Tag Archives: adoption

What I learned from Hannah’s story

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One of our pastors told us he had done a character study about Hannah recently and came away with a renewed admiration for this woman whose story is found in 1 Samuel chapters 1 and 2 in the Bible. My daughter was named Hannah which means “grace of God” in Hebrew because of the Biblical Hannah, a woman who struggled with infertility.  I identified with Hannah because I, too, struggled for years with infertility.  There was a time when doctors said we would never be able to have children.  A sympathetic friend said “no little girl grows up thinking she won’t be able to have children.”  How true for most of us who want desperately to be mothers.  We don’t just want to have children; we want to be moms with all that comes with that most important role.

Back then, before I was a mother, I had to read Hannah’s story several times before things starting jumping out at me.  One of the first things that hit me was her vulnerability to ridicule from Peninnah, her husband Elkanah’s other wife who had birthed sons and daughters.  I remember the feeling that something was wrong with me when someone would say they were pregnant and though I was happy for them, I felt as if I were deformed or lacking because I wasn’t pregnant and couldn’t seem to get pregnant.  It hurt terribly when people made comments that included words like, “you’re not a mother, …”, “when you have children of your own…”, or those who misused God’s own words by saying something about Him withholding this blessing because of sin in my life.  I cried buckets asking God to reveal to me what I was doing wrong.  One wonderful pastor’s wife, however, would tell me “when nothing makes sense, trust Him anyway.”  (Thank you, Jan!)   Because Hannah hurt in her infertility and God showed that hurt to me in her story, I felt better through my own pain.  Somebody did know what I felt, and that somebody was mentioned in the Bible. I was so thankful that her story, my story, was there and that God felt it was important enough, that the pain of being different from other women in that so very important way, was acknowledged.  I didn’t feel so alone in my hurt.    

I was then struck by Hannah’s absolute assurance that her prayer would be answered.  When Eli mistook her for a drunken woman because he saw her lips moving as she was silently praying in the temple and she then told him she was praying, he said, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.”  What’s amazing to me is that Hannah did!  She went in peace…stopped fasting, stopped looking sad…because she believed with her whole heart that God would answer her prayer.  She didn’t know how or when or even if his answer was going to be exactly as she imagined it would be in her prayer, but she believed it would be answered and that was enough for her, immediately.  I remember thinking how in the world did you let go of something like your desire to have a child in an instant.  And then I looked deeper and realized that she, like I, needed that reminder…the reminder that God is powerful.  Why else would she pray to God if she did not believe he wanted to hear her prayer? And if she believed he wanted to hear her prayer, she had to believe he was willing to answer it.  And if she believed he was willing to answer it, she had to believe he was able to answer it.  And the only way he would be able to do that is if he is powerful to do anything, including opening the womb of a barren woman so that she could bear a child.  I started thinking big then.  I started thinking that maybe, just maybe, God had a plan for me to be a mother.  As much as I wanted to be pregnant and go through the feelings and physical experience of growing a child inside me and giving birth, I accepted that may not be his plan; I would be grateful to be an adoptive mom.

The third thing about Hannah’s story was the scariest.  As she prayed for God to give her a son, she said, “I will give him to the Lord for all the days of his life” and then when he was weaned, probably about the age of four or five, she took him to Eli and left him to be raised for God by the priest.  Now wait a minute here, I thought.  How does a mother do that?  Not the give to the Lord or be raised for God part, but the physically separating yourself from your child and only seeing him one time a year the rest of his growing up years?  Would I be able to keep that promise?   Wouldn’t I say I didn’t really mean that part, God?  Wouldn’t I want to hold my baby every chance I could get until he was a man and I knew with all my heart I had given him everything I could for eighteen years to prepare him to be a man?  How could I kiss a four or five-year old goodbye and go home, knowing I wouldn’t see him for a year?  How could I let my little one go live with someone else?  How would I be able to explain that to him as he cried when I left, or how would I be able to live with myself as I lay in my own bed and cried thinking of him missing his mama?  Lord, I prayed, I don’t understand this. 

A couple at church lost their three-year old daughter in a drowning accident at about that time.  As the mother spoke during the funeral she said something that made it clearer than clear to me.  She said something like “God gave us our baby girl and she was always his.  I’m thankful for the time we had her with us.”

And also at about that time, we were looking into adopting and I was reading the stories of birth mothers who selflessly chose to place their children with others because they cared more about the life of their child being better than what they could offer than their own desires to keep that child in hardship circumstances. 

And I realized that Hannah not only kept her word to God, but she believed in his sovereignty.  She believed with every fiber of her being that the God who had given her this son was the Almighty.  How can you not trust the Almighty to take better care of your child than even you can?  She trusted him to do just that.  That more than amazed me…I coveted that trust.

As a Christian, I believe God breathes life into every child from the moment of conception because that’s the very start of that child’s life.  Human life doesn’t begin any other way and it doesn’t start before then and though the first breath is taken after birth, the growth and development, the changes, the miracle that makes that first breath possible starts at that point.  God says every child is a gift from him and the wonderful thing about a gift is that it is from a giver.  God is the giver of our children through birth or adoption, he is powerfully able to fulfill his purpose, and his sovereignty can be trusted because he is God.    

As each child came into my life, one by adoption, two by birth, I thanked God for the gift of their little lives.  I also acknowledged that they were his and have lived knowing that they are his, only mine for the season he determines.  In all stages in their lives, from infants to now as Hannah is driving herself around town, as Sam is in the midst of war overseas, and as Aaron is living with  risk and danger, I try to trust God with my children as Hannah did.  I pray for my babies, grown up as they are, and I thank God for the privilege of adopting, the privilege of experiencing pregnancy, the privilege of giving birth, the privilege of their very being.  And daily I give thanks for the marvelous privilege of God answering my prayers and making me their mother.

In Her Place

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“Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him…”  Psalm 37:7 NIV

          She’s there.  Always.  Out of sight, yet in my mind.  Her actions have touched my life significantly, and I feel an intimate connection with her.  Sometimes I search her name on the internet, and wonder if it’s really her, or just someone who shares her name.  She holds a part of my heart that none other can, and she’s an absolute necessity to my life’s happiness.  The odds of meeting her are slim to none, yet she’s occupied a portion of my thoughts from the moment I first saw his face eighteen years ago. 

Just two days after we sat in a parking lot on our seventh anniversary listening with yearning hearts to Wayne Watson sing Watercolor Ponies and praying for the Lord’s guidance as we began our search to adopt, her son was born six weeks premature with a myriad of health problems.  It would take eighteen months of medical care, hospitalizations, foster care, and legal machinations before we’d even know he existed. 

We were called on a Friday to see if we were still interested in adopting.  Up for grabs was an eighteen-month old boy.  It had taken nine months to become certified and another nine had passed before that call.  Yes, we said, absolutely yes!

So sure were we that we’d be chosen, we spent the entire weekend stalking babies in shopping carts to inquire their ages.  We had no idea what an eighteen-month old would be like

We were competing with two other couples for this child and I wanted an edge.  I called the state agency and was amazingly put through to the director.   “The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” she said, “so give us your best squeak!”  And we did, providing a picture storybook of our immediate family, home, and pets plus a pan of brownies for the selection committee, and a large floral bouquet for the director.  Squeak!

It worked.  Our grease came in the form of a “Congratulations, you’re a new mommy and daddy!” call the following Thursday, and the next day we were taken to the foster home to meet our son.  The caseworker warned it would take six weeks for him to adapt, trust and bond enough to come home with us.  She said he was shy of strangers and not to feel bad if he didn’t come near us for a while.  She said we should be patient and not expect him to go anyplace with us for at least two weeks of daily visits so he could get used to us.

She was wrong.

The first day he crawled into our laps and laughed with us.  The second day he pushed his face to the screen door of his foster home and sobbed as we left.  The third day he readily left with us to meet his grandparents and cried piteously when we left.  Both foster mother and caseworker wrung their hands and asked how quickly we could have our pool fence completed.  It was the longest ten days of our lives!

Pure joy filled our home.  We’d smile in the mornings as we lay in bed listening to him playing with his busy box before bringing him in to cuddle with us.  Sleeping beside us, we would trace the outline of his chubby little face, smile at the cowlick on the right side of his forehead and stubborn whorl in the center of his head.  Did she have a cowlick, too?   Where did that whorl come from?

Every milestone brought her to mind and I’d journal my thoughts to her, capturing the amazement of the moment to share or questions to ask, if not in person, at least in my heart. 

Did she think about his first words or first steps?  Would she have laughed to hear him call semi trucks La-las?  Wasn’t it funny that he went to sleep when someone threw a blanket over his head?

Did anything smell better than a freshly bathed baby still damp and with water sparklets on eyelashes?  Would she ever hear the patter of a toddler in a footed sleeper?  Did she know the sheer terror of seeing an egg sized bump appear when he smacked into the edge of the chair? 

Did she have a father who would make him giggle and tumble over with laughter, like the grandpa he had now?  Would her sisters and brothers have been as doting as the aunts and uncles he had now? 

 Would she have shared his love of dinosaurs and seen the humor in heaving his stuffed pterodactyl out the window to see if it could fly when traveling 60 mph on the freeway?    Would her heart have flip-flopped joyously when he gave her the globe- shaped card proclaiming “World’s Best Mother Ever”? 

Would she have cried when the teachers reported something was different about him and gone to no less than five different physicians before agreeing to a diagnosis and treatment?  Did he get his handwriting from her?  Was rainbow sherbet also her favorite ice cream? 

Would she have taken him to church and wept for joy when he received Jesus?   Would she have thought he glowed after being baptized and sitting proudly beside the pastor on the church’s first pew?   Would she understand his need for Brown Bear when he went away from home?

Would she have jumped from the bleachers and cheered when it was his turn to bat?  Would she have smiled when he went through his first puppy love?  Would she have been shocked to find stubble growing on his chin and notice his voice getting deeper?   Did she know he could happily consume a gallon of milk a day?

Did she try drugs in high school and get caught by the dean of students hiding in the bushes across the street from the high school, too high to care that he was caught?  Had she ever struggled with schoolwork and the stigma of being in special education classes?   Would she have yelled at him and grounded him and had her heart torn in two trying to figure out a way to get through to him? 

Could she have had a better solution than agreeing with him that school wasn’t working and he should get on with his life after five years of trying to pass?  Would she have been amazed and pleased as we were when he succeeded in finding and keeping a job for almost two years?  Would she look up to him, not just for his height, but because his heart is in the right place and he’s become the fine young man that every mother wishes for?

Would she long to have him three again, or five, or even ten, but at the same time appreciate the extraordinary man he is?  Would she take every moment she could to hug and kiss him, and tell him how wonderful he is?   Would she stare at him through misty eyes and thank God for the precious gift he is in her life?

I think if things had been different for her, she would.  But because they weren’t, I’m more than thankful; I’m blessed to be the one in her place.

My story, Real, appears in Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul, March 2008.

Boris & Bluebell

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 “…for every animal of the forest is mine,  and the cattle on a thousand hills.  I know every bird in the mountains, and the creatures of the field are mine.”  Psalm 50:10-12 

             He invited himself onto our apartment patio late one summer evening as we braved the hundred-degree heat to grill steaks.

            His head was boxy, his body short and taunt, and he sported scars and oil slicks around his face, neck and back.  We called him Boris and he purred his approval as he rubbed our hands.  He made no move to leave, but rather courted us, freely sharing his affection before perching atop the picnic table, tabby tail curled politely around him, blinking golden-green eyes.

            We melted. 

Bites of steak were offered and he graciously accepted.  We offered water and, again, he accepted with purrs of thanks.  His social skills extended through dinner and beyond, as he stayed just long enough to show his appreciation, and left before the conversation stalled.  We adapted our schedule to meet his, eating on the patio in anticipation of his nightly visits.

Inside our tiny apartment lived our three pampered felines, never exposed to the dangers outdoors.  They jealously watched our visitor and inhaled his scent as we moved in and out the door.  Once he left and we settled back inside, they’d come sniffling, mouths open, ears flat, eyes squinting and breathe in as much information as their noses could hold. They’d rub where he had rubbed, reclaiming us with their own familiar scent. 

            Ours weren’t the only heads that turned the day he followed us in, neatly sidestepping the gawking, hissing creatures confounded by this brazen transgression.  We watched, wondering, waiting.  His movements seemed determined, planned, as if he knew what he was doing and meant to do it, willy-nilly.

The housecats fled to lick away their disgust in places of safety – the open closet, the bookcase headboard, and as far back on the bathroom vanity as possible.  Snarling as he approached, they hunkered in horror.

He ignored them.  He didn’t care for their approval or acceptance.  He was on a mission padding grandly from room to room, sniffing, seeking, golden-green eyes taking in everything before returning without a word to the glass door where he asked with a startlingly high-pitched mew to go back out. Amused, both by the improbable sound from this street-wise tom and by his inspection of our home, we wondered how we measured up and what would happen next.

She sailed with him, side by side, over the patio wall, landing with as much grace as her swollen belly allowed.  Blue-green eyes watched us warily, but he took his place beside her, rubbing against her then rubbing against us.  It’s okay, he seemed to say, blinking at her. 

Obviously, this was his lady.

We hastily responded, offering a can of cat food to the mother to be, not even surprised when he allowed her to eat her fill before finishing the treat.  She was loathe to have us touch her, yet submitted to a quick pet, lowering her body as close to the table as possible to avoid our hand.  Boris, however, was grateful.  A rub, a weave, a tiny mew of thanks, and they were off, over the fence, leaving us speechless and the inside cats in a frenzy of excitement. 

            We called her Bluebell.  There was something beautiful yet sorrowful about this homely white cat with gray tabby patches.

            From then, they came together each day over the patio fence, Bluebell struggling as her body grew larger.  There wasn’t a gate or we would’ve opened it, and when we offered the front door, she backed away.  The patio was the only acceptable entry, so we prepared a birthing box and left it there, not sure if she would use it, but hopeful she would.

            As we fed them one evening we were surprised when Boris pushed his paws against the glass door and began a scratch, scratch, scratch motion.  He had only been inside once and that had seemed enough.  He’d never asked to go in again. 

We opened the door and he trotted in, Bluebell wobbling beside him.  He led her to the food dish and water bowl then the litter box while we watched, open mouthed, shushing our indoor kitties that backed into corners and hissed their disdain at this new intruder. 

Bluebell sat plump in the middle of the living room with Boris beside her, his golden-green eyes finding ours and holding them steady.

We brought the birthing box inside.

Blinking his approval, rubbing through our legs, Boris went to the door, but Bluebell remained, turning her head toward him as if saying good-bye.  We let him out, stood by the door to see if she’d follow.  She stood and looked hard toward the door before waddling to the birthing box, oblivious to the protests of our own cats.   Boris leapt the patio fence, leaving his beloved safely in our care.

Four tiny kittens were born the next day.  Bluebell serenely lay back and suckled them, bathing each in turn, leaving them only to eat, drink or use the litter.  We admonished our own cats to leave them alone, but there was no need.  Bluebell was a protective mother, snarling her threats when one wandered too near.  With us, however, she was tolerant, allowing us to cuddle and stroke, pet and hold the squirming fur balls in her box.  She accepted our affection, our food, and our shelter, but her heart wasn’t in it. 

Her blue-green orbs lit only in the evenings when Boris sailed clear of the fence and landed smartly on the patio table.  She’d abandon her babies and race to the door, insisting with a shrill meow to be let out.  At first we were afraid she’d leave and never return, but her distress and agitation at seeing Boris and being unable to get to him was real, as was his.  We opened the door and were treated to the sight of lovers reunited.

They touched noses, rubbed against each other, bathed one another, shared the dish of food set out.  After fifteen minutes or so, he cleanly leapt the fence and she sat beside the door looking in.  We quickly opened it and she returned to her kittens.

Bluebell was a firm mother, not over warm, yet never nasty to her growing, rowdy children with teeth that bit nipples and claws that dug into the soft flesh of her belly.  She played with them, showed them how to lap the baby food oatmeal mixed with water and milk that we set out for them to try.  Little curtain climbers, the babies were strong, healthy, remarkably beautiful, and unlike their mother, entirely tame, seeking us out for a romp or falling asleep nestled on our shoulders or laps.  When she wanted them back in the box, she’d mmmrrrruuuppph and they’d run to her, or she’d leap upon them and grab them by their napes, dragging protesting kittens back to the box. 

Boris and Bluebell continued their nightly trysts and when the kittens were three weeks old, she began to go with him when he left, returning within the hour and asking to come back in.  It wasn’t our affection that held her, and we sensed that though we had fallen in love with her, she was merely doing what was best for her kittens.  We had been chosen to act as temporary shelter and provision in this play of life orchestrated by an urbane tom smattered with car grease and war wounds.  In a way, it was surreal.

Eyes open, eating kitten chow and spending more and more time away from their mom, the kittens prospered, blending with our cats, even enticing them into play at times.  Bluebell observed without joining in, ever maintaining her aloofness.  She spent more time with Boris now, he coming earlier, both staying away longer. We’d rub his chin and neck and he purr his gratitude for all we did, sometimes squeaking a word of thanks.  Bluebell once or twice offered a brief rub.  Her heart belonged to Boris and we knew it. Certain she’d never desert her babies, we remained comfortable letting her go, watchful for her return.

Then it happened.   

We scoured the apartment complex, put out food that remained untouched, and asked everyone if they’d seen “our” two strays.  Some recalled seeing them heading towards an empty field but couldn’t remember for certain.  We checked the animal shelters, the pound, the pet notices, and even the dead animal pick up to no avail.  As the weeks passed without a sight or hint of them, and the food was clearly uneaten, we realized the truth.

Boris and Bluebell had left by choice, and they left the kittens to us. 

We found homes for all except the one, Pumpkin, who remained a precious reminder of her parents with a loving, giving, graceful, gentle spirit housed in a plain, homely, package. 

Twenty-three years have passed yet the memory and mystery of Boris and Bluebell lingers along with a question. Did these cats truly plan their own form of open adoption? 

We do believe by their deliberate actions they chose us for their offspring.  They sought something better, safer than they could offer.  They weren’t looking for personal gain, but rather they offered us the sweetest portion of their love.  And it may sound silly, but we believe they trusted us to honor their gift and understand the sacrifice they made wasn’t selfish or neglectful, but thoughtful and loving. 

I like to think they listened to the voice of their Creator and allowed us a bittersweet glimpse of God’s care for all creatures, great, small, scaled, feathered, or furry.  And I like to think He chose us for them as much as He chose them for us because two years later, our lives were touched by the adoption of our oldest son.