful it is to adopt and go out and get your child. That is all well and good, and I want to adopt in the future as well. We need to remember though, when you adopt that child you are permanently altering their future. Just because you put them in your family doesn’t mean that everything is instantly better for them—we aren’t pets. The future you are giving them is sure to be far better than anything they could have hoped for, but they will have pain and difficult emotional issues.   Healing takes time, and you have been given the unique role of being the stitches to their brokenness.  True forgiveness and healing, however, can only come from the Lord. This is why I believe so many “successful” adoptions still result in broken and hurting adoptees.  

 “What if” I had never been an adoptee is a future I am glad God never planned for me, and I will take whatever struggles that come with that label. I am so thankful to serve a God who remembers  even the abandoned ones.

And now for the rest of the story...

Now for the story behind UnAbandoned 7/19.  All of us have a story, but mine, as well of many of you reading this, centers on an adoption experience.  If you are like me then maybe you have also experienced a second adoption.  We will talk about this more in a moment, but right now I want to share with you my story which begins long before my birth…

Mine begins with a young teenage girl, who I hope will not mind me sharing her story (or at least what I think I know of it) because it truly is beautiful and I commend her for her faith.  The beginning is familiar to far too many girls. Hers begins in the beautiful country of Venezuela. She didn’t always have the strongest father figure in her life, and when a young man came along with smooth words she gave in to his leading. Shortly before her fifteenth birthday she learned of her pregnancy, and upon telling the father of her child this he left the scene. There she was. Alone on a scary path that (if she is anything like me) she probably wasn’t really sure how she got on.  Fortunately she was blessed with a mother who had a strong faith in the Lord, and a desire for her daughter to have a future based on more than raising a baby she couldn’t truly care for. With her daughter’s best interests in mind, they moved in with a friend of hers and her son who lived in the capitol city of Venezuela. So began a search for adoptive parents.  Somewhere along this journey the young girl came in contact with the Father, and experienced her first adoption. She was adopted by the King and became His.  No more loneliness. No more need to be ashamed. She was made clean, and redeemed. After this experience the need to find godly adoptive parents became even more crucial, and she shared this with a local pastor.

Serving in the same city was a missionary family from the United States.  They had two teenage daughters, but wanted more…Funny thing. Out of the whole story, this is probably the part that is most mysterious.  I never really learned why the couple wanted to adopt—and I never asked. I was just so glad they did, I never questioned it! They were looking to adopt a baby boy, and had begun the necessary paperwork and investigation into doing so.  Through a work than can only be described as divine, they were connected with the same pastor who knew of a young girl looking for a godly family to adopt her unborn child.  The young girl was due roughly a month later (maybe a little more), and the couple agreed to seriously commit the matter to prayer.

Two weeks following their meeting with the pastor they received a phone call from him saying that the girl had had the baby, a girl, earlier than anticipated. In her bravery, she did not want to see the child, because she knew if she saw it she wouldn’t be able to part with it.  I have not yet experienced the joy of having a child, but I can’t imagine going through the 9 months of waiting and growing close to the child inside of you and then having to distance yourself from it completely, forever. What strength that must have taken.

Here is where I entered the scene. Now I was alone. I was helpless. I was completely innocent of the circumstances surrounding my birth. I didn’t know it then, but looking back this must have been the darkest point in my story. I didn’t have a hope or a prayer, and time was running out for me to be “claimed.”

Now comes my favorite part.

This is the climax where the hero/heroine come in and save the day.  But not all heroes wear capes. If you are an adoptive parent this is the point in your story where you came in with all of your anticipation, excitement, and nervousness--not as a wannabe hero, but just looking for somebody to love.  And as the adoptee, this is the point where we are pretty much the innocent bystander looking for somebody to save us. My heroes came just in the nick of time. They came into the nursery where I laid, and the medical staff asked them “Who was going to take the baby?”  It was time for the mother and baby to be discharged, and I had nowhere to go.  They saw the need. I stole their heart (as children do). They made me theirs.

And now for the rest of the story.

The young girl left the hospital that day feeling sad and discouraged at the loss of her precious one.  But God works in mysterious ways.  Remember the friend and her son that she and her mother went to stay with in the city? Well, the son turned out to be her Boaz.  He stayed with her during her pregnancy and they became close friends.  He accepted her for who she was, where she was in one of the most difficult times of her life.  A few years later they married, and now have a beautiful family together. God showed her what a real love relationship was meant to be like, and twenty-one years later He allowed her to finally met the one she had given up so difficultly.

The family took me home and was never the same! We moved back to the US and I was able to grow up in a loving Christian home, receive a solid education, and receive the best physical and emotional care possible just as the girl had wanted. Most importantly they led me to receive my second adoption, by the same Father that took in the young girl. He also made me His, and I will never be the same.

 I have gone over this story so many times in my mind, and not a single birthday has passed where I didn’t think it.  I have been so blessed. Many adoptees will never know the back story behind their birthday that I have now become fairly familiar with. Many had to wait longer than two days for their heroes to rush in and save the day.  They can still remember the agony and longing of wanting someone to say, “You are mine.”  And so very many are still waiting…wondering…wanting.

Some will argue that adopting a child will not feel the same as having your own, and I would have to agree to a certain point.  My husband and I can’t wait to have our own children, but we have also dreamed and prayed about the day when we can be the heroes. The day when we can give a child a name, a home, and unconditional love.  I don’t about how it is for my parents, and I know many families have adopted and experienced various struggles and difficulties, but for me I don’t think I could love my family any more if I was biologically related to them.  I’m pretty sure they feel the same way. If adopting is something that you are considering or struggling with, I would say you can neither give nor receive a greater gift.  You may not think you have much to offer, but what you have is so much more than what that child does. If you are on a waitlist to adopt a child, or going through all of the red tape involved, don’t give up!  Some things are worth the wait, and “unabandoning” someone is definitely worth it. You will never be the same.

Yesterday I celebrated my twenty-third birthday…

..Tomorrow I will celebrate the twenty-third anniversary of being unabandoned. So. Thankful.

“I have called you by name, you are mine.”
-Isaiah 43:1-

Born in the USA?

It is a little known fact that one of my favorite holidays is the 4^th of July (second only to Christmas).  Around Easter I start thinking about where I can go and watch fireworks that Independence Day, and by Father’s Day I know what combo of red, white, and blue I am going to wear.  I don’t really know why I love it so much. There aren’t any gifts or big family gatherings (sometimes, but not annually).  I don’t have any immediate family currently serving in the military, though my grandfather served in WWII and will always be one of my heroes.  Something about the bright colorful fireworks against the dark summer sky, the people arrayed in the deep colors of the flag, and the spirit of the patriotic songs.  One of my favorite things to do is to go to Stone Mountain Park in Atlanta, and sit on the great big lawn to watch the laser and fireworks show.  You can take people from all walks of life and put them together there, and I promise you by the time it gets to the part of the show where “I’m Proud to Be an American” starts playing they will all be cheering and screaming.   Why? Because our patriotism unites us.  We all can celebrate freedom. We all are Americans. 

I was raised to love this country from “sea to shining sea.” I was taught to respect the flag, to honor those who serve in our military, and to appreciate liberty.   But there is something else my parents did that was so key that I hope adoptive parents who have children from other countries will take note of it.  They didn’t let me forget my Venezuelan culture.  You see Venezuela, with all of its beauty, was my past, but the United States of America is my future.   I was so blessed that my parents had served as missionaries in the country of my birth.  They didn’t have to pretend to know about it because they lived it.  In fact, if you ask the nationals there they would tell you that my father is American on the outside, but his heart beats Venezuela.   We often spoke bits and pieces of Spanish at home, and my mother cooked (still does) Venezuelan food all the time because it was one of my favorite meals.   Our home was filled with artwork and artifacts native to the people there.  They did such a fantastic job of educating me in the culture that I came from, and in turn making me feel a part of the society and country I was now a citizen of.   I would probably be the opposite of my father: on the outside I am Latina, but my hearts beats for the USA.

Just a side note on this, I don’t have time for unpatriotic people.  I have been blessed to travel to many places much poorer and restricted than we are here.  If you are just going to complain about where you live and burn flags and mock military personnel, I would like to personally put you on a plane to North Korea and let you find out if that suits you better. OK, end of soapbox!

There has never a time in my life where I didn’t want to be an American, but there have been moments when I didn’t want to be Venezuelan.   I was homeschooled through eighth grade, which basically means I was not a minority.   But when I would go to church I quickly noticed that I was: all of the other girls with their slight frames, pale skin, and blonde hair.  My hair was unruly coal black.  I was shorter than everyone else, and my frame was a little thicker.  This was the first time it began to bother me, though my father always told me I was his "Venezuelan beauty queen” (another little known fact of the day for you – Venezuela has had more Miss Universe’s than any other country).  Next came around High School when I did attend public school.  I began to have to fill out forms for various testing and college applications in which I had to choose a race. This still bothers me today when filling out forms for doctors’ offices—I may be Hispanic but does that make my anatomy different?  I grew up in a Caucasian family isn’t that close enough?  People began to ask me what I was, Mexican or mixed.  “Neither!” I would politely snap back, though many times I wanted to say, “Alien, what’s it to you?”  More recently it began to bother me when people would refer to mine and my husband’s relationship as “interracial.”  Not that “interracial couples” bother me, I just don’t like to be labeled.  Some have even asked if we will put “Caucasian” or “Hispanic” on our children’s birth certificates when they are born.   I may just put “eskimo” for the heck of it! 

The time that I most despised being Venezuelan was in the past couple of years following the reunion of my birth mother and I.  You would have thought that connecting with someone who looked like me, and wanted to bring me into a family of others who I resembled and fit in with would have made me feel better about myself, but it didn’t.  It had the exact opposite effect.  I didn’t want to see Spanish, or speak to my birth family there.  I loved taking Zumba fitness classes, but soon the Latin style music began to irritate me so much that one class I just walked out in the middle of a routine and didn’t come back.  I hated my big hips, dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes. I just wanted my fairy godmother to come along and magically turn me into Cinderella.  Then I would physically fit into the family (and the country) that my heart had belonged to my whole life.  It wasn’t worth it, nor did it make sense for me to for me to physically fit into a family that my heart had not belonged to.

Adoptees: your identity isn’t defined by your race. I feel so encouraged to think that my identity is found in Christ. It is only in Him that I found peace in this area of my life. Ultimately, my citizenship is in Heaven, and I am so far from home. I pray that you too have this same confidence. I have to constantly remember that He is the one that created me. I was fashioned on purpose by His hands, and I am His masterpiece—olive skin, curves, and all.

Please hear this all of you who are adopting/have adopted outside the US.  I never once was made to feel like an outsider by my family, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel like one sometimes.  Not one person in my family has brown eyes, dark hair, or is shorter than 5’7”.  Don’t think I didn’t notice when we would go into a grocery store and I looked more like the Latin family on aisle 3 than my Caucasian sisters.   Being raised in the US helps because it’s such a melting pot of cultures and people, and your child will love you because you love them no matter the difference in skin.  Just don’t fool yourself into thinking that it isn’t ever going to be an issue for them, because I assure you it will. 

Honor their past. Give them a future.   Celebrate being Americans.  Unless you are a Native American, then we are all immigrants in some form at some point in our history! 

Enjoy the fireworks y'all.